Free SUNK by Fleur Hitchcock Page A

corporation and say, ‘Really.’
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    â€˜So we thought that perhaps you might like to work together,’ I say to Mum who is combing nits from Tilly’s hair into a salad bowl full of shampoo and frantically paddling head lice.
    â€˜OW!’ screams Tilly. ‘What? Mum team up with Colin Threepwood? Per-leaze. That is not happening.’
    â€˜Tilly!’ barks Mum. ‘That’s none of your business.’ She yanks the comb through Tilly’s hair. ‘Although – I’m not sure I think it’s a good idea.’
    â€˜Because you’ve given up all hope of becoming mayor?’ says Tilly hopefully.
    Mum pulls extra hard on Tilly’s hair. ‘No – that’s not it.’ But she doesn’t say why.
    I suspect that, in spite of Mum and Dad’s bravado, Tilly’s little trick with the baby photos and the karaoke has sort of worked. Mum is feeling dented.
    â€˜You see,’ says Eric, ‘we think that together you could pool your voters and get enough people on board to defeat the current mayor.’
    Tilly swings round. ‘You are not serious! Surely. I can’t think of anything, anything at all, that would be worse for my image at school.’
    We all stare at Tilly. She goes bright red.
    â€˜Because the current mayor is not good for the town. We overheard –’ I look at Eric, who nods – ‘we sort of overheard that he’s selling off the beach, the Royal Hotel and probably some other places.’
    Mum puts down the nit comb. ‘Who to?’
    â€˜Global conglomerates,’ says Eric.
    â€˜Sofa companies,’ I say.
    She looks at Eric, her mouth hanging open. ‘Does your dad know this?’
    â€˜No,’ says Eric. ‘I don’t think so.’
    Mum rushes to the sink to wash the nit gloop from her fingers. ‘I think we’d better tell him.’
    â€˜What about me?’ says Tilly plaintively from underneath her louse-infested conditioner. ‘I’m only half done – I’ve still got nits.’
    â€˜What about you?’ says Mum, grabbing my and Eric’s arms. ‘Come on, boys, let’s go.’
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    â€˜Don’t mention anything about the crazed deckchairs,’ I mutter to Eric as we scuttle up the hill to his house. ‘Because, you know, it’s just easier if she doesn’t know.’
    â€˜Mum’s the word,’ he says, zipping his lips.
    * * *
    Eric and I pretend to eat alfalfa and peanut falafels in the kitchen while Mum talks earnestly to Eric’s dad over the table and drinks quinoa juice.
    Eric’s dad nods wisely as Mum outlines her attack. ‘Mayor and vice mayor, Colin,’ she says. ‘You can be the front man – everyone loves you. I’ll be the administrator – how does that sound?’
    â€˜You mean we run together? We enter this bold new part of our lives in tandem?’
    Mum raises her eyebrows. ‘Sort of,’ she says.
    â€˜It seems to be working,’ says Eric. ‘They’re getting on. But what are we going to do about the chairs? The election isn’t until next week. Someone’ll be killed between now and then.’
    â€˜But the Best Beach contest is this weekend, on Saturday.’ I try to swallow a particularlysolid piece of falafel. ‘We have to keep the chairs in order so they don’t kill anyone, but let them be just uncomfortable enough to make the beach a less lovely spot. I suppose after that we can try to cure them.’
    â€˜Let’s hope it rains so that no one goes onto the beach until we do.’
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    Mum and I go home and she spends the evening printing Eric’s dad’s name alongside hers on all the dayglo posters. When she tells Dad and Grandma about the mayor’s plans they’re horrified.
    â€˜But that’s awful!’ says Dad.
    â€˜It explains a lot of things,’ says Grandma. ‘All those people with