Lessons for a Sunday Father (18 page)

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As bad as your dad, she was going to say. Just like your father. That’s what everyone says. You take after your dad. You’re so like your dad. Aaah, they say, Aren’t you just like your dad?

I’m not, I’m not, I’m NOT, I wanted to shout—I’m not like him. I wouldn’t run off and leave us all in this mess and abandon a little kid who’s practically a baby and expect my son to sort everything out and grow up overnight and be the man in the family just because I was stupid and selfish and mean. I’m not like him. I’m not.

I have to admit things aren’t looking so promising on the Gail-begging-me-to-come-back front. You’d think she’d be missing me a bit at least. She’s probably hiding it. That’ll be it. But if I’m not moving back in the next couple of weeks, I’m going to have to bite the bullet and notify the parents. No, I know it’s not like they give a toss about my marriage or my happiness and well-being or anything, but just in case they do ring, I’d rather they didn’t hear it from Gail. My mother has been known to phone from time to time and ask me to come round, say if a tap needs a new washer or they’ve a shelf wants putting up, you know, the kind of job that only a precious and much loved son who can’t say no could do. Why should they call for a handyman and waste their hard-hoarded money when Idiot Boy keeps coming to the rescue?

I reckon it’s best if I just drop in on the off-chance. There’s no point phoning in advance, ‘cause it’s not like they’re going to be cracking open the Champagne in my honour, is it? No, I’m being unfair. Give her credit, my mother always makes me a cup of tea when I go round there. And she always says, “And how’s life treating you, dear?”

That’s how she sees the world—like you’re a discarded plastic bag in the street and life may pick you up and fly you about in the wind or leave you laying in the gutter and you’ve got no say in it whatsoever. Actually, I feel like that at the moment, but it’s no way to carry on, is it?

If I’m moronic enough to say “Not too bad, thanks,” then they usually start dropping heavy hints about things that need doing round the house and they were thinking of getting some lamb in for the freezer but they’re a bit strapped for cash just now—and the pension’s not much, is it?—of course they’ve never been extravagant—not like some people they could name—specially her along at number 6, all fur coat and no knickers—
they’ve
always been careful, of course—waste not, want not—but it’s nice to have a bit extra, isn’t it?—you never know when you might need it—oh, am I sure—can I really spare it?—well, it’s appreciated—they’ll tuck it away safely—oh, not the bank, no—some-where safe—it’s been nice having a visit—and p’raps I’d remember to bring some sweets next time—it’s fruit jellies, she likes, she can’t eat toffees now, with her teeth—and your dad’ll take some tobacco—you know the kind he has—he likes a smoke, does your dad—all he’s got now is a smoke and a flutter on the dogs.

My father’s retired now, of course. Used to work on the railways. And the house isn’t far from the tracks, you can hear the trains. He likes that, my dad, the noise of the trains, the sound as it crosses the points. There’s not many things he likes, but that’s one of them. Mum used to take whatever work was going, seasonal jobs on the farms, fruit-picking when she was younger, then piece-work from home, stuffing envelopes and making up crackers for some company ahead of Christmas, bright red crépe paper and shiny gold stickers spread out on the table in the middle of July. We used to try to get the jokes, to read them out, but she told us not to touch them, case our filthy hands made marks on them and the customers complained.

I’ve got to drive down Westbury Road, so I pull over and nip into the bakery there for some cream cakes. My mum’s like a junkie when it comes to cakes. You see her eyes light up and her pupils go all glinty as she fusses in the cupboard, looking for the little tea plates, not the best ones, of course, they’ve not been used once, since they got them for a wedding present nearly fifty years ago. She gets out the cake forks, though, as she would if they ever had company round—which they never have, not being over-fond of people in general—having company’s an expense, isn’t it?—people expecting scones and fancy cakes and all sorts—thinking you’re made of money—it’s not necessary, is it?— they’ve not got the time or the patience to be putting on airs with that sort of thing.

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Miracle of miracles, my father’s out when I arrive, so my mother—apron apparently glued to her front as always—is in what passes for a good mood in this household.

“Ooh! Dennis!” This is not an expression of maternal delight at seeing her youngest return to the family fold, you understand. No—she has spied the promising white cardboard cake box, tied with ribbon. Still, I bestow a rare kiss on her cheek in a sudden fit of something-or-other and she waddles through to the front room to fetch the cake forks.

“Where is he then?”

“Gone for his tobacco.” My father smokes the thinnest roll-ups you’ve ever seen. No, thinner than the thinnest ones you’ve ever seen. Each one contains about three and a half strands of tobacco, which he carefully arranges and straightens and rearranges on the cigarette paper balanced on the arm of his chair. He then licks along one edge with trembling tongue and rolls it up unbelievably slowly. The whole process takes so long, you have to fight the urge to grab it from him and say, “Here—I’ll do it!” He then pokes this sad apology for a cigarette in his mouth and leaves it hanging there, stuck to his wet bottom lip for another few minutes, while he stomps around looking for a light and blaming whoever crosses his path for hiding the matches.

I should tell her now, quickly, before he gets back. Then she can pass on the joyous news after I’ve left.

“And how’s life treating you, dear?” She says the words, but her attention is focused solely on the three plump cream cakes as she opens the lid of the box to reveal their glory. There is no question but that she’ll have first pick. Her hand hovers, then settles on the chocolate éclair. One fat finger darts back into the box to recapture a tiny blob of cream that has brushed off the éclair onto the side of the box.

I grab the meringue, leaving my father with the vanilla slice—the one we all like least. Ah, you’re thinking, why didn’t he just buy another éclair instead then? Or another meringue? Or something else altogether? Why bother with the vanilla slice at all? But of course, that would be missing the point. In our family, at least half the pleasure
depends
on knowing that you’re eating the cake that someone else would have wanted. My parents only ever really enjoy themselves if they’re certain that someone else is thoroughly miserable. I will just say, I’m not like that the rest of the time—it’s just when I’m around them, I find myself acting the way they do.

“Life,” I say, ignoring the dolly-sized cake fork and lifting the entire meringue up to my mouth, “has given me a ruddy great kick in the teeth.” She’s not listening anyway, concentrating on her cake, so I might as well carry on. “Fact is, Gail and I had a bit of a barney and things got a bit out of hand …”

“You never give her a slap, did you, Dennis?”

“No! Of course not!” My mother, of all people, should know I’d never hit anyone. Specially not a woman or a kid. How could she think for even a second I’d be like—that I’d do that?

She looks round with a guilty face then lifts the cake’s paper case to her mouth to lick the traces of cream and chocolate left on it. “No. But we’re—we’re having a kind of a trial separation.”

That sounds good. I must use that again. Trial separation. Sounds very adult—you’ve had a ruck, you’re thinking things over, you’re both having a bit of space, sort yourselves out. Sounds a lot, lot better than she chucked me out on the street and won’t let me come back.

It is at this moment that the old man returns.

“Dennis is here!” my mother calls out, though her tone sounds more like a warning than an exclamation of joy.

“Oh. Is he?” His voice comes from the kitchen, where he’s entered round the back. I hear him shedding his coat, the same old brown one he’s had for ever, smelling of tobacco and musty rooms and that haircream that only old guys seem to use; I think you have to show your pension book before they let you buy it.

“What’s ‘e want then?” he calls out. The tap goes on in the kitchen, water splashing onto the metal sink. There’s a bar of soap at the side that sits on one of those funny little pink mats covered in rubber suckers like the underside of an octopus. The soap is the old, hard, green sort that lasts for ever. I don’t think you can even buy it any more. My mother no doubt bought a box of 100 bars thirty years ago and they’re still slowly working their way through it, pacing themselves so it lasts them till they die.

“There’s a cake on the side there for you, dear.” My mother, trying to please.

“No éclair then?”

I wink at my mother, briefly conspirators.

“They were all out,” I call back.

Finally, he enters the room, gives me a nod and settles into his chair. His chair. It smells like his coat and has the same brown, worn feel—its whole life has been spent moulded to his body. There’s a darker patch where his head rests. One time, my mother got one of those white things, you know, like a serviette you put on the back of your chair, but he said he couldn’t be fiddle-faddling with that like some old woman. That was way back, when we walked around holding our breath, never knowing what might set him off. He tugs at his waistband then undoes his trouser button. Sets the cake, still in the box, on his lap.

“Shall I fetch you a plate?” My mother, pathetically trying to preserve the niceties.

“Do I look like I’m wanting a plate?”

You’ll have gathered that charm is not one of my father’s outstanding qualities.

“So, what’s up with him then?” He’s not looking at either of us, but he’s talking to her, to my mother.

Her teacup rattles, suddenly loud, in its saucer.

“Dennis was just saying …” She looks at me and her voice falters.

I am forty years old, for God’s sake. I don’t have to be afraid of him any longer. Still—I stand up—to feel taller, bigger, more grown-up. I lean against the mantelpiece, a man at ease.

“Gail and I are having a trial separation.” There. Not a waver in my voice.

“What’s that when it’s at home? Chucked you out, did she? Always thought she was too good for us, that one.” He laughs and looks round for a cup of tea. My mother heaves herself up with as much speed as she can manage and goes through to the kitchen.

“No. It’s a mutual thing. We agreed—”

“A what? Speak normal, can’t you?”

“We’re just working things out.” It sounds lame, pathetic, untrue.

“Marriage is till you go to your grave.” Funny how he makes it sound like a life sentence rather than a source of happiness. “I’ve stuck by your mother all these years.”

The other way round, more like. Who else would put up with him? He starts looking around him, feeling down the side of the seat cushion, already losing interest.

I shouldn’t have come. I don’t know why I did. Why, after all these years, am I still stupid enough to hope it’ll be any different? No, I’m not saying I want them to hire a brass band to welcome me home. It’s just—it’d be nice if just once they’d say, “How are you, son? It’s good to see you.” That’s all.

“Where’s them bloody matches gone?” he says.

“Hey, babe, how’s it going?” Cassie phoned me at work. She and Derek had been away for a fortnight’s holiday in New York and I hadn’t realized how much I’d come to rely on her daily calls, checking that I was still bearing up.

“Oh, you know. So-so.”

“So-so—not bad? Or so-so—fucking awful?”

I laughed. I can’t remember the last time I laughed.

“The second one.” I was about to ask her about her holiday when I sensed someone behind me. They’re not keen on personal calls at the surgery because the lines are so busy as it is. “Yes, Mrs Dickson, if it’s just a repeat prescription, there’s no need for you to see the doctor.”

“Big Brother’s watching, I take it. Can I come over later and bore you with my holiday piccies? Eightish?”

“Yes indeed. Goodbye now.”

Dr Wojczek leant a little closer.

“Sorry to interrupt you, Gail, do you have a minute for me?”

“Of course!” I called over to Tess to cover the desk then followed Dr Wojczek to his room. I stood with my back against the door, clutching my notepad in front of me.

“Please …” he gestured to the other chair, the patient’s chair.

I perched awkwardly right on the very edge of the seat. He has a way of looking at you that is incredibly intense, so you imagine he knows every single thing you’re thinking. His eyes are really deep, dark brown, and also he rarely blinks so I can’t look at him for more than a split second without feeling peculiar. One night a few months ago, I had a dream with him in it and, well, to be honest it was, you know, a—a naughty dream. Then the next day, when he said good morning and looked at me, I was so embarrassed. I was convinced he was going to say, “You disgusting slut! How dare you have such obscene thoughts about me?” He didn’t, of course, but I still say he
knew
and ever since then I find it even harder to meet his gaze.

“Is this about my work?” I sounded flustered and defensive. Of course, I’ve been distracted, but I don’t think I’ve made any serious slip-ups.

“I don’t know. Should it be?”

“Look, I know I haven’t been as focused as I normally am—but it’s just a temporary problem—it really is—and I’m sorry—but—” I plunged on, getting faster and more pointless as I went on. God knows if he could make head or tail of it. I’m not making fun of his English, no; he’s been here for years, and, if anything, he speaks better than most English people, more precise. Only his voice tends to rise at the end of his sentences, so it sounds as if he’s asking a question, even when he isn’t.

He nodded calmly.

“There is nothing wrong with your work. As always, you are efficient, capable, good with the patients?”

“Then that’s not why you wanted to talk to me?” I felt such a fool. He shook his head.