Fully English

CHAPTER 10

I had another nightmare. Another scary, fitful one that threatened to take me alive kicking and screaming. I was blindly aware of absolutely everything, including the sounds: the rustles, the shouts, the breathing, the feeling and it took my breath away. It made me choke. Suddenly I was awake.

"Karma," my mother enters my room without permission to see me bundled in bed, my eyes peeking over the edge of the quilt. Sweat crowns my hairline.

She sits down on the sofa I use for lounging and looks straight at me, her blue nails standing stark against her medium-brown skin. I doubt she has noticed that my sleep was non-energising but I doubt even more that she cares. She has that look on her face: the one that tells me that what she is about to say is self-serving and nothing to do with me. As always.

"Good morning," I greet her.

She nods solemnly, a look of distaste colouring her expression. "How are you?"

That's new. She rarely asked how I was doing and when she did, it was only to extract something from me. It was rare she had to ask me for anything though, considering she was in control most of the time.

"I'm okay," I sit up and watch her scrutinise me. "How are you?"

Her lips tighten in a purse as though she is perusing something in her head, stewing over what she will say next. Her expression is suspicious, as if she suspects me of something but doesn't have the confidence to accuse me. It's not like her. My mother doesn't need evidence to throw an accusation my way.

"I –," she stammers and blinks repeatedly like she is blinking away her thoughts before recollecting composure. "I need you to help me prepare breakfast."

Now it's my turn to be suspicious because I've never seen my mother exhibit nervousness before. Even when at my father's funeral when guests came and offered condolences, her voice remained unbroken as she thanked them: her head high as she took their hands in hers, her blue-coloured fingernails contrasting the clothes and skin of everyone greeting her. Cobalt blue. My dad's all-time favourite colour.

"Mum."

"Breakfast," she returns adamantly.

She stands up before I can get a word in, her weave swinging over her shoulder like it is a curtain as she sashays from the bedroom – her slim limbs swinging under her silk kimono.

I let her leave before getting out of bed and looking at my reflection. Besides my eyes being tinged a slight red, I look better than I feel. My skin has clearly benefited from the lavishing of TLC I gave it last night.

I commence my morning routine before throwing on a dressing gown and joining my mother in the kitchen to find it empty. The ingredients are all laid out on the counter alongside the cookware in their respective places: two frying pans on the cooker, a grill plate and rack, the toaster is on and a bunch of utensils are out: everything I need to prepare a full English breakfast. And suddenly I know why my mother is upset.

Scrambled eggs, fried sausages, crispy bacon rashers, baked beans, scored tomatoes, golden hash browns and roasted mushrooms. No black pudding.

It's Dad's favourite breakfast.

The penny drops.

The calendar hanging on the wall is now glaringly obvious and today's date becomes clear.

November 25th.

Today would have been Dad's 50th birthday.

Mum enters just as I'm putting the sausages in the oven, her eyes scanning the many glassed cupboards around the room. I get to work with beating the eggs, scoring the tomatoes and slicing the mushrooms face-up before sprinkling both with salt and black pepper. I sense she is about to commence an argument just for the sake of it.