‘I know you’re going through something but I don’t know why that means I have to endure menial labour,’ he sniffed, once we were safely in the kitchen, door and serving hatch firmly closed.
‘We’re filling the dishwasher, not digging a trench. Stop whining, I need your help.’
‘Fine.’ He pushed the gravy boat across the kitchen counter with the tip of his finger until it fell into the bowl of soapy water waiting in the sink, his contributioncomplete. ‘So we know you’re reliving the same day, but do you have any idea why?’
‘Not a clue,’ I replied. ‘But whatever the reason it’s a cruel and unusual punishment. Why couldn’t I be reliving last Tuesday when Dominos accidentally sent me two pizzas instead of one and a tub of Ben & Jerry’s?’
‘Accidentally?’
‘Don’t test me today, Manny Baker,’ I warned, brandishing a dirty serving spoon in his face.
‘These things don’t happen for no reason, something must have caused it,’ he said, ducking the offending utensil. ‘Have you walked under any ladders recently?’
‘Nope.’
‘Crossed any black cats?’
‘Not to the best of my knowledge.’
‘Passed through an interdimensional portal?’
‘I did fall asleep for a couple of minutes in the car on the way up,’ I replied, dry as an overcooked turkey breast. ‘Did you accidentally drive us through a Stargate when I was looking at my phone?’
‘I would have if it had got us around that traffic outside Northampton any faster and this would be a small price to pay,’ he said with a huff. ‘What about a curse?’
‘Who would go to the bother of cursing me?BesidesCerys.’ I cut him off before he could suggest it. ‘I don’t think so. If it were a curse, I’d know. People love to tell you when they’re cursing you, don’t they? A curse on both your houses! Thinner! All that jazz. Otherwise what’s the point?’
He considered my logic for a moment then nodded in agreement while poking himself in the stomach. ‘I wish I knew who to piss off to get a go on the “Thinner” curse.I’m all for body positivity but I can’t afford to keep replacing all my jeans every time Cadbury brings out a new chocolate bar. Ooh, what if it’s a spell?’
‘It’s not a spell and you’re not a wizard, Harry.’
He looked almost as disappointed as he did when Dad had to explain why he wasn’t getting a letter from Hogwarts on his eleventh birthday. ‘I must say, you’re being very calm about this,’ he said with a sniff. ‘I’d be wailing like Kate Bush in the “Wuthering Heights” video by now.’
Spoken like a true Hufflepuff.
‘Maybe I’m in shock?’ I suggested cheerfully. ‘The running up and down screaming bit will probably kick in later, but for now it’s a problem and I need to solve it.’
‘Ooh!’ Manny’s face lit up with inspiration. ‘What if you’re dead?’
My cheerfulness was short-lived.
‘If this was heaven, Chris Hemsworth would have fallen down the chimney dressed as Santa Claus, my bed would be made of Dairy Milk and we’d all be in Hawaii,’ I replied flatly. ‘But thank you for the positive thinking.’
‘Fine, you’re not dead, I’m only trying to help.’ He rolled his eyes, hands tucked in the pockets of his navy blue trousers. ‘But if it’s not a curse and no one has put a spell on you, what is it?’
Turning on the tap, I rinsed off the dirty plates one at a time then stacked each one in the dishwasher. I hadn’t entered any scary-looking caves or tried to travel through time and even if you put a gun to my head, I couldn’t hand on heart tell you what a groundhog was. A bit like a rat but bigger? They definitely didn’t have them in Derbyshire. I was scraping leftover sprouts out of theirbowl into the bin when the doors to the serving hatch sprung open, Dad’s head popping through as though he’d been shot, stuffed and mounted on the kitchen wall.
‘You two are taking your sweet time,’ he said, angling his arm for another bottle of red wine. ‘Can you bring the pudding in when you’re done?’
‘Will do.’
Manny picked up Mum’s homemade steamed pud, sat proudly in the centre of Great-Grandma Baker’s antique pudding platter, a sprig of holly on top and slathered in brandy butter. Thankfully zero Sylvanian Families had been harmed in the making of this dessert.
‘Where are the bloody matches?’ he said, searching all the usual spots and coming up blank.
‘They were on top of the fridge yesterday,’ I replied absently as I stuck my bowl in the dishwasher, my mind wandering.
‘Thanks, Mystic Meg.’ He grabbed the matches and gave the pudding a sour look. ‘Why she insists on serving it every year when no one likes it I will never know.’