Page 87 of Rafferty's Rules
A huge island sits in the centre with at least ten tall padded stools placed around it. But for all the stylish accents, this is a kitchen that is obviously used by a family. Heavily. A mug stands by the sink, two colourful plastic plates on the island, a trail of juice and fruit pits scattered around them.
As Sally mutters something about opening a bottle, the door at the far end of the kitchen opens, a tall redhead in a summer dress stepping in. Her hair tied back in a flowery scarf that would make Rosy the Riveter jealous, she wears a gingham apron with a dozen tiny pockets sewn across the front. She doesn’t see us for a moment, her attention on a curly haired blonde behind her, a chubby dark-haired toddler perched on her hip.
‘I hate those clucky pluckers,’ the redhead complains, stepping out of a pair of battered running shoes as she simultaneously lifts an egg from a pocket in her apron. ‘But at least we never run out of—’
‘Look who it is!’ The blonde spots us first, the babe in her arms reaching out with fat star fishing hands that, I notice, have downy feathers stuck between his fingers. ‘That’s right, baby. It’s uncle Tee the horsey,’ she singsongs, plopping the boy on the floor. He immediately waddles over, slapping his lips and tongue together in his impersonation of a trotting horse.
‘I want to ride the horsey,’ the little girl demands, suddenly beating the baby to Rafferty’s legs. Uncle Tee, be my horsey first!’
‘Edie, watch baby,’ the redhead protests. But too late, he’s already fallen on his padded butt and began to wail.
The dogs begin to bark, causing poor Cat to hiss in his blue cage. Mother’s and grandmother soothe, children fuss, meanwhile Rafferty takes me in his arms.
‘Welcome to the jungle, baby. The chaos has just begun.’
‘Normal people put the kettle on when guests arrive.’
We’re sitting around the island bench—myself, Sally, Rafferty, the children collectively referred to as “the twins”, Amber, Byron’s intended, and Chastity, Flynn’s wife, along with their child who seems to be named “baby”—with glasses of champagne (or for those under eighteen, something called juice boxes) in hand when Roman appears.
‘We’re hardly what you’d call normal,’ Rafferty retorts. Sitting on the plush stool next to mine, his armrests across the back of my chair. I’m not sure if the way he occasionally strokes my back is playacting or an attempt to relax me.
‘Speak for yourself,’ Amber returns. ‘I’m entirely normal.’
Sniggers and laughter sound from all quarters of the kitchen, Chastity murmuring, ‘Well, there is the matter of your parents...’ I slot that question away for when I’m alone with Rafferty as Amber’s complexion suddenly clashes violently with her hair.
‘I can’t be held responsible for what they get up to.’ Her gaze cuts across the room to mine quite apologetically. ‘My parents are sort of hippies.’
As the same time as Amber says ‘hippies’, Rafferty coughs ‘swingers’ into his hand. The sniggers begin again as Amber winces yet seems to agree with a tentative bob of her head.
I guess that cancels that question.
‘I don’t know what you’re all laughing about,’ Sally interjects. ‘When you get to our age, it’s great to still be able to have—’
‘Mum...’ Roman growls as he reaches into a nearby cabinet, pulling out three more glasses.
‘What? I was only going to say friends.Particularfriends.’
‘So long as you don’t become one of their particular friends,’ Roman grouses, ‘because I’d be forced to move to Peru.’
‘I don’t see much of you anyway, not when you’re galivanting around the world doing God knows—’
‘Who,’ Rafferty says with a smirk.
‘At least I’m not rooting my future in-laws.’ Roman glowers at his older brother as his mother whacks him across the back of the head.
‘Uncle Roman!’ Matty-of-the-twins admonishes, pointing a finger and laughing as Roman reaches for the bottle of champagne. ‘It’s not Christmas foragesyet.’
Roman frowns down at his chest, pretending to contemplate the image of Santa Claus on his red T-shirt when, in actuality, he’s probably just giving us all time to read the slogan.
I do it for the ho’s.
‘Is that one of yours?’ I ask Rafferty who nods, quite pleased with himself.
‘And I brought more.’ A collective groan rises. ‘What? You all love my T-shirts!’ he protests, grinning widely now.
‘I for one would like to say,’ Chastity begins, in her incredibly proper and very English accent, ‘it’s not the T-shirts, per se, that’s the issue here. It’s more thed-i-c-kmeasuring contests that follows.’
‘Auntie Chas,’ Matty chastises in a singsong voice, accompanying it with a waggle of his finger. ‘I can s-p-e-l!’
