Page 118 of Only a Monster

She made it halfway up the street before she stumbled back to Gran’s, half-dead on her feet.

‘Serves you right,’ Gran said, but her voice was gentle. She guided Joan back to bed.

But maybe willing it to be true made it true, because Joan got stronger and stronger every day after that. As soon as her legs would hold her, she headed to Holland Park. She went back the next day, and the next.

The morning that Dad was due home, she felt almost like her normal self again.

When she came into the kitchen that morning, she found most of the family already up.

Joan paused in the doorway, feeling the same shock of relief and disbelief that she felt every time she saw them now.

Uncle Gus was at the stove, stewing pears. As she watched, he plucked fresh pears from an empty fruit basket and tossed the peelings over his shoulder, where they vanished into thin air.

He spiced the pears with a heavy hand—Gran’s side of the family liked strong flavours. No matter where Gran was living, her house always smelled the same: of cinnamon and saffron and cardamom and cloves.

‘I bet I could steal the Mona Lisa,’ Ruth was saying to the others. She was using Gran’s broken radiator as a window seat. Her curls were a stiff black cloud around her face. ‘You’re not seriously going to eat that,’ she added as Gran took a bite of toast. She groaned. ‘Oh, that is wrong.’

‘Dorothy, throw it out,’ Aunt Ada said. ‘Please.’

‘I like it like this,’ Gran said.

‘It’s burnt!’ Bertie said.

‘I like it burnt.’

When they’d been dead, Joan had dreamed about them. She’d never been able to conjure all the little details, though. Gran’s hair was a grey cloud, frizzier at the ends. Her dressing gown was frayed at the hem. And she may or may not have liked burnt toast, but there was a sly, amused quirk at her mouth as she ate it. She always enjoyed horrifying people.

Beside her, Aunt Ada was spreading Marmite onto a slice of pale toast. She was in a white suit, and there wasn’t a spot of Marmite on the suit or her plate. Joan had asked Ada once how she always stayed so immaculate. Ada had grinned and kissed the top of Joan’s head. It’s just confidence, love.

‘Anyone could steal the Mona Lisa,’ Gus said to Ruth now.

‘I’m not talking about snatching it from the old man’s hand,’ Ruth said.

‘I wouldn’t do that,’ Gus said. ‘What do you take me for? I’d properly steal it too.’

‘It’s only a copy, anyway,’ Bertie said.

This drew everyone’s attention.

‘One of the Venetian families bought the original,’ Bertie said, as though he was surprised that they didn’t know. ‘Paint was still wet.’

‘You sure?’ Ada said. ‘I heard the Nightingales bought it—same deal. Paint wet.’

‘How many of them did Leo sell?’ Bertie said.

‘Yes, but the point,’ Ruth said, ‘is that I could steal a painting from the Louvre.’ She saw Joan in the doorway then. ‘But I would never do that,’ she added, singsong, ‘because theft is wrong.’

Teacher’s here, Ruth would sometimes say when Joan came into a room. She’d always said it fondly, almost with pride, as if she were saying Joan’s an astronaut, actually.

She jumped off the radiator and slung an arm around Joan’s shoulder. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Last day in London. What do you want to do?’

Joan felt a familiar flash of fondness, along with a pang of something sharper. How many times had she come into a room and felt the conversation halt and change like this? Joan doesn’t like shop talk. Not in front of Joan.

‘I—’ she started.

‘I know, I know. You have to go somewhere first, and you’ll meet me after.’ Ruth bumped Joan’s shoulder gently. ‘Where do you keep going?’

‘Nowhere fun,’ Joan promised. She took a piece of toast from Ruth’s plate. ‘You finished with this?’

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