BooksBarbecue
Back Grow Save as PDF
Chapters (75)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise
  3. About the Author
  4. Title Page
  5. Intoroduction
  6. ONE
  7. TWO
  8. THREE
  9. FOUR
  10. FIVE
  11. SIX
  12. SEVEN
  13. EITHT
  14. NINE
  15. TEN
  16. ELEVEN
  17. TWELVE
  18. THIRTEEN
  19. FOURTEEN
  20. FIFTEEN
  21. SIXTEEN
  22. SEVENTEEN
  23. EIGHTEEN
  24. NINETEEN
  25. TWENTY
  26. TWENTY-ONE
  27. TWENTY-TWO
  28. TWENTY-THREE
  29. TWENTY-FOUR
  30. TWENTY-FIVE
  31. TWENTY-SIX
  32. TWENTY-SEVEN
  33. TWENTY-EIGHT
  34. TWENTY-NINE
  35. THIRTY
  36. THIRTY-ONE
  37. THIRTY-TWO
  38. THIRTY-THREE
  39. THIRTY-FOUR
  40. THIRTY-FIVE
  41. THIRTY-SIX
  42. THIRTY-SEVEN
  43. THIRTY-EIGHT
  44. THIRTY-NINE
  45. FORTY
  46. FORTY-ONE
  47. FORTY-TWO
  48. FORTY-THREE
  49. FORTY-FOUR
  50. FORTY-FIVE
  51. FORTY-SIX
  52. FORTY-SEVEN
  53. FORTY-EIGHT
  54. FORTY-NINE
  55. FIFTY
  56. FIFTY-ONE
  57. FIFTY-TWO
  58. FIFTY-THREE
  59. FIFTY-FOUR
  60. FIFTY-FIVE
  61. FIFTY-SIX
  62. FIFTY-SEVEN
  63. FIFTY-EIGHT
  64. FIFTY-NINE
  65. SIXTY
  66. SIXTY-ONE
  67. SIXTY-TWO
  68. SIXTY-THREE
  69. SIXTY-FOUR
  70. SIXTY-FIVE
  71. SIXTY-SIX
  72. SIXTY-SEVEN
  73. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  74. CLIMATE EMERGENCY
  75. Copyright

Suddenly, the fact of not knowing what tree it is that marks Dad’s grave is the worst thing I’ve ever admitted, and tears spring up, hot and stinging, running down my cheeks, over the bruise that’s starting to fade, and drop to the ground at my feet.

I cry harder when I think that this is all I can give him, just a few drops of my hot, angry tears that blur with the rain and fall slowly through the earth to his body, down there somewhere underneath the tree and its roots.

What will he do with those?

And without thinking I lash out at the first thing I can.

And I watch as the last leaf of Dad’s tree, ripped and shredded, is caught on a gust of wind and lifts into the grey sky.

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY FIVE

When I get home, I can still feel the raw rings around my eyes – no need to look in the mirror. Mum doesn’t take much convincing, and I don’t go to school the next day.

I sleep in late, and wake to a cup of tea on the bedside table that’s already gone cold. I can hear Mum clattering around downstairs. I feel strangely cleaner than yesterday. Yesterday, I felt covered and caked in thick mud from the moment I left Dad’s tree until the moment, who knows how many hours later, when I fell into bed. Today, my head doesn’t feel groggy anymore; everything is less fuzzy.

After a shower, I go downstairs. Since Dana's visit, Mum’s gone back to burning the toast, but I’m not hungry anyway and it’s too late for breakfast. She’s taken the day off work. She often does on Fridays.

‘Do you want to come with me this weekend, love?’

‘Where?’

‘Nanna and Grandad’s. They’ve not seen you for months, Josh. It’d be nice if you came.’

I think about the prospect of spending another weekend on the sofa watching bad TV, or staring at the rain running down the windows. Or, worse, staring at the screen of my laptop; at the website I know I’ll go back to if left alone.

‘OK.’

In the car we listen to the radio for a while until the news comes on and Mum turns it off. We sit in silence. I pull my phone out of my pocket and plug in my headphones. Mum gives me that look where I think she’s going to say something, but maybe she’s forgotten how and her eyes return to watching the road. The red lights and headlamps of the cars on the motorway all repeat for a second in the raindrops before the mechanical arm wipes the windscreen clear, only to build back up again.