Free Welcome to the Real World by Carole Matthews Page B

beyond the call of duty. If I were him, I'd have strong-armed Dad out of the surgery within minutes. Or I'd have given him an armful of some powerful sedative reserved for violent lunatics or horses. 'He has not got Tourette's syndrome,' I hiss. I have to say that Doctor Parry doesn't look surprised.

    'I bloody well have,' Dad insists.

    'He's attention seeking,' I say to the GP. 'This is all because my mum has thrown him out.'

    'Kiss my arse.'

    'Shut up! ' Is punching your own dad a criminal offence? I might be tempted to risk it. 'You never swear.' Well, only if he hits his thumb with a hammer or something. 'Stop it. Stop it at once.'

    'I called your mother, Fern. Before I tried your phone.' Doctor Parry looks at his notes. 'She wouldn't come down here, I'm afraid.'

    'He thinks if he's ill, she'll take him back.'

    'Well, it doesn't seem to be working.'

    'Stop pissing talking about me as if I'm not here!'

    'Then stop "pissing" acting like a spoiled child!'

    'I'm ill,' Dad insists.

    'You are not. You have the constitution of an ox. The only time you're ever under the weather is if you've had too much beer.'

    'Nellies. Knackers. Knockers,' is my dad's lovely rejoinder.

    I feel like banging my head against the peeling paint on the wall in Doctor's Parry's jaded office. Why didn't I just hang up and face the musicor questions about the musicwith Evan David?

    'What can I do?' I make my plea to the GP.

    'I'm very busy,' he says apologetically. 'I'll write him a prescription for some antidepressants.'

    'He's not depressed.' This is ludicrous. 'He's as right as rain. Acting like this will only make my mum more determined to divorce him.' I turn to my Dad. 'Can't you see that?'

    'Big dangly bollocks.'

    He might be fit and well now, but he won't be if he carries this on for much longer. 'This is not funny, Dad. It's an insult to Mum, to me and to Doctor Parry.' Not to mention all the people who do genuinely have Tourette's syndrome. 'This sort of behaviour is ridiculous. Nathan is the only one who's ill in our family. Don't you think we have enough to worry about with him?'

    'Your father clearly has some mental problems, Fern.'

    'He hasn't. He's making this all up.'

    'Are you happy to take him home?' Doctor Parry asks me. 'I can have him hospitalised.'

    At the thought of this, Dad perks up even more.

    'He's not going to hospital,' I tell Doctor Parry as I scowl at my dad. I won't have him taking up a bed, denying treatment to someone who really is ill. 'He's coming home with me.'

    Dad's smile fades. Yes, I'll sort him out. Just wait until he gets a taste of my medicine.

Seventeen

    O n the Tube on the way home from Doctor Parry's surgery my dad said, 'Bottom,' in a lascivious manner to the woman seated next to him. She whacked him over the head with her copy of the Guardian newspaper three times and so he spent the rest of the journey in morose silence. Which just proved to me, as if there was ever any doubt, that he's simply making all this up. Now he's sitting at the kitchen table, chin on his hands, sulking.
    Squeaky pops his head out of the skirting board. Rummaging in my bread bin, I find a crumb of cake for him and put it on the floor. I wish someone would give me the same sort of unconditional love that I lavish on this mouse, and then I remember that Carl does. Carl adores me and yet gets little more than a few crumbs of cake in return.

    My dad sighs theatrically.

    'Don't. I'm not in the mood. I have just walked out on my new job for you,' I snap at him. 'For no good reason. A job that was very important to me.'

    He opens his mouth.

    'And don't even think about saying arse or bugger!'

    He closes his mouth again.

    'I don't know where you got this stupid idea from.'

    Without realising it, my dad's eyes slide furtively towards the lounge and the site of my ancient computer. I stomp into the front room and log on. This is yet another gift from Carl; his sister's company was throwing them out to make