‘How long have you been up?’ snapped Mum.
‘Since about two?’ Frank looked plaintively at her. ‘I couldn’t sleep. I think I’m getting insomnia.’
Dad yawned and Mum glared at him.
‘Anne,’ he said. ‘Can we do this in the morning? It’s not going to help Frank’s insomnia if we all argue now. Please? Bed?’ He yawned again, his hair all tufty like a teddy bear’s. ‘Please?’
So that was last night. And things have not been Happy Families today. Mum gave Frank the third degree over breakfast, about: How many times has he got up in the night to play LOC? and How long has he had insomnia? and Did he realize that computer games give people insomnia?
Frank barely answered. He looked pretty gaunt and pale and out of it. The more Mum went on about circadian rhythms and light pollution and Why didn’t he drink Ovaltine before bed? the more he retreated into his Frank shell.
I don’t even know what Ovaltine is. Mum always brings it up when she talks about sleep. She refers to it like it’s some magic potion and says, ‘Why don’t we drink it?’ but she’s never bought any, so how can we?
So then Frank went off to school and I read Game of Thrones all morning and then fell asleep. This afternoon I’ve been filming some birds in the garden, which I sense is not what Dr Sarah wants, but it’s peaceful. They’re very cute. They come and eat crumbs off the bird table and fight with each other. Maybe I’ll become a wildlife photographer or film-maker or whatever. The only downer is your knees start to ache from crouching. Also, I’m not sure who’s going to watch an hour’s footage of birds eating crumbs.
So I’m pretty zoned out, and I jump in surprise when I hear a car coming into the drive. It’s too early for Dad, so who is it? Maybe someone gave Frank a lift home from school. That happens sometimes.
Maybe Linus.
I cautiously creep round the edge of the house and peek into the drive. To my surprise, it is Dad. He’s getting out of his car in his business suit, looking a bit hassled. The next minute the front door has opened and Mum is coming down the path like she expected him.
‘Chris! At last.’
‘I came as soon as I could get away. But you know, I have a lot on right now . . . Is this really essential?’
‘Yes it is! This is a crisis, Chris. A crisis with our son. And I need your support!’
OMG. What happened?
I duck back into the garden and head silently into the kitchen, where I can hear them talking. I edge forward and see them coming into the hall.
‘I took Frank’s computer to my Pilates class,’ Mum is saying grimly.
‘You did what?’ Dad seems flummoxed. ‘Anne, I know you want to keep it away from Frank, but isn’t that a bit extreme?’
I have visions of Mum staggering into the church hall, holding Frank’s computer, and I have to clamp my mouth tightly closed to stop laughing. Is she going to take Frank’s computer everywhere now? Like a pet?
‘You don’t understand!’ spits Mum. ‘I took it for Arjun to have a look at.’
‘Arjun?’ Dad looks more baffled than ever.
‘Arjun is in my Pilates class. He’s a computer software developer and he works from home. I said, “Arjun, can you tell from this computer how often my son has been playing games during the last week?”’
‘Right.’ Dad eyes her warily. ‘And could Arjun tell?’
‘Oh, he could tell,’ says Mum in ominous tones. ‘He could tell all right.’
There’s silence. I can see Dad instinctively backing away, but he can’t escape before the tidal wave of sound hits him.
‘Every night! EVERY NIGHT! He starts at two a.m. and he logs off at six. Can you believe it?’
‘You’re joking.’ Dad seems genuinely shocked. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Ask Arjun.’ Mum proffers her phone. ‘Ask him! He does freelance work for Google. He knows what he’s talking about.’
‘Right. No, it’s fine. I don’t need to talk to Arjun.’ Dad sinks onto the stairs. ‘Jesus. Every night?’
‘He creeps around. Lies to us. He’s addicted! I knew it. I knew it.’
‘OK. Well, that’s it, he’s banned for life.’
‘Life.’ Mum nods.
‘Till he’s an adult.’
‘At least,’ Mum says. ‘At least. You know, Alison at my book group doesn’t even have TV in the house. She says screens are the cigarettes of our age. They’re toxic, and we’re only going to realize the damage they’re doing when it’s too late.’
‘Right.’ Dad looks uneasy. ‘I’m not sure we need to go that far, do we?’
‘Well, maybe we should!’ Mum cries, sounding stressed. ‘You know, Chris, maybe we’ve got this all wrong! Maybe we should go back to basics. Card games. Family walks. Discussions.’
‘Er . . . OK.’
‘I mean, books! What happened to books? That’s what we should be doing! Reading the Booker shortlist! Not watching all this toxic, mindless television and playing brain-sapping video games. I mean, what are we doing, Chris? What are we doing?’
‘Absolutely.’ Dad is nodding fervently. ‘No, I totally agree. Totally agree.’ There’s a slight pause before he says, ‘What about Downton?’
‘Oh, well, Downton.’ Mum looks wrong-footed. ‘That’s different. That’s . . . you know. History.’
‘And The Killing?’
My parents are addicted to The Killing. They gorge themselves on, like, four episodes at a time, and then say, ‘One more? Just one more?’
‘I’m talking about the children,’ says Mum at last. ‘I’m talking about the future generation. They should be reading books.’
‘Oh, good.’ Dad exhales in relief. ‘Because whatever else I do in my life, I’m finishing The Killing.’
‘Are you kidding? We have to finish The Killing,’ Mum agrees. ‘We could watch one tonight.’
‘We could watch two.’
‘After we’ve spoken to Frank.’
‘Oh God.’ Dad rubs his head. ‘I need a drink.’
The house is quiet for a while after that. It’s the calm before the kick-off. Felix comes home from a playdate where they made pizza, and unveils the most revolting tomatoey-cheesy mess and makes Mum heat it up in the oven. Then he refuses to eat it.
Then he refuses to eat anything else, because he wants to eat the pizza he made, even though he won’t eat it. I know. The logic of a four-year-old is beyond weird.
‘I want to eat MY pizza!’ he keeps wailing, whereupon Mum says, ‘Well, eat it, then! Here it is.’
‘Nooo!’ He gazes at it tearfully. ‘Nooo! Not that one! Not THAT one!’
Eventually he swipes it off the table altogether, and seeing it collapsed on the floor is too much for him. He descends into hysterical sobbing and Mum says darkly, ‘They probably gave him Fruit Shoots,’ and hauls him off for a bath. (Half an hour later he’s all fluffy and clean and smiling and eating sandwiches. Baths are like Valium for four-year-olds.)
Then I’m put on make-sure-Felix-eats-his-crusts duty, so I’m stuck at the kitchen table. I kind of thought I might get to Frank first and warn him. But it probably wouldn’t have worked anyway, because Mum’s like a sentry on speed. She goes into the hall every five minutes and opens the front door, and once she actually goes into the street, scanning the horizon all around, as if Frank might fool her by coming from some different direction. She’s pretty revved up for seeing him. She keeps addressing the hall mirror with phrases like ‘It’s the deceit as much as anything else,’ and ‘Yes, this is tough love. It is tough love, young man.’
Young man.