Free Muddle and Win by John Dickinson Page B

together at the camera.
    ‘You like each other really, don’t you?’ whispered Muddlespot.

    Muddlespot danced a little jig on the rubble that had once been the statue of Calm.

IT’S FAIR TO say that reactions in the Jones household varied.
    To Mum, run ragged between managing an office during the day and trying to herd her family through the evenings, Sally’s outburst was a shock. It was worse because she knew Sally had a point. Billie did drag her heels over her homework, and even when she didn’t or said she hadn’t got any, there was usually some reason why it just wouldn’t be worth the effort of asking her to help wash up. (Most likely because Billie was already in a massive sulk, and standing over her and trying to make her clean each dish properly would just lead to something getting broken, as Sally had said.) So it was just easier to ask Sally. And everything would be done in ten minutes.
    Except that now they wouldn’t be. Now suddenly, just when she had thought that everything was already as difficult as she could possibly manage, it had got more difficult still. So
her
reaction to Sally’s revolt was one of dismay.
    Her dismay would increase when she discovered that Sally had chucked the photograph of herself and Billie into the bin. But she hadn’t found out about that yet.
    Greg, Mum’s partner of four years’ standing, had spent the whole of supper eating in silence. He always did. He had lasted this long with Mum by taking up the least possible space, both in the house and in conversation. He liked being part of the family and had been pleased to find that he was more or less accepted into it. His desk at work was well decked with family photographs, and his drawers were stuffed with little gifts the girls had given him at odd times. He knew that Billie and Sally were entering their teens and that this was going to mean changes, but he also sensed that to try laying down house rules himself would be like dropping wildcats into a sack and then tying the sack over his head. He preferred to rely, lovingly and trustingly, on Mum to get them all through it. And also to have his dinner on the table for six o’clock, which would be five minutes after he got in through the door.
    His
attitude to Sally’s performance, when he realized that it had happened, was therefore one of delegated dismay, and it didn’t stop him reading the sports pages.
    Billie, who was a lot closer to everything that was going on than Greg, was at first as shocked as Mum. She was so surprised that by the time she had caught her breath to have a lovely and
totally
justified yell back at Sally, Sally had slammed the door and was halfway up the stairs. So her next feeling was frustration, followed almost immediately by a feeling of wonderful and secret delight that she would have found very hard to explain, but that lasted all evening and resulted in the best English essay she produced all term.
    Shades registered no reaction at all. Except that it was time somebody filled his cat dish.
    ‘I can’t cope!’ said poor Mum.
    ‘Maybe you should have a word with her,’ said Greg, who was so deep into the football transfer market that it took him a little while to think about what his mouth had said automatically. ‘When she’s calmed down,’ he added.
    Mum put her head in her hands.
    ‘Should the oven be on?’ said Greg helpfully.
    ‘No,’ said Mum. ‘Sally should have switched it off after she took the cake out.’
    Greg tilted his chair back so he could reach the dial without getting up. ‘She has. But it’s still on. Dodgy connection maybe. There, that’s got it.’
    ‘That’s dangerous,’ said Mum. ‘I don’t want to wake up and find the house full of smoke.’
    Greg stood on his chair to prod the smoke alarm. Nothing happened. ‘Battery’s gone.’
    ‘Everything’s falling to bits,’ groaned Mum.
    ‘I’ll get it fixed,’ said Greg.
    (What this meant was that Greg had now said he would get it fixed,