They begin to fight, each of them smiling wetly and watching Ted. “Not alright?” she asks, but her attention is on the boys. There’ll be spinach and some other vegetables.” He had just wanted to talk but now he was stuck having an early dinner. He’d forgotten all about the boys, only remembering them when he turned away from their front door after not getting a response to his knocking, and saw them lope out of the car, each with a schoolbag as big as them slung over a shoulder. “This one’s going to bust my eye open with a matchbox tractor,” he says, pointing at Marty. “Can you get control of these fucking kids? Please?” The child weaves and laughs as he escapes from Ted’s grip. He grabs at a thin arm but can’t hang on. Libby tells James to get changed then starts saying something to Ted about how much egg he eats but he’s busy ducking the whirling arm of Marty. He thrusts a truck at his uncle’s face, tells him to look at it and laughs as Ted slips under it. He has a rat’s tail that flicks behind his head and a grin that won’t go away. Marty is topless and wears footy shorts, a temporary tattoo fading on his forearm. He keeps one foot on a small, hard-plastic skateboard, threatening to ride it. James, the eldest, still has his school uniform on, dirty and creased. “The boys don’t like them,” Ted repeats, looking sideways at the boys. The sound of a cartoon skids in from the living room. Libby peers into the oven to check the baking fish while the children jig around Ted. Light comes from a single bare globe that looks like it was jammed without thought into the kitchen’s ceiling. Photograph by Martin Brigden by Tristan Foster
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