Dinner Break
by Josie Gowler
Hell is not other people, I thought. Hell is other people’s parents.
Claire was a lovely girl, but her parents were vile. Mrs Robinson had spent all day looking like she’d swallowed a wasp. A big one. Then again, she might always look like that.
When I’d arrived, I could feel the frosty atmosphere from the bottom of the driveway, the bubble of not-good-enough-for-our-daughter enveloping the house, the risk they’d taken when she went to Oxford University that she might meet someone totally unsuitable (me) instead of the wealthy toff they’d been hoping for. No wonder Claire had taken such an age to bring me to her parents’ place.
The smell of roast beef when the front door had opened had been glorious, the pleasure tempered only by the sight of the help making a swift exit out of the back door. And we were halfway through Sunday lunch, and I was still calling them Mr and Mrs Robinson.
Good thing I really, really fancied Claire. All the more so now she was silently rolling her eyes at every instance of her father’s bigotry.
I liked Claire’s sister Olivia, too; she was as easy on the eye as my girlfriend, but she never seemed to be able to get a word in. Olivia’s boyfriend Daniel was sitting next to me, and I was beginning to wonder how he managed to stay so calm. He’d been dating Olivia for two years now, and I was desperate to understand how he put up with the parents. But at the moment, his face was a chilled-out mask of civility behind his trendy little beard. I’d need to get him on his own for a few minutes.
Claire pushed her hair back behind her ears, something she did only when she was concentrating. “So what did you do, Dad?” she asked. I was still surprised that she called Mr Robinson ‘Dad’ and not ‘Daddy’ or ‘Father’ or something.
“Well, I put their pay up to the new minimum wage, but I was able to recoup the loss by selling the staff car park to Michael — you know, that clever property developer with the nice stockbroker son — and made a total killing on the sale. It’s going to be converted to residential. Absolutely not going to put up with union nonsense,” he explained. “Besides, the staff can’t complain because there are spaces with parking meters round the corner.”
And then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, he continued: “They should realise that these are tough economic times, stop whinging and adjust their lifestyles. I have: I’m not going to replace my Bentley until it’s four years old.”
I struggled to stifle a gasp of horror.
And that was when Daniel spoke. “For a moment there, Stuart, I wanted to punch him, too.”
I turned open-mouthed to stare at him. Had he finally cracked under the pressure of so much narrow-mindedness?
“Don’t worry, they can’t hear us.” He gestured round the table with his knife.
Daniel was right: everyone else was frozen in time. A roast potato had dropped off Mr Robinson’s fork: it had just hit the plate and a crown of gravy was paused in mid-splash.
“Join the break,” he said, laughing.
“How—” I began.
“For me, it started in school; first time was double maths, right after I’d got a good kicking from the school gang. I was so cross that I didn’t even wait to understand what was going on. I grabbed their homework out of their bags and chucked it all in the bin. Got back to my desk, settled down and then time began again. Took a while before I could halt the clock at will, though.” The words tumbled out of Daniel; he seemed to be itching to explain. I wondered how many other people he’d actually told about his abilities.
“My God, that’s awesome,” I muttered, my brain just starting to think of all the other possibilities beyond surviving boring Sunday lunches. A small part of me began to be distracted by all the pranks I could play.
“But don’t you see?” Daniel asked.
“See what?”
“This break: it wasn’t me, it was you.”
I stared dumbly at Daniel.
“First time you’ve done this?” he asked.
I nodded, dazed.
“Wow, never thought I’d meet another one. Believe me, it’s great,” Daniel said. “I just freeze time for a moment to calm down after each outrageous comment from the Bigoted One, then restart it again when I’m sure I won’t rip him a new arsehole.”
“I can see the advantage of that.” I thought back to the icy stares at the dinner table when I’d suggested that migrant labour helped the local farming economy. Even Claire had developed a keen interest in her plate at that point. I sighed. “Shouldn’t be necessary, though, should it?”
“No, but that’s the problem. How do you stay with the girl you fancy when her parents are so bloody horrible?”
“Put like that...”
“Trust me, mate. Olivia and your Claire... they’re worth it. Well, they are now.”
I couldn’t disagree there. Suddenly, meals with the prospective in-laws were looking a lot more palatable.
It was at that point that time restarted, and Mr Robinson’s gravy splashed everywhere.
Copyright © 2023 by Josie Gowler
