Lessons for a Sunday Father (23 page)

Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit. I’m up on my toes and out to the landing in a second. Peering over the stair-rail to see Gail’s outline through the frosted glass of the front door—skid into the bathroom—no, you idiot, not in here—into Rosie’s room—everything way too small to hide in or under—back into Nat’s room—try to crawl under the bed but there’s too much crap—back into our room—open the window—Christ, I’ll break my sodding neck jumping from up here—yank open the wardrobe—Jeez, why do women have so many sodding clothes? How’s a man supposed to hide in the wardrobe when it’s full to bursting with 400 sodding outfits you’ve never seen her wear even once? Footsteps running up the stairs. Quick—under the bed. Bathroom door closing. So glad I didn’t hide in there. Right, that gives me at least a minute if she’s having a wee, as long as Rosie’s not in the hall. Back out from under the bed—onto the landing—coast’s clear. Flush of the toilet. Bloody hell, that was fast. She’s never that fast when we’re at the pictures or having a meal out and I’m sat there like a lemon for hours. Down the stairs, heading for the front door. Oh, dear God, shoes—where the hell did I put them? I know, I know—in the front room. Can hear Rosie in the kitchen—whizz past the half-open door—dash in—grab the shoes—heading back to the door when I hear Gail again, coming downstairs. Jesus H. Christ, can’t the woman spend a minute tidying her hair or something? Why’s she in such a hurry all of a sudden? Leap back into the front room and crouch down behind one of the armchairs. Marvellous. This is comfortable—I can’t stay like this for long, I’ll get cramp. I’m not designed to be folded. Round and round in my head, I’m saying, “Keep calm, keep calm,” telling myself it’s OK, that I’ll look back and laugh about all this at some point. Big mistake. Soon as I think that, I realize it
is
kind of funny and I nearly laugh out loud. Bite the inside of my cheek hard, too hard, nearly take a whacking great chunk out of it. Then I take a sneaky look over the top of the armchair. I reckon I only need about 30 seconds clear to scoot to the front door, open it quietly and sprint down the front path and round the corner. As they’ve only just come in, I don’t even have to shut the front door because they’ll think they’ve left it open by accident. I creep to the door and listen.

“Peanut butter sandwich, Rosie?”

Excellent. She’ll have her back to the door for at least a minute. I tiptoe to the front door, still clutching my shoes, turn the latch slowly, out and pull the door to behind me and I’m down that path faster than Linford Christie being chased by a velociraptor. The front gate clangs behind me but I don’t look back. Don’t stop till I’m at the car. Then I shove my feet into my shoes, get in and lean my head on the steering wheel.

Then a nasty thought comes to me. I don’t believe this. Oh shit. Where the hell did I leave the sodding apple core?

At school, we did like how to write a proper letter like if you’re applying for a job or something. Useful, huh? Kind of thing you need to do the whole time when you’re thirteen. Miss Farnham showed us how you lay it out with the address and the date and all that, then she asked us like when would you use it and Toby who’s a total nerd said,

“Please, Miss, if you were reserving a hotel room in advance.” He is such a suck-up.

There were a couple of other “Please, Miss” type ideas, writing to your bank manager and stuff. It was such a thrill, I could barely sit still, you know? We were all supposed to be taking notes. Then Miss says, “Nathan, how about you? Do you have a suggestion? When might you want to write a formal letter?”

“I wouldn’t, Miss, I’d send an e-mail.”

“Yes, Nathan, but that wouldn’t always be the most appropriate method of communication, would it? And, even if you were to send it by the e-mail, you might still want to phrase your letter in a formal fashion.” She is the Teacher that Time Forgot, no doubt about it.

I thought a sec, doodling in my rough book, then I said, “Yeah, right, like if you wanted to complain about something …”

“Good, yes, that’s right. What kind of complaint would merit a formal letter, do you suppose?” Can you believe it? That’s how she talks the whole time. I’m glad she’s not my mum—
What do you think would merit being selected as an edible item for the breakfast table, Nathan? Jeez.

“Dunno. Well, yeah, like if you wanted to complain in a shop say if you bought some Nikes and they were loads of money then they fell apart after you’d worn them like only one time and the shop never give you your money back, you could write to the chairman …”

“Yes …”

“—Or if you thought someone was
incredibly boring,
you could write to complain and tell them to be like
less
boring …”

There were a few laughs round the class but Miss went all red and said, yes, fine, let’s not get carried away and that it was best to confine your letters of complaint to issues that were specific such as faulty goods or booking hotel rooms rather than just your subjective views on other people which were really only a matter of opinion and not what we were concentrating on just now.

Then Joanne Carter stuck up her hand.

“But Miss? Miss, in the papers, people are always writing in to complain about everything. And that’s only opinions, isn’t it? My dad reads them out at breakfast.”

“Yeah, that’s right, Miss,” I said to back up Joanne. She looked back over her shoulder at me and smiled. She’s dead pretty. She’s got really nice hair. I might ask her out. Dunno. Have to see.

For our homework, we were supposed to write a formal letter. You put your own address at the top, then you put the other person’s address or the company you’re writing to or whatever. And you do the date and then you start off Dear Sir or Dear Mr Snotface. Miss said I should have a go at doing a complaint letter seeing as how I seemed to have so many ideas on the subject. I think she was trying to get back at me, but in that special smarmy way teachers have like they’re much cleverer than you and there’s no way they’re going to let you forget it. So I thought about going one better and writing to her.

I was getting quite into it by the end so I thought I’d have a crack at writing a letter to my dad as well, but it was a whole lot harder. I put my address and then the date and then I put,

Dear Dad

Then I just sat there. I thought of everything I wanted to say:

I read it back and then I deleted it, all except for the Dear Dad bit, and I tried again.

Nah. Another go:

It’s hard, this letter thing, isn’t it?

Sod it. Delete, delete, delete, delete … I went back letter by letter, don’t know why, watching the words disappear one by one until it just said “Dear Dad.” Maybe I’ll have another crack later. Dunno. S’pose it was a stupid idea, writing to him. And I still had to turn in something for homework. I looked round at the walls of my room, and my posters, then wrote my formal letter to the chairman of Ferrari.

Miss was well impressed.

It’s not fair. Nat said I was in his room but I wasn’t. He told Mum that I’d touched his computer and she said maybe I was doing my homework on it and it was only fair for him to let me use it when I need to. And she said if he couldn’t be sensible about it, we’d have to move the computer downstairs and that would be the end of it. Nat said I’d left my apple core on his desk and Mum said why didn’t he just put it in the bin and stop going on about it because she wasn’t going to spend the rest of her life keeping the peace between us two and we could sort it out between ourselves. Then she said that, seeing as how Nat’s the oldest, she didn’t think it was too much to ask for him to be a bit more grown-up about this sort of thing and it was only an apple core and could we all just move on and forget about it.

Then Nat came in my room and said I’m not to use his computer without asking first and he shouted at me and said I’m not to eat or drink near the keyboard. He said I was just a baby and I might have broken it or made it all sticky. I told him it wasn’t me and I never used it and I wasn’t even in his stupid old room, but he said, well, who else could it have been then? Mum never uses it and there isn’t anyone else. But it wasn’t me.

I told Dad on Sunday about the apple core and about Nat being so horrible, and he was really nice and got me some new mauve sandals for summer and said I could have some nail varnish too. It’s got all silver glitter bits in it. But then when I went home and showed Mum, she said I was too young to wear nail varnish. I told her that loads of girls in my class wear it and she said she didn’t care and she wasn’t having me look like a—well she wasn’t having it anyway. Then she said maybe I could wear it for family parties and things like that, but not for school. So I said OK, but can I put it on my toes ‘cause no-one would see it then, but I can still show it to Kira and Josie at breaktime, and she said I could.

It is my dad’s birthday on Friday. He is forty now, which is already fairly old. He says that it isn’t and that you are only as old as you feel on the inside, and that’s what matters. He said that last year, on his birthday, and Mum said if that was true then she must be about 120 because she is tired all the time. Nat said he feels like about eighteen or nineteen so everyone should treat him like a grown-up, and Dad said if he wanted to be treated like an adult, he’d have to start acting like one. And Nat said, huh, he could talk. So Dad made like he was going to punch him, but he was only playing, and Nat did it back. That was when they were still friends. That was before. And Dad said he thought I was about twenty- eight on the inside because I’m always so sensible. I said I’d like to hurry and grow up, but Mum said you shouldn’t wish away your childhood because it’s the best time in your life. And Nat said yeah, right, how could it be the best time in your life when all it meant was that you got bossed round by everyone else and couldn’t do what you wanted?

I am nearly 10. But not yet. I will be 10 in four months, one week and three days. In the evening. I was born at 10.28 p.m. It says so on this little pink card they gave my mum at the hospital. And it says Sex: F. That stands for Female. It doesn’t say my name: Rosalie Anne Scott, because they didn’t know yet that I was me.

I have got my dad a present but I’m not going to tell you what it is because it’s meant to be a surprise. I made it myself. Well, I did part of it anyway. Mum said I could give it to him when I see him on Sunday but it’s got to be on the actual day, or it’s not the same. Nat hasn’t got him anything and he says he’s not going to. I think he’s really mean. I asked Mum if we could deliver my present for Dad on Friday after school and she said it all depends, we’ll have to see, but that’s usually what she says when she means no.

I went in the sweet shop on the way home from school. I got some crisps and a Mars Bar then when I go to come out, I see Joanne looking at the birthday cards. You know,
that
Joanne. So I go over and stand like I’m choosing a card too and I’m trying to think of something cool to say. Only I can’t think of anything.

“Hello, Nathan.” She’s smiling.

“Hello.” I have to do better than this. How crap am I?

“Who are you getting a card for?”

Who am I getting a card for? I’m about to say, “No-one. How d’you mean?” but I manage to stop myself just in time. I’m stood here staring at the cards, right, so I must be getting a card.