Mum gestured with the gravy boat. “Are you having seconds?”
It was more an instruction than an invitation. One glance when Jake arrived and she’d decided he wasn’t eating properly, so dutiful son that he was, Jake held out his plate for more roast beef and a slosh of brown salty gravy. “Not knocking it back. Thanks, Mum.”
“I can hear beeping.” Dad screwed up his face and peered around the dining room.
Jake jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “My mobile, it’s in the other room.”
“Good place for it,” said Mum. “Can’t a man have his dinner in peace any more without someone wanting to talk to him?”
Dad made a face, thinned lips and a squiggled brow. “She’s a laugh a minute your mum. How’d you think we paid off this house if it wasn’t for people’s dinner time electrical emergencies?”
Jake laughed. “Yeah, didn’t you pay my school fees with the money from after-hours electric hot water repairs?”
“And Issy’s ballet lessons,” said Dad, with an air of great seriousness. “She’s a real comedian, making you miss calls during dinner, especially if it might be about work.”
Mum shook her head, pretending to be offended. She said, “Mick,” and when the phone in the kitchen rang, “Ooh, that’ll be Sophie.” She leapt to her feet, a chorus of howls chasing her out of the room.
Her absence gave Dad the opportunity to pinch a fat golden baked potato from her plate and for Jake to steal into the lounge room and check his phone. A call from Ron; it would be about work. He dialled his voicemail. Yep, a new tour. Excellent. He needed to call Ron back, but it would wait.
“Work?” asked Dad, as Jake took his seat again.
“Yep.”
“Bugger,” he said, with a mouthful of peas. “I was hoping you’d be around to help me out with a job next week.”
“Let’s see. Might only be a couple of dates. It’s still possible I can help out. I’ve paid my licence fee again, might as well get some use out of it.”
“Is that new work?” said Mum, rejoining them. “Are you eating properly?”
Jake grinned. “What’s the relationship between those two things, Mum?”
“There isn’t one. I don’t see you much anymore, and you’re so busy. I just want to know if you’re looking after yourself.”
“He’s not wasting away, Trish,” said Dad. “His days of being weedy are long gone.”
Mum ignored Dad and zeroed in. “Are you eating
lots of fast food? You look thinner. Is there anyone significant in your life?”
Jake laughed. This was the usual third degree. Everything his mother knew about the touring music industry was based on the movie Almost Famous. She probably thought he had his own groupies. That’d be the day.
She didn’t wait for a response. “Did you bring washing, love?”
“Yeah, Mum, but I’ll do it.”
“No. I’ve got a load of your father’s work gear to do. I can put yours through with that lot.”
Jake nodded; it was useless arguing with her, not that he wanted to. Visiting home always meant a good hot meal and laundry service—two things that were random and uncertain on the road and nothing beat Mum’s baked dinner. Not that he was going to admit it, but despite catered ‘crew chew’ there was too much fast food in his life. Too much fast food, and too few opportunities to feel at home.
His flat had been shut up for the last two months. He knew the fridge was empty and the cupboards unlikely to yield much in the way of nutrition. He should go home, but the thought of crashing in his old room tonight and having a Mum-cooked breakfast in the morning had a strong pull.
“Why don’t you stay the night and your stuff will be ready in the morning?”
“I should go home.” Home meant facing eight weeks’ worth of bills and junk mail, and unwashed sheets. He could scarcely remember what state he’d left the flat in before the Jay Jays’ tour kicked off.
“Oh, stay tonight, darling. You can take off after breakfast.”
He knew Mum would’ve already put fresh linen on the bed in his old room. “If it’s not too much trouble?” She’d be in a huff if he seriously tried to leave, but it was expected he’d put up at least the hint of a protest.