By Davey Freedman

The boys stood still for the first time that morning and admired their work. They watched it soar above the houses, hovering for a few seconds, then gently dipping, only to rise again like a futuristic bird. It pitched sideways and flashed purple in the sun, its full oval shape now apparent. A floating doughnut. Fiona ran into the garden and pushed the boys aside.

“For God’s sake, boys! That’s so naughty! What did you do that for? This is Nanna Janet’s special day!”

The house was fully open onto the garden and Tom appeared at the bifold doors, gazing upwards with a sun-dazed grimace.

“What is it?” he said.

“The zero balloon!”

“Eh?”

“It’s the zero from your mum’s 70 balloons. Go and get it, Tom!” Fiona hissed.

“What? How am I supposed to get that? How did it…” He looked over to the boys, who had already lost interest and were now fighting in one of the carefully tended flower borders.

Janet heard the whole thing from inside but didn’t look. She continued placing napkins next to plates on the long table as people milled around her house discussing journeys and children’s ages. Eventually all twelve of them settled at the table, the boys last.

“Are you going to say sorry to Nanna, boys?” Fiona asked.

They squirmed, glancing at a few faces but avoiding Janet’s. The muttering and scraping of chairs settled into silence.

“You know what they’re like, Jan, I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, I know what they’re like.”

“It’s just the ADHD.”

“Mm. Had that diagnosed yet?”

Tom stood up with a glass of diet Coke and wiped his lower lip.

“OK, so thanks everyone for coming to celebrate Mum’s seventieth, and thanks to Fiona for organizing everything.” He glanced at Janet, who sat at the head of the table behind the solitary hovering balloon. “I guess you’re seven today then, Mum, congrats!” There were chuckles and muffled toasts. 

“It’s not fair,” said Janet, folding her arms demonstratively. Everyone laughed. 

“Now, now, Janet, you’ll get your presents soon,” said Janet’s brother Tony. “You’ll have to be a big girl and wait till after lunch!” They all laughed.

“Don’t want any presents.”

Tom paused as he sat back down and laughed awkwardly.

“Very good, Mum.”

“Didn’t get me what I wanted!” She turned her head to the wall. The boys were now staring at her with open mouths, impressed. Scared.

“Okay, little Janet, what did you want? D’you want to come and tell your big brother?” Tony teased.

“I want you all to go away. Didn’t want a stupid party anyway.” Her kiddy voice was very similar to her normal voice, just a little spikier. Nobody laughed. Fiona stood up and leaned over Tom to lunge at the roast potatoes with a large spoon.

“Right. Who’s having spuds?”

There was a welcome clattering of cutlery. Portions of chicken were meted out and gravy was requested and passed. An enhanced normality settled over the gathering. Betty from next door took a bite of a bread roll and leaned in close to Janet.

“I hope you like the book I got you. It’s really very good. I’ve read a few of his, but this one’s the best. It’s set in Tuscany.”

Janet shrugged and looked down at her hands, twisting up a paper napkin until it tore and small pieces dropped to the carpet.

“I hate books.”

Betty leaned back and laughed to the ceiling, her hand to her mouth.

“Well I must say, Jan, you make a great seven-year-old!”

She returned to her plate of food, glancing back at Janet with puzzled amusement. Janet picked up her fork and gripped it like a staff, dragging it through her plate in little circles until the chicken leg slid off. The scraping reverberated above the sounds of quiet dining. Tom looked over.

“Mum.”

Janet yawned without covering her mouth. 

Aunty Kath stood up quietly and pushed her chair in.

“Tom, could you just help me with something in the kitchen, please?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure.”

Tom remembered the cake and reached into his pocket for the box of matches as they entered the kitchen, but Kath was lurking behind the kitchen door. It swung shut after he entered.

“Is your mum okay, love?”

“Er…yeah, I think she’s just having a joke, don’t you?”


“No I don’t, Tom. It’s not like her.”

“I mean…”

“Have you thought about whether…you know…”

“What?”

“Well, dementia…”

“What, Mum? Noooo. She’s sharp as a razor! She was telling me stories about Dad’s antics this morning. She remembers everything, every detail!”

“It’s not like her.”

When they went to rejoin the group, the scene had changed. Everyone was standing apart from the boys, who crouched by the patio doors, peering into the garden from behind the curtain. Nobody spoke. There were shards of smashed plate below the back fence, which was adorned with the dripping remains of a roast dinner. Janet was at the top of the slide, shoes off, skirt hitched up.

“Mum! For God’s sake!” Tom leapt into the garden and held his mother’s shoulders, guiding her down the slide. They stood together for a moment. The gathering turned away and muttered amongst themselves. The boys were pulled away from the window. Then Janet burst through the doorway and ran up the stairs at full speed.

Tom was waylaid by concerned relatives and friends, and found himself offering apologies and reassurances. People started to leave. Fiona thanked them for coming with a beaming smile. Tom jogged upstairs. In the main bedroom he found Janet sitting on the bed, legs folded, staring up at the window, smoking a cigarette.

“Mum! What the hell was that about? …You’re smoking?”

She didn’t turn ‘round. She took another drag on the cigarette.

“So? It’s my house.”