Tuesday 28th March 1978
Breakfast was a quiet, bruised affair. No one seemed to have much to say.
Mum had spent Easter Sunday and the Bank Holiday away. The grandparents had been dispatched at some point, like cautious inspectors. Granny, predictably, muttered about “living in sin,” which Robbie visualised as a smorgasbord of lust, envy, and wrath. He thought it would make an interesting triptych. Lust in the centre, flanked by envy and wrath.
When Robbie got a slightly larger portion of scrambled eggs from their Mum, it triggered an argument about gender favouritism.
Kizzy, freshly armed with The Female Eunuch, pounced.
“So that’s how it works now? Extra eggs for the one with a penis? Germain Greer warned me about this.” She said.
Margaret, restless and abstracted, left the kitchen and returned a few minutes later carrying a large hardback like a brick of judgement. Not tucked under her arm—cradled. Reverently. The Family Bible. She set it down on the table with a thud – like a judge using a gavel in a custody hearing.
“You need guidance as you enter adulthood,” she said. “You might start here.”
Robbie blinked at the cover. Kizzy leaned in, suspicious.
“Germaine Greer says women are ‘conditioned for constraint.’ This”—she tapped the Bible—“is the corset.”
“What does Dad say?” Robbie asked.
“Is he God?” Kizzy added.
Their mother sniffed, half a laugh, half a sigh.
“No,” she said tightly.
“But he’s told us where babies come from,” Kizzy lied, sweetly provocative.
Unusually, their mother didn’t bite. She returned to her chair, wrapping her hands around her coffee mug like it might shield her from something.
Robbie scraped half his eggs onto Kizzy’s plate in silent solidarity, excused himself, and disappeared upstairs.
Upstairs, Robbie paused at his bookshelf. If Mum wouldn’t tell him the truth, he’d go to the best things: illustrations, charts and social anthropology. Either that or Heinlein’s Time Enough for Love. Too weird. Too taboo. He thought the aphorisms of Lazarus Long he’d keep to himself.
He returned moments later carrying a thick hardback: Manwatching by Desmond Morris.
“Dad sent me this,” Robbie said. “Said it would help me navigate life.”
Their mother raised an eyebrow. “It was on TV last year,” she said. “I banned Kizzy from watching the mating rituals.”
Kizzy seized the book immediately, thumbing through the pages with hungry, gleeful curiosity.
Robbie poured coffee. They sat side by side at the kitchen table, heads bowed over Manwatching like novice priests discovering a newer, livelier gospel.
Their mother lingered in the doorway, one hand on the frame, half-turned to leave.
“Just try not to learn everything from each other,” she said, voice lighter now, almost affectionate. “Teenagers didn’t exist when I was your age. We went straight from pigtailed girls to someone’s wife.”
She slung her old leather satchel across her body.
“I’m spending the day with Colin,” she announced casually, like mentioning a dental appointment.
Robbie started. “Colin?”
“Her latest boyfriend,” Kizzy said, as if reporting the weather.
Their mother paused at the kitchen door.
“We’re all guessing our way through this,” she said. “At least you’ve got diagrams now. We had to keep it all for marriage. Though we did most of it. All but…”
The twins. The thought of their parents having sex made them uncomfortable even if it is what made them.
Granny and Grandpa will come over later to look in on you. Stay out of trouble.”
Then she was gone.
Robbie and Kizzy turned back to the Manwatching. They ignored the Bible.
“Well then,” she said as she ran a finger along the contents. “Where should we begin, ‘Yes/No Signal’ or ‘Body-Contact Tie-signs’?” She asked.
Robbie leaned in and turned the page. “What about ‘Insult Signals’ or ‘Supernormal Stimuli’?” He wondered.
Robbie and Kizzy sat shoulder to shoulder, heads bowed over Manwatching, like acolytes of a new religion. Not scripture. Not protest. But posture, arousal, and eye contact.
At least this made sense to Robbie. And if it didn’t, he always had the adventures of the two-thousand-year-old Lazarus Long to fall back on. Aphorisms like “Copulation is spiritual in essence — or friendly exercise” sounded like something he wouldn’t mind trying. Either way.
“Pity you don’t have a girlfriend.” Kizzy pointed out.
“Yet,” said Robbie.
Kizzy pointed directly at his mouth.
“First job: get the brace off. Desmond Morris would call that a barrier to successful courtship.”
The brace was scheduled to come off later that morning.
After that, he’d be free.
Free to kiss. And maybe a bit more.
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