Free The Dr Pepper Prophecies by Jennifer Gilby Roberts Page A

A man who still believes that an Englishman’s house is his castle.  And, therefore, that it’s his duty to keep everyone locked up inside it.
    'Sorry, Dad,' I say meekly, even though I’d love to point out that my dad’s taken the Lord’s name in vain so often in his time that he’s practically become the common law owner of it.
    'Those big city types are a bad influence on you, my girl,' my dad says, making disapproving noises with his tongue. 'Should’ve stayed around here.  This is a good area, where you meet the right kind of people.'
    And so it begins…
    'Let me take him, darling,' my mum is saying to Brittany.  James is still screaming blue murder. 'I think he needs his grandmother.'
    Why blue murder?  Surely red would be more logical?
    'Now,' my dad says, as Brittany sits down in the chair opposite him, 'as I was saying.  What are your plans for his education?'
    Education.  The boy’s two months old.  He hasn’t even learned to burp without help yet.
    'Phillip feels we should put his name down for Eton,' Brittany replies smoothly, glancing sideways at me, 'but we’ve also heard favourable reports of Harrow.'
    Phillip is Brittany’s husband.  The son-in-law parents dream of.  Those who’ve never truly left the 1950s anyway.  The only thing I actually like about Phillip is that he almost always has to work when we have family gatherings, so I hardly ever have to see him.
    My dad looks frankly horrified.  He’s gone puce. 'I’m not having no grandson of mine walking around in one of those ridiculous uniforms, talking like he’s got a plum in his mouth and a pole up his backside.  Private education never did anyone any good.'
    There’s no point in arguing with my dad.  Ever.  He’s selectively deaf.
    'The school of life,' my dad continues, gesturing emphatically with his finger, 'that’s where I went.  Hard work and hard knocks, that’s what makes a man a man.  You stick a silver spoon in his mouth now and in twenty years he’ll want a whole flaming dinner service.'
    There’s an interesting battle going on in Brittany’s head.  It’s almost visible.  On one hand she wants to annoy me, on the o ther she doesn’t want to annoy Dad.  And, for once, the two are mutually exclusive.
    I glance round quickly.  Mum must have taken James into the kitchen.  If I just stay quiet, maybe they’ll forget I’m here.
    'Well,' Brittany says, settling reluctantly on a compromise. 'Phillip is quite an advocate for the system.  Perhaps you should discuss it with him.'
    'I’ll do that,' my dad says. 'Can’t have him doing such a foolish thing, not realising the consequences.'
    He pats Brittany’s hand.
    'Don ’t you worry, my girl,' he says, 'I’ll talk some sense into him.  Just needs a guiding hand, that boy does.  And, as head of this family, I’ll see that things turn out all right.'
    For ‘all right’ read ‘the way I want them’.
    Hey!  I just realised something.  They’re not talking about me.
    Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.
     
    **
     
    I can’t believe I even thought that for one second.  Have I learnt nothing in twenty-five years as part of this family?
    'I only want what’s best for my grandson,' my dad says, now gesturing with his fork. 'Since it looks like he’ll be the only one.'
    My d ad has been talking about grandchildren since I turned sixteen.  I must be the only girl in England whose father wanted her to be a teenage mother.
    'Still, I did warn you,' Dad continues, digging into a pile of mashed potato the size of Everest. 'A university education doesn’t do a woman any favours.'
    Don’t speak.  Don’t react.  Just endure.
    'I told you when you applied that no man would wait three years for you.  That Alan Marshall would’ve put a ring on your finger by the time you were nineteen, but you had to go gallivanting off halfway across the country.'
    Alan.  Yes, the same Alan who three-timed me.  And, unfortunately, Dad’s chosen one.
    'And now