Summerwater by Sarah Moss (top 10 motivational books .txt) 📕

state of this country. Come on, Lola, we’ll show them how you handle yourself. Lola smiles up at Dad and takes his hand.

Rain blows in when Dad opens the door and Mum says, oh, it’s so cold, and she’ll get wet, she’s only wearing her pyjamas under that coat, but the door’s closed before she’s finished. You can’t really listen to Mum, is the problem, or everything turns into a worry, but then she worries because nobody’s listening to her. Jack thinks about what Dad would say to her, or at least what Dad would say on a good day. It’s only a step, he says, Lola won’t melt and she’ll soon warm up when she’s back in bed. I suppose so, says Mum, are they going in?

Jack goes right up to the window and cups his hands around his face to shut out the reflection of the kitchen light and Mum’s un-made-up face over her dressing gown. They’re standing at the door talking, he says, and his breath mists the window. A line of light opens across the grass, catching raindrops in flight, and he sees the neighbouring dad coming up the path. He opens his mouth to tell Mum and closes it again; some things don’t alarm her but if you don’t tell her anything you don’t have to worry about which ones they are. He can feel his stomach twisting again, the ache starting up. The other dad isn’t going fast, but Dad and Lola are still on the Shit-chenkos’ deck when he comes up behind them. Dad’s not shouting, Jack’s pretty sure, even though he can see only his back, and Lola’s standing a bit behind with her toes turned out. Second position; Lola’s good at ballet. The Shit-chenko woman steps back into the cabin and a man comes out with two bottles dangling from between his fingers and nods and hands one to Dad and one to the other dad, and then all of them go inside.

The music plays on and Jack looks at the place on the doorstep where they were.

What’s happening, says Mum, why is it still so loud? She seems to have got stuck in the doorway from the hall, as if she’s too scared of the noise to come any closer. It reminds Jack of when you try to feed a squirrel in the park and you and the squirrel both know it wants the bread but you also both know it doesn’t trust you enough to take the crust out of your hand. They’ve all gone in, he says, Dad’s having a beer, why don’t you go back to bed, I’m sure they’ll turn it down soon. Oh, she says, I don’t know, why can’t he just come back here, what about Lola? She went in too, says Jack, and the dad from two doors down, you know, the one with the little boys, red car. Mum nods. The mum’s the skinny woman who runs, she says, out there on her own, she’s brave, I’ll give her that. Oh, give over, Dad would say, everyone’s bloody brave compared to you. Yes, Jack says, him. Oh, says Mum.

The music plays on. Jack thinks he’s almost starting to like it, that it will be weird when it finishes, like when you get out of a car after a long journey and after the first few steps you realise that you miss hearing the engine, feeling it in your bones. He leans against the wall and feels the drums along his back. He lets his head bob a bit, to the beat. Maybe Lola’s dancing in there, doing one of her routines. With the Shit-chenkos.

I’m so tired, Mum says again. Are they coming out yet? Jack shakes his head. Go lie down, Mum, he says. I’ll keep watching and I’ll tell you if anything happens. Mum sags. All right, she says, thanks love. You’ll call me if you need anything? Jack can’t imagine that he’ll need anything or that he’d call her if he did. Yeah, course, he says.

Once her footsteps have shuffled down the hall, he turns off the light, holding the switch down so it doesn’t click. Darkness expands around him, the hollows and corners spilling over, and he stands still, waits for the room to reassemble itself as his eyes adapt. A little red light on the fridge he hadn’t noticed before is staring at him; he turns his back to it but it’s still there. It’s easier to see out of the window without the reflection. Next door’s door stays closed but through the window he can see a woman reaching up to put her arms around a man’s neck, a bottle still in one hand, and their bodies moving together. The woman dances away from the man, arms raised, bottom twitching from side to side, still waving that bottle, and back so the two shapes merge again. Jack glances round and then tries it himself, hands over his head, hips moving, here beside the wet coats on their hooks and the scratched steel draining board. He moves his head, his shoulders. It feels good. The music goes through his bones, fills his head and pulses away the pain in his belly. He dances back to the window, where he sees the young couple who never open the curtains before lunchtime if you know what I mean, barely left the park all week, coming hand in hand by the light of the woman’s phone towards Violetta’s cabin. The man’s carrying a bottle of wine. Jack stops dancing. They’re all going, he thinks, everyone’s going to the party, and for a moment he imagines what would happen if he said, Mum, come on, let’s go over there too, let’s take Dad’s whisky and go dancing.

The couple who don’t open their curtains knock at the door, but of course no one can hear them so the woman just opens it, leans in, and one of the men from the car comes