Shit. Shit, shit, shit. I trip over myself for a sec, but I don't break my stride towards the dining room.

If I stop, I'll look guilty. Although an innocent person wouldn't stay as silent as I am now, either.

I don't turn to answer immediately. I get us into the dining room and hold on to the wooden chair at the head of table for some... stability. Okay, think fast. Who could Eric be, who could Eric be?

I feel like I'm going to have an aneurysm, true, but looking at him, I can't even be mad at the poor man. He's clearly uncomfortable, wearing this plain, awkward expression that seems to say this is small talk, I am small-talking. I just wish he'd made his small talk about how shit the weather is, like every other bloody Londoner.

"Um, Eric who?" Mum asks. She sounds irritated, like she doesn't like that Jerome's in the loop of my life whilst she's never even met the man – that's better than her putting two and two together. I need to jump in before she does.

"Eric?" I say, scraping my chair against the floor when I sit down, loudly enough that nobody hears Jerome when he starts to try and explain who this 'Eric' is. "Oh, you must mean Erys!" Oh my God, I've never been so grateful for that damn dog.

"Yeah, Erys is good, heh. She's house-trained now, actually! Didn't take her long at all, she's a fast learner for a puppy!" I'm babbling like an idiot, but I'm hoping that if I jabber on for long enough, Jerome will realise we're talking about a dog, and Mum, Walt and August will forget that the name Eric was mentioned at all.

Mum purses her lips and gets me to shut up and look down without actually saying a word.

"So, you've met Erys too, then?"

"...I suppose." Jerome says, with the reticence of a reserved countryman, and whether he didn't give me away because he couldn't be bothered to, or because he could feel my eyes burning a hole in the side of his face, I've never been more grateful. Or thirsty. Is keeping secrets supposed to make you this thirsty? When I chug my glass of water like I've just escaped a desert, I realise that my glugging noise is the only noise being made at the table. Other than slushing sounds of me quenching my thirst, the room is so painfully quiet, I'd be grateful for a pin drop. 

Walt clears his throat, and I feel the relief run through me, thank God! That is, until he says,

"Let's say grace. 'Rome?" Oh... I didn't mean it literally.

The atmosphere takes a turn for awkward, and I know we're all thinking the same thinking: ...b-but we've never said grace before. It was his suggestion, but I'm pretty sure Walt feels the discomfort too - without meeting anybody else's eyes, he closes his eyes and bows his head, with Jerome following suit. Mum, August and I share a what the fuck is happening glance before squeezing our eyes closed when Jerome grunts, signalling the beginning of... whatever's going on here.

"Bless us, O God, as we sit together. Bless the food we eat today. Bless the hands that made the food. Bless us, O God, Amen."

I open one eye when he comes to the what I think is the of grace. That was... nice. He says it with a kind of rhythm, like it's a song, but without music, or nice lyrics. I guess we could get used to that. Will we have to get used to that?

Walt nods, and follows up the grace-song with a solemn 'Amen', but then the silence resumes, and I really don't know how much more of this bloody tension I can take. Bless us, O God, with something to talk about.

August has been puffing and squeezing her cheeks for the past minute, and I've seen that expression, the cross between mischief and curiosity, too many times before. I can feel it, I can feel it in my bones, that she's going to say something cheeky. Oh, Auggie.

"Hey, 'Rome, can you pass me the salad?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Mum's explosion is so ferocious that when she accidentally hits her elbow on the tabletop, it knocks the pepper shaker onto the floor, and wakes up Erys, who promptly gets up from her nap in the garden, to scamper into the kitchen and yap right back at Mum, hopping up and down at the table legs. The whole thing would be rather funny if it wasn't so disastrous.

With her eyes shut and one hand one her temple, Mum pleads,

"Will somebody just please explain something. Christ's sake, anything."

"I-I know Jerome from the charity shop on York Road... I've been a couple times," I offer, but Mum keeps her intimidating eye on me, and I know she knows there's more that I'm holding back.   

Jerome's not intimidated. In fact, when he clears his throat to swoop in and save me, he has an air of apathy about him,

"I'm just gonna put it out there – I'm an ex-con. I have the job down on York Road as part of my probation conditions - steady job. Evangeline came in purely on coincidence."

When he finishes his explanation, he picks up the bamboo bowl full of salad in front of him, and holds it out to Auggie with a genuine smile,

"There ya go, sweetheart."

It takes her a sec, but August takes the bowl with both hands, and smiles back, sort of, still slightly stunned. Mum's face softens almost immediately, as if to say, I'm pissed off, but I'm not a prejudiced arsehole.

"Right..." she says, as though she's processing, but knowing Mum she's still waiting. Walt's been pretty quiet, all things considered. She's addressing him, but keeps her eyes squarely on Jerome,

"So Walt aswell, then? I-is that...?" She cuts herself short when Jerome exhales, runs a hand over his beard without answering and looks to Walt. You're gonna have to speak up at some point, mate.

Walt's eyes are so low that I can't tell what he's looking at, but it's not any of us.

"My name... isn't Walt."

Auggie kicks me under the table and her eyes are wide and eyebrows high, asking did you know?

Fuck, no! I signal, with eyes just as wide, and an abrupt shake of my head. What the hell is he talking about?

"Right." Mum says again, but her tone's clipped, and a little easier to read this time – teetering on the edge of livid. "So what is it, then?"

With all eyes on Walt, and Mum's inquiry beginning in earnest, I'm realising that the seating arrangements aren't exactly in Walt's favour. He's the birthday boy, sat at the head of the table, but under the current conditions, we may as well point the blinding lamp in his eyes now – this is an interrogation.

"No, no, Flo," his eyes are up now, and he's adamant, although it's not quite clear what about, "this is what I- can we talk about this?" His eyes dart to the door leading to the garden, but Mum's don't move. She folds her arms and shrugs at him and lets out a disbelieving laugh. When Mum's sad, she's silent, still. It's when she gets theatrical, with fury bubbling under the surface, that when there's cause for worry. She laughs again, without humour, and looks at August and I,

"We're talking, aren't we? Don't know about you, girls, but I don't see what he can have to say that doesn't need to be said right here. I'm just asking for your name, I-" she turns to August and I as witnesses again, "I think that's a fair enough ask, isn't it?"

Through all of this Jerome's been unmoving, with just his eyes darting to follow the action. I can only imagine what he's thinking. God, answer the bloody question, Walt!

Walt starts to answer, and ah! it's so close to being over, or at least this part is, until Mum interrupts him before he can get a word out,

"Oh, actually hang on a mo," she puts a finger up to pause him, and stands up, reaches for the Sauvignon Blanc in the middle of the table... Is this what a meltdown looks like?

"Watch your arm, sweetie," she says to Auggie when she flicks the bottle top carelessly and begins to pour the wine into her glass. Once she's poured it and sat back down, flute to her lips, she nods to Walt,

"Mm, please! Proceed."

Everyone's eyes were glued to Mum from the moment she reached for the bottle, but now Walt, in a catch-22, keeps darting his eyes between Mum and the fizzing glass. Fairly so – with the state she's in, I wouldn't be proper shocked if she emptied her glass on him or shattered it on the side of the table and cut him with it. I mean, I would, but you know what I mean.

"My name is – fuck," he curses, and Auggie and I gawk in unison, did Mr. Rogers just swear?

"Was, my name was Duane. Duane... Walt Turner."

"DT." Jerome shrugs matter-of-factly.

"DT." Walt, or DT, I suppose, confirms quietly, watching Mum laugh into her glass, before asking, still chuckling unnervingly,

"And do you have a criminal record, D-T, if I might ask?" She spits the name out with a disdain that I can't tell if she intended or not. I hope she didn't.

Both brothers look down, and I'm starting to see the resemblance, just a little. Jerome snorts, although I can't imagine what could possibly be funny in this moment, and 'Walt' heaves, with a breath coming from a deep, deep recess. His knuckles are so white from gripping to the table, that it looks like he's going to bolt. I wouldn't blame him. 

"No. But I should."