Dunger Read Online Free PDF Page B

shelf, and I’ll show you.”
    Actually, it’s not all that difficult, flour with baking powder, some sugar, a pinch of salt, and rub in the butter. She tells me to squish the butter between my fingers so it mixes right into the flour and when that’s done, I pour in milk to make a stiff dough. She puts a board on the table. “It’s clean,” she says, but I don’t trust her eyes and wipe it again before turning out the dough.
    â€œFlatten it thin,” she tells me. “Put these chopped dates on it, fold it over and Bob’s your uncle. That’s right, you’ve got it. Now put it on the oven tray and cut it through, right through, into squares.”
    â€œHow do I know if the oven’s the right temperature?”
    â€œYou know by feel.” She opens the oven door. “Yep, it’s right. Slide the tray in. Not there. In the middle of the oven! Now close the door and wait.”
    â€œHow long?”
    â€œUntil they smell cooked,” she says.
    I sit on the couch and reach for my phone. No good, I remember. Battery flat. So I look around the living room. It’s very woody, with knotholes in the walls and ceilings; old black and white posters fastened to the walls with drawing pins. The pictures are real antiques, I’d say: photos of people I’ve never heard of – Bob Dylan; Joan Baez; Peter, Paul and Mary – everyone with funny haircuts and clothes, guitars without electrics, and the kind of microphones that look like ice cream in a cone. Dad said his father used to play the guitar. I can’t imagine that, although I guess everyone was young once. I can’t see myself growing old. If that happens I’ll be like Mum’s mother, Granny Margaret, with neat grey hair, a purry voice and smart dresses. My kitchen will be spotless and I’ll have a Royal Albert tea set with roses to serve my grandchildren, not heavy pottery mugs that still look like the clay that made them. Except I won’t have grandchildren because I probably won’t have children, because there might not be time for that in a career of fashion design and travel to those famous haute couture shows. I mean, you have to work extremely hard to become somebody in the world of high fashion. The sophisticated lifestyle doesn’t leave much space for things like bookshops and babies and taking x-rays of somebody’s lungs. I’ve studied the magazines and I know that getting to the top in the fashion industry is very hard work.
    â€œScones cooked!” Grandma waves a towel in my face. “I said, your scones are done!”
    Scones and kitchen cupboards are not the kind of hard work I have in mind.
    â€¨
    Â 




    Â 
    Lunch is buttered date scones, lemon cordial and a banana, all good. But I know for certain that Melissa’s culinary skills extend to either cheese on toast or baked beans on toast, so she can’t tell me she made these scones without step-by-step instructions from Grandma. As a joke, I ask, “What flour did you use?”
    True Melissa-style, she tries to punch me, but I duck and she connects with my glass of lemonade. That also misses me and slops over Grandpa. Grandpa pushes his chair back. There’s lemonade on the table and down the front of his shirt and shorts. He says to me, “You clean it up, laddie.”
    â€œI didn’t do it! She did!”
    â€œYou started it, so you finish it,” he growls.
    When there’s a thousand dollars at stake, it doesn’t pay to argue. Although I am furious, I get the dishcloth from the sink and wipe the table. I throw the cloth back on the bench. Somehow I always get the fallout from Melissa’s stuff-ups. I refuse to return to my chair and instead sit on the end of the couch near the bookcase.
    After a bit of silence, Grandpa bellows, “Some books over there you might like to read, Swiss Family Robinson , Man in the Iron Mask …”
    I shout