‘Mummy’s still on Barbadian time,’ I informed my aunt, the day before. ‘And I’m always on Barbadian time.’
‘Shall we say midday then?’
Come half twelve, the shouting starts.
‘Everyone ready?’
‘Nearly!’
‘Come on, we’re late.’
I grab water bottle, notebook, pencil and reading material – we’ve a long four-minute drive ahead of us – and am about to leave when my eye falls on my phone. It’s Christmas; I don’t need it. I’m about to turn away when the screen lights up: an incoming text. It won’t be him. Of course it won’t. It’s ridiculous. It’s almost not worth waiting to see; I’ll just be disappointed. And late. More late.
My mother’s behind the wheel…
‘Slow down!’
… of my father’s car.
‘Can’t you see that it’s flooded? Christ!’
‘Do you want to walk?’
No, my father doesn’t want to walk.
From the safety of the back seat, I dash off a message to a mutual friend.
Did you-know-who wish you happy xmas? Just wondered if it was a blanket text!
(TO BE CONTINUED)
