‘If Mum’s the real deal, why shouldn’t she apply?’ David made a
blubbery noise with his lips, then fell silent. Os, got up, fixed him in her
glare, leaning across as if to see if he wanted more cream.
‘But… with respect,’ David said, smiling right through Os. He
wasn’t sure he was going to buy John’s line about blind Sharp merit,
‘remember when they wanted a new head for the Commonwealth for
when the Queen was kinda not here anymore?’ David said he screamed
at the TV. He was, like, begging, on his knees, to the Africans to get off
theirs. Then he got it. Big shout out to the Africans. Stupid him. How
did he not see that the Africans were waiting for Buckingham Palace to
blink and play their trump race card first. He rolled his big dark eyes at
Os. ‘Remember, Mum? That was peak…’
‘Not really,’ said Os, wringing her toes.
‘Yes, you do, Mum. Palace said the post is not hereditary but could it be Charles? And I’m like
dhu, I don’t get that. If it is not hereditary why does it have to be
Charles?’ He turned to John whose chin was the colour of an aubergine.
‘So it was about representation, we owned you once and it’s in our
blood.’ David winked at his sister across the table.
‘But,’ said Louise, turning to Os. ‘Maybe it wasn’t about that. She
was doing what any mum would do. Backing her son.’
Os blushed. She stole a glance at John, whose knuckles trembled
round his fork. His eyelids began to twitch. A bad sign.
Louise must have sensed the tension too. ‘After all the Charlie Parker dedication
Mum put in, why didn’t they just let her get on with it?’ she said. ‘To get
it out of her system? If Mum didn’t get the job, she’d at least tried. Or
she’ll, like, regret it forever.’
‘Bird would have been a hundred this year,’ said David.
‘Yeah but I bet you didn’t know he practised 15 hours a day for
years. And the guy who composed The Entertainers, Scott Joplin, was,
er, African American? Did you know that?’ she said, to get one over her
brother.
‘Names are complicated, especially in America,’ said Os.
