Free First Aid by Janet Davey Page A

about Amber, and Jo had drawn a picture of her – all wild hair and shiny boots. Jo had said that Peter and Tara had used up their only portion of waywardness in leaving their wife and husband, herself and the unknown Steve. Who was Steve? Since then, Jo said, they had gone back to being humdrum.
    Ella stood outside the front door, now covered up with a safer paint. Today was Saturday, so her father would be at home. Shopping list, shopping, gym. He would only be at the first stage. His arrangements ran like a child’s news written in a school exercise book. I woke up . . . then I . . . then I . . . He crossed off the day’s activities as he went along. She didn’t know whether, when no one was there to check up on him, the routine blew apart, but she hadn’t caught him out yet. She wondered whether he had always been as predictable. She couldn’t remember. She hadn’t thought of him as abnormal when they had all been together. Once he’d gone, she had looked at him in a different way.
    She had carried on seeing him once every two or three weeks, but her memories of him, muddled up, in the usual way, with family stories and photographs, stopped joining up with the present. Before, the slightly greyer, heavier dad-figure in the old black jersey had been easily swapped with the younger version, who had admired her balancing on the wall by the newsagents and lost her on Deal pier, but the conjuring trick had ended when he left.
    She hesitated in the porch, and then knocked. The door opened straight away. Peter and Tara were both standing on the other side of it, dressed for the weekend in similar leisure wear. Tara was holding a clutch of car keys.
    â€˜Sorry,’ Ella said. ‘You’re on your way out.’
    â€˜Well, we were,’ Tara said. ‘But not now.’
    She smiled and gave Ella a kiss. The front door opened directly into the sitting room, so they were already there, with the sofa and chairs in an instant interior. Peter shut the door behind them.
    â€˜How are you doing?’ said Peter.
    â€˜I’m all right,’ said Ella.
    The carpet on the floor was spotless and pale. She could never believe how spotless and pale.
    â€˜Everything going fine?’ said Peter. ‘What do you fancy doing?’
    â€˜I don’t mind,’ Ella said. ‘I’ll fit in with you. I might not stay long.’
    Vince’s fiver had already disintegrated into small change. She was hoping that Peter had some spare cash.
    He switched on the Ceefax news pages. Airport holiday chaos. A child missing in Cumbria. The soundtrack, which had no connection with the written pages, was of splashes and excited screaming. He clicked on to the weather.
    Ella looked past Tara’s shoulder into the kitchen. It was like the inside of a bathtub, scrubbed, nothing visible.
    â€˜I didn’t have breakfast. Is there anything to eat?’ Ella said.
    â€˜Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘Well, no, actually. There isn’t. We were just on our way to do the weekly shop.’ He patted his pocket to see if his wallet was still there.
    â€˜There’s half a melon,’ said Tara. ‘One of those small pink ones.’
    Peter switched off the television.
    â€˜It’s going to be another hot one,’ he said.
    â€˜A piece of toast?’ asked Ella.
    â€˜No, I don’t think even that,’ Peter said. ‘Ridiculous, isn’t it? We don’t really buy bread. I can make you a cup of coffee without milk, if you fancy that. I tell you what. I think there might be an oatcake.’
    â€˜No, thank you,’ she said.
    â€˜Sorry,’ said Peter. ‘It’s stupid not having anything in. I mean, people do come round off the stick end.’
    â€˜When?’ asked Ella.
    â€˜Well, since you mention it, it’s true, they don’t,’ said Peter. ‘But basically it’s a nice idea.’
    â€˜We’re always seeing