SUNDAY NIGHTS ARE SET ASIDE for family dinners at the Harris’ during the off-season. Since our father’s home is so large and close to Tower Park, Booker, Tanner, and Camden still live with him full-time, though the twins have been murmuring about flat-hunting for a few months now. Gareth has some swanky place in Manchester he lives in during the season since he plays for Manchester United, but he’s back at Dad’s in the off-season, too. Such is this, Sunday dinner has become a sacred tradition. Should anyone try to mess with it, my brothers would thump them into submission.
Fortunately, the cooking for said tea rests on my shoulders and not theirs. If we relied on them, we’d probably be eating day-old takeaway fish n’ chips every week.
Growing up, I learned how to cook rather quickly once we realised all our father could properly prepare was beans and toast. It became a bit of an obsession for me in my teens after I found a box full of our mother’s old cookbooks. I was determined to make my way through every single recipe as some adolescent tribute to her memory. As a result of my obsessive hobby, our kitchen became the hub for all things Harris. It’s where I spent loads of time. Consequently, it’s where my dad and brothers would talk football, watch games, go over plays, and squeak in schoolwork as time allowed. The only time playbooks and condiments serving as footballers in various positions weren’t spread out over our high-top table was when the cleaning people had just been in.
Bruce and I cab it out to Chigwell, along with all the groceries I picked up for today’s meal. To rely on Dad’s grocery supply is a fate I shall never attempt.
I let myself and Bruce into the cast iron gate by punching in the code. Striding down the long wraparound driveway, I sigh when our home comes into view. It’s considered a mansion by many people’s standards. But the way it’s nestled back amongst a sea of Japanese cherry trees makes it feel idyllic and in no way imposing. The large brown brick home is anchored by two grand, white pillars and a welcoming yellow double entry door. Having it painted yellow was my idea when I was eight, and Dad didn’t have the heart to tell me no. Some days I truly do miss living here.
Upon entering the house, a striking pale, wooden staircase curves up to the second floor where there are two wings of bedrooms. It’s a six-bed with en suite facilities attached to every room. The community rooms are sparsely furnished as most of our mother’s design choices were boxed up shortly after her death. Since my dad and brothers do so much travelling for football, I suppose furnishings were never a bother.
I wish I could remember what it looked like here when our mother was alive. How it smelled, what kind of music she listened to. I often wonder what her style was like, both in clothing and in home décor. Am I like her in more ways than just my first name and birthday?
Our mother’s maiden name was Nyström. She was a full-blooded Swede whom our father met at a pub while playing champion league football, just before he signed with Manchester United. She was attending University in London and, from what little I’ve heard, it sounded like a pretty exciting love affair that resulted in Gareth.
I remember bits and pieces of Mum, but it feels more like I’m remembering photographs rather than actual times. Gareth is really the only one who remembers Mum and the immediate years following her death. He’s never been very forthcoming about those times, and he’s not one to push for answers. He’s got a short fuse, and we all learned quickly that Gareth gets his way and that’s that.
I unclip Bruce’s lead. His paws clack loudly on the white marble as we walk down the hallway and turn left through the double doors into the kitchen.
“My sous-chef, ready and waiting!” I proudly announce, finding Booker reading a hardcover at the large wooden island that sits parallel to the galley style kitchen. “Where is everybody else?”
“They left this morning to check out a university player. They rang and are twenty minutes out.” He shoots up from his stool and rushes over to grab the supermarket bags from my hands.
“Always a gentleman,” I tease as Bruce noses Booker in the leg, excitedly begging for some affection. “Where did you learn that anyway? It surely wasn’t from Camden and Tanner.”
Booker places the bags on the island before squatting down to give Bruce a hearty cuddle. “Probably all those girlie films you made me watch growing up,” he laughs. Then he strides over to the large patio door and lets Bruce out for a coveted romp around the fenced-in grounds. It’s Bruce’s favourite thing about coming here.
I prop my hands on my hips. “I never made you watch them!”
“Well, it was either that or get my arse kicked by Cam. I took my chances with you. And look at me now,” he beams proudly, stretching out his sculpted arms and shooting me his boyish grin. “I’m a proper gentleman. Did you bring stuff for Swedish pancakes?”
“Of course.”
Booker’s smile grows as he ducks into the walk-in pantry to plug his phone into the overhead sound system. The notes of U2 fill the kitchen as we wash our hands and make quick work of prepping today’s meal.
For several years, it has been tradition that the Sunday meal following mine and Mum’s birthday include Swedish pancakes. The recipe is one I stumbled upon during my cooking quest. It had special Swedish notes in Mum’s handwriting that I couldn’t even read. The box of cookbooks ended up having a lot more than old recipes inside, that’s for sure.
Swedish pancakes have become a favourite amongst my brothers. They’re served extremely thin—similar to a French crepe—with homemade cream and berries or lingonberry jam if it can be found. And I have just the place I go to in Shoreditch for the jam.
After a while of quiet companionable prepping, Booker breaks the silence. “So, what’s new, Vi?” He’s eyeing me hopefully as he whisks the cream vigorously by hand.
“Oi! I forgot to tell you! I won a weekend getaway to Barcelona at a charity gala I attended Friday night. It’s a trip for two, and I was going to see if you want to come along. It’s in like nine weeks’ time. Think you can manage?”
Booker’s eyes alight. “Timing should be all right. Training will have started, but I think I can get away for the weekend.”
“Brilliant!”
“Are you doing all right otherwise?” he asks.
“Of course I am.” I frown as I pour oil onto the griddle. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Shrugging, he replies, “It’s just that you seemed a bit emotional on your birthday. I wanted to talk to you about it before everybody gets here.”
I stop what I’m doing to look at him. “I was only trying to make a daft point. Don’t read too much into it.”
“Well, you haven’t dated anyone since Pricky Pierce, so I was wondering if you are okay. You aren’t still holding candles for the prat, are you?”
Pricky Pierce. I’d laugh if I didn’t think it’d only encourage him. “No candles I assure you.”
“If you ever did, you can talk to me about it, you know. I’m not as stupid as the rest of them. I won’t go completely mental.”
I shoot him a sardonic smile because I’m not sure I fully trust that. However, Booker always did have a special fondness for me that superseded my other brothers. They always seem to put protection above affection. But with Booker, it’s more often affection first. It’s why he’s got a special place in my heart.
Hayden’s face flashes in my mind as I consider whether talking about my situation with him is a good idea or not. “Booker, how would you…describe me?” I grab the prepared pancake batter and pour it onto the hot griddle.
He moves over and props himself against the worktop next to me and frowns. “What do you mean?”
Poking mindlessly at the pancake bubbles with a spatula, I reply, “Like, if you were to tell me my most obvious traits, what would pop into your head?”
He grins dopily. “A great cook.”
“Anything else?” I’m trying not to be too pushy, but I’m feeling a titchy bit anxious.
He nods earnestly. “Of course! You’re fun. Upbeat.”
“Like, bubbly?” I ask, my smile dropping.
“Maybe a bit, but it’s more than that.” He looks away like he’s trying to form his words. “You’re funny, but not in a joking way. More like you laugh really easily, which makes you a great time to be around.”
I nod. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“It’s brill.” He turns and opens the double fridge, placing the cream inside and grabbing the fresh berries. He walks them to the sink for rinsing. “You’re a bit soft, though, which I don’t know how the bloody hell that happened since you grew up around all men.”
I eye him seriously. “More like a pack of wolves. I’m probably emotionally scarred.”
He chuckles. “I don’t mean the soft thing in a bad way. You just feel everything very deeply. You’re protective like Gareth, but in a different way. You take shit personally on behalf of the people you care most about, you know? Like, remember that red card I got in Liverpool last season. The one when—”
“God, don’t speak another word about it! I swear that call was complete fucking shit,” I seethe with a scathing glance over my shoulder. “I could spit just thinking about it! I very nearly got that referee sacked.”
“Don’t spit! We’re making pancakes!” Booker laughs. “You did get the bloke suspended, though.”
“Well, he was rubbish!” I exclaim as I toss the spatula into the sink.
“See what I mean? You’re passionate about something that happened to me, and you’re not even a coach or a teammate. You don’t even play football. You’re just my sister.”
I nod thoughtfully. He makes a pretty good point. “Maybe I just don’t make good first impressions.”
Cutting his eyes at me speculatively, he asks, “Are you going to tell me what happened?”
I shrug. “I just…I met this bloke who’s sort of a friend of a friend and…I don’t know. I thought we hit it off, but then he got all awkward and his description of me left me feeling a bit…poorly.”
“What did he say?” Booker’s brow furrows.
I squint and look up at the ceiling, hoping I’m quoting him right. “A beautiful, bright, bubbly, blonde distraction.”
Booker’s face freezes, as do his hands on the berries. “I want his fucking name.”
“Stop, Book. You’re supposed to be different.”
“I’m not messing about, Vi. He needs to be talked to. Only two of those adjectives are relevant. The other two are utter codswallop. You are so much more than those things.”
“I know. Calm down. I think we’re just friends anyway.” Or at least that’s what I’m trying to decide. I’m not sure I could handle being with Hayden.
Booker shakes his head. “I don’t think it’s a great idea to be mates with the bloke, Vi. Especially since he obviously has his head up his arse.”
I hear voices in the hall and quickly shush Booker just as Camden, Tanner, Gareth, and our dad come strolling in, laughing heartily about something.
“My Vi,” Dad says loudly, coming around the counter and scooping me up into a big bear hug while rubbing his scruffy chin on my cheek.
Vaughn Harris is legendary status in the world of English football. But to me, he’s just the guy who sneaks a sausage before it’s time to eat. He’s wearing his usual Bethnal Green polo with cream trousers, looking the picture of a man who lives his passion. His salt and pepper whiskers cover his chin and match his greying hair perfectly.
“Happy birthday again, my darling. I can’t wait for your birthday pancakes.”
“Oi! Let go of me, Dad,” I giggle and squirm out of his embrace, rubbing the area that he purposefully whisker-burned.
“Oh, happy birthday, my darling,” Tanner coos in a high-pitched voice mimicking the Queen.
“Do just look at her, Tanner,” Camden starts in a high, nasally tone and claps his hands together in adoration. “She’s got her boobies. Our little girl has gone and got her boobies now that she’s all grown up.”
Gareth roars with laughter as Tanner picks up where Cam left off. He grabs two lemons out of the bowl on the table and holds them to his chest saying, “Oh, fiddle fettle, she won’t fit in the beach ball jumper I got her for her birthday. She’ll look like a proper tart!”
“Shut it, you prats!” I exclaim, rushing over and shoving them hard while giving Gareth a swift kick for laughing. Camden grabs my wrists and restrains me as I continue throwing kicks at Tanner, who’s wresting to grab my ankles.
“Enough,” Dad says, his husky voice booming. “The pancakes are going to burn.”
Shaking my head, I eye him like a petulant child. “You raised them,” I jokingly accuse.
“That’s debatable,” he replies, grinning proudly. “I could smell the sausage from outside. It looks great, darling.” He dips his finger into the batter and licks it, closing his eyes appreciatively.
“It’s almost ready,” I reply. “Cam…Tan…Why don’t you two stop being little sods and make yourselves useful by setting the table.”
In no time, we’re sitting down at the high-top table and devouring the feast of pancakes, sausages, fresh fruit, and jam. I am certain we are all probably internally musing over what they would taste like if our mum actually made them for us…just once.