Chapter Twenty-Three
A Blast from the Past
There is more to camouflage than face paint.
Steven took a long time to come due to Baby Bea’s nappy, which, to quote him, was “an explosion of sticky stuff that required a packet of wet wipes, lubricant, and a decent soak in the bath to clean” (order unknown).
As I waited, the two sisters moved from skipping to pushing each other, and Cocolder moved from across the road to inches from Mum with a blank expression.
Perhaps we got away with it?
“Egg sandwiches?” I said, with my best innocent look.
“No thanks,” he said. “I’ve some pakoras to pick up.”
His squeaky voice brought it all back—the anxiety of Mum and her f**k-ups.
A car tooted just as Cocolder, hand on door, was about to enter the takeaway.
Mum gestured an “up yours” with her egg
