Chapter 4

'Aw, lay off it, Dad. It's your bloody generation that ruined the environment and caused all those wars,' snarled Cathy. Her mouth drooped into a disdainful, bored pout. It was amazing the way her lower lip swelled visibly on these occasions - an erection of petulance. How quickly the sweet earnest baby-innocence faded; I could still sometimes remember that little face shining up at me with love, respect and admiration. The lovely milky baby smell, now replaced by a faint whiff of tobacco and period.

I carved into the lamb and grimaced slightly at the dull brown inside. It was seriously overdone for my taste. I was sure that Lizzie, well-meaning food fascist, had done it that way on purpose: prion disease, no doubt, perhaps salmonella, possibly bubonic. The roast potatoes looked good, though. 'I fail to understand, my dear young miss, how the discussion has moved from your studying for your GCSEs to my generation's wholesale plundering of Peace, raping plucky little Belgium and generally trashing the Universe and All Creation,' I said archly.

'They're called pre-baccalaureates now, Dad,' sniffed Cathy.

'Even if they're called that now, I still don't see how we strayed so far from the subject,' I said equitably. 'But while we are off it, I want you to know that, in actual fact, my generation was one that stood for love, peace and the environment, very early followers, anyway. We practically invented those things.' I put the deadest, most desiccated piece of lamb I could find on Lizzie's plate and passed it to her with an insincere smile. 'And vegetarianism, as well,' I added.

'Well, as far as I can see,' scoffed Cathy, 'All your generation ever managed to stand for was being dope soaked, sex crazed middle class hippies.' She stuck a quivering pair of fingers up and chanted goofily, 'Hey, like love and peace, man. Wow. Far out. Uhhhh.'

Bobby laughed hysterically until I silenced him with a savage glance. I suddenly had an inkling why all religions tried to instill some sense of obligation in children towards their parents. If someone or something didn't pry open those thick young skulls and ram some decency into what passed as a brain, you could bet it wouldn't be there naturally. 'You are welcome to think anything you may like about my generation, my dear, as long as you get good marks on those GCSEs. Your future depends on them,' I replied. I was totally incorrect, of course, as it turned out. Annoyed, I hacked a fatty, shrivelled hunk of meat from the shank and forked it on to her plate.

'What's a hippy, Dad?' asked Bobby. He held his fork clumsily in his white bandaged hand.

I winced inwardly when I saw the bandage. The stitches had only come out two days earlier. 'Hippies were innocent children who once believed that the world could be a better place if only people were nicer to each other,' I replied, giving Cathy a rough stare. I lifted a tender, pink slice of lamb onto Bobby's plate. ‘Then they became the people they were warning themselves about.”

'Yeah,' sneered Cathy, 'They discovered six-multiple mortgages, high value consumer durables and brazen greed.'

'They became caring, sacrificing parents and had exceedingly ungrateful children,' I retorted.

'I'm not ungrateful, Dad, am I?' piped Bobby.

'Creeper,' hissed Cathy.

'I am not!' shouted Bobby.

'Yes you are!' snarled Cathy.

I banged the table with the end of my knife. 'All right you two, just stop it!' I growled.

Cathy ran out of insults for the moment. 'Huh!' she snorted. She shoved her plate into the middle of the table. 'I'm not eating meat any more, Dad. I'll get some corn flakes later. Can I go?'

'No,' I said firmly. 'You'll stay right here at the table, miss, until we're all finished.' I took her plate. I never could stand waste. I'll eat just about anything, rather than waste food – even then. I gave her a plate without any lamb on it. 'Vegetables,' I said. I glanced over at Lizzie. She looked glum and shoved her food aimlessly around her plate. 'What's the matter, dear,' I inquired snidely. 'Meat not done well enough for you?'

Lizzie jerked her head towards the picture window. 'It's starting up again,' she sighed mournfully.

'What's that?' I asked, knowing perfectly well what it was.

'The wind,' she replied.

I looked out and nodded. 'Looks like it, doesn't it?' I agreed.

Lizzie gave me a pleading look. 'Do you really have to go to London tomorrow, Dick? You've been there almost every week for months.

'I'm afraid so, love, it's the COCE press launch tomorrow,' I sighed. 'The Minister himself will be there in all his pomp and glory. The report will be presented formally to the PM later in the day. It's our big moment. The Government will be grateful, I'm told.'

'And do you really think this report of yours will do any good?' she asked wearily.

I shrugged. 'I don't know,' I replied. 'I certainly hope so. Could be a gong in it, my lady,' I hinted.

'Well, I hope you're taking the train, Dick,' said Lizzie. 'It's hardly seems safe to drive any more.'

'You're not forgetting about the train that was blown over in Devon last month, are you?' I replied. I patted her hand. 'Anyway, it so happens, my love, that I am planning to take the train this trip. Driving into London's always such a horror. Then once you're there, there's just no place at all to park.'

'Good,' she said, 'That's a relief.'

'Dad?' piped Bobby.

'Yes, dear?' I replied, cutting my meat.

'Is there going to be a flood, Dad?' he asked.

I paused, forked lamb in mid-air. 'Why on earth do you ask that, Bobby?'

'Terry says that the greenhouse defect will put England all under the sea,' explained Bobby.

'And just who might Terry be?' I questioned archly.

'Oh, he's just one of the boys at school, Dick,' explained Lizzie. 'All the kids are absolutely terrified about pollution, deforestation and the ozone layer.'

'Yeah,' babbled Bobby with morbid enthusiasm, 'There's this great big huge kind of hole thingybob over the South Pole and we'll all get cancer from it and we won't be able to breathe the air because it's all being sucked out into outer space!' He clapped his hand around his throat and shouted, 'Arrgh!' He almost overturned his plate. Cathy sighed heavily and rolled her eyes in disgust.

'All right, young man,' snapped Lizzie, catching his plate at the edge of the table, 'That really is about enough for now.'

A terrific burst of wind almost doubled our apple saplings over. The blast slammed into the house and bowed the plate glass window inward. Lizzie flinched visibly. A twisting dust-devil swirled up the drive and engulfed the trees.

'Dad,' asked Bobby.

'Yes?' I replied.

'Where do the birds go when it's really windy like this?' he asked.

'Uh, that's a really good question, Bobby,' I replied. 'Maybe your Mum knows. She's a sort of zoologist.' I looked at Lizzie.

'Where do they go, Mum?' asked Bobby.

'Well, the big birds like seagulls just seem to ride on the winds forever,' said Lizzie vaguely. 'I don't know what the little birds do. They probably hide in trees and hang on with their little claws for dear life.'

'But don't the little birds get blown away when they have to sleep?' asked Bobby with a worried look outside.

'I don't think most animals sleep very much, dear,' replied Lizzie.

'Do you think the birds are all right, Mom?' asked Bobby.

'Oh, I'm sure they're just fine, love,' said Lizzie. 'You see, they've evolved over millions and millions of years to survive perfectly well in this climate. They'll get along just fine. Now why don't you eat up your nice dinner?' she asked. She smiled fondly at him.

Cathy simpered at Bobby. 'Eatums up your nicey dinner winner baby lamb and don't worry about the little birdy wordies,' she cooed facetiously. The wind howled and banged overhead.

Bobby scowled darkly at her. 'Why don't you ... '.

'Ah, chaps, look,' I interrupted brightly, pointing out the window. 'You can see right now what little birds do in the wind.' We all turned and looked out. A bright-eyed blackbird scuttled through the short dry grass of the garden. When the wind blasted, the bird faced into the wind and hunkered down. The wind seemed to have little effect on it, except for eddies ruffling up its dark feathers.

Another ferocious gust of wind slammed into the house. 'There, Bobby, you see,' said Lizzie, ‘The bird is streamlined so that the wind doesn't blow him off the ground, even though he probably only weighs a few ounces.'

The bird gave a little hop into the air. 'Don't try to fly, little bird!' cried Bobby. The bird hopped again. Bobby stood by the window and waved his arms. 'It's too windy, birdy!' he shouted. 'Don't do it!'

Startled by Bobby's sudden movement, the bird sprang up and fluttered a few feet. The wind caught it and slammed it with a reverberating thump against the picture window. Bobby jumped back with a shout. Cathy gave a little shriek. The blackbird smashed flat against the window, its bright yellow beak twisted awkwardly under its outspread wings. Its flattened, tortured pose instantly made me think of the well-known fossil of Archaeopteryx, the earliest bird. The bird's body, pinned to the glass by the wind, slid slowly towards the bottom of the window. There was a perfect grease-print where it had impacted and a thin bright smear of blood, bile and shit: a red, yellow and white banner. The bird was dead, of course.

Bobby buried his head in Lizzie's arms and sobbed. 'Oh, for God's sake, Dick!' she shrieked. 'Go out and scrape that bloody thing off the window! Do it now, Dick! Right now!' She folded her arms around Bobby and hurried him out of the dining room. I threw my napkin onto the centre of the table and stood.

'Ugh, Dad,' commented Cathy dryly. 'That was pretty gross.'

'For Christ's sake, Cathy, you make it sound as if it was my fault,' I snapped. 'Would you mind clearing the table, please, while I'm outside.'

* * *

As Cathy had implied, it had seemed like a pretty rough century from the start. Disaster always seemed to be lurking somewhere in our thoughts. I'd always thought that if the end came, it would be some sort of nuclear thing. You know, some loony President of one of the former USSR republics hitting the Red Button or a computer fuck-up. Kaboom! It was a bit ironic, really, that when we finally seemed to be really getting our act together, peace-wise, the earth rolled over and swatted us. It hardly mattered that the triumph of the West over the East was more of a victory for the forces of greed and materialism than for the forces of freedom and democracy. OK, there was terrorism, religious fundamentalism and lots of nasty little genocidal wars. It was still a real peace, more or less - even if it didn't do us any good in the long run or even in the short run. I guess there's not much point in trying to outguess the Cosmic Dicer, is there?