Lessons for a Sunday Father (35 page)

It’s gone five now and I can hear the lads getting ready to go. Denise finishes tapping away at the keyboard and shuts down the computer.

“I’m off home then.”

“Not out tonight?”

“No.” She blushes like a schoolgirl. “Ray’s coming over. I’m cooking him a dinner.”

“Good. Hope it goes well. I’m pleased for you, Denise.” I don’t know why I’m talking like that, as if I’m her father or something, but I am pleased for her. Denise deserves a life. But so do I. I can’t spend every single evening painting the flat and making it perfect. I am good at decorating and all that, and—even worse—I enjoy it, but I still need a social life. Suddenly all my friends depress me. None of them ever do anything new. I’d love it if just once Colin or Jeff or Roger would ring me up and say, “I’ve jacked in my job and I’m going to the airport tomorrow and see what’s available. Wanna come?” Colin’s hated his job for at least the last ten years, far as I know, but does he leave? No. Course not. Because it’s steady. It pays the mortgage. And what else could he do? And look at me, who am I to talk, still here after sixteen years? It’s not the same though—I don’t hate my job for a start.

Right. I am now going to go back to the flat and cook myself a proper meal like a real grown-up. I’m not going to phone for a pizza or stop off to pick up fish and chips on the way home. I shall go via Tesco’s and get something to cook. A chicken maybe. And some potatoes and some of those green things you’re supposed to have. Vegetables. Then I’m going to go through every pair of trousers I own with a fine-tooth comb until I find that card with whatserface’s number on it. Ella. What if she doesn’t remember who I am and I have to attempt to describe myself? What if she lives with someone and he answers the phone? I can’t really say I’m ringing to order an extra muffin. Maybe I could order a whole platter of sandwiches, say I’m having a party or something. Yes, terrific idea, Scott, you’re a genius. That’s all you need to make your life complete—thirty-two rounds of assorted ham, cheese, salad, beef, salmon and what have you and a small forest of cress. All just to ask her out for a drink. Give me a break, I haven’t been on a date for over fifteen years, you can’t blame me if I’m a bit out of practice.

By the time I’d been round the supermarket, got back to the flat and unloaded the shopping, I’d forgotten about looking for Ella’s number. I couldn’t believe how much stuff I’d bought when I was shopping. I only went in for a chicken and some potatoes and stuff. I got a trolley because it’s easier and I didn’t want to look like a sad, lonely bastard with a basket—I always feel sorry for people who are shopping for one. You can see in their basket and they’ve got like a ready meal that says Cottage Pie for One in enormous letters. Then they’ve got maybe one onion, a small tin of sweetcorn, and a couple of bananas, plus a tin of cat food if they’re really sad—oh yeah, and a packet of those mini chocolate swiss rolls. And you can just see their whole life there. That they’ve worked out exactly what they’re going to have for their evening meal and then they think, “Ooh, I’ll be naughty and have a treat” and they get this packet of cakes, mini-rolls or whatever. I mean, it’s all right if you’re a student or whatever, but you don’t want to be letting other people see you with a Cottage Pie for One when you’re my age. But the problem with having a trolley is it looks so empty and pathetic if you’ve only got a few things, and I thought I could do with some extra bits and pieces anyway, for when Rosie comes round. So I got some ice-pops to freeze and some biscuits with marshmallow in them. Then I thought about Gail saying I’m not to feed her rubbish the whole time, and I went back to the bit where the fruit and veg are and I got some apples and a big net of oranges.

It soon mounts up though, doesn’t it? It cost a lot more than I thought. Still, at least it looked like I was a proper person buying for a whole family. I should’ve waited till Sunday and brought Rosie with me. She always knows what are the best buys and she’s always putting things back and saying, “No, Dad, not that one, you should get this one.” She cracks me up, she really does.

Anyway, I put all the things away back at the flat, then get the chicken and potatoes and vegetables out again so I could cook them. I tell you, that kitchen’s got practically nothing in it. All I could find’s this one enormous roasting tin, big enough to take a huge turkey. I put my chicken in there and it looks a poor little thing, sort of marooned and tiny and in need of its mother. So I shove some onions and potatoes around it to make it look less pathetic and whack it in the oven before it starts making me feel sad.

While it’s cooking, I give the hall another coat of paint. It’s all coming along now, this flat, beginning to feel like a proper place of my own. I’d like to make Rosie’s room a bit special though, not just somewhere for her to doss down. It’s a bit boring at the moment.

After supper, I wash up, then lay on the settee to watch the news. Must’ve fallen asleep because suddenly it’s after midnight. And that’s when I remember that I’d meant to phone Whatserface. Ella. I’m about to start going through all my trouser pockets when I realize I couldn’t really phone her after twelve in any case. It’s taken me weeks to get round to it, but now that I have it in my mind, I’m impatient to get on with it. I could chat to her tomorrow, when she comes round to the estate. No, I can’t because tomorrow is Saturday and she doesn’t do Saturdays. I wonder why not—we don’t stop wanting sandwiches just ‘cause it’s the weekend. I suppose most of her customers don’t work Saturdays either, so it’s hardly worth getting her van out if it’s just a couple of glaziers. Monday it is then. That’s if I survive Sunday. I suggested to Rosie we go roller-blading and I’ve not done it for ages. I used to go with Nat a lot and he’s ace at it. Anyway, Rosie’s fed up of him always being better than her at that kind of stuff so I said we’d have a practice somewhere quiet.

OK, I also thought that maybe if he heard that’s what we were doing, he might want to come too. It’s not so bad now, not as bad as it was at the beginning. Then, every time I went to pick up Rosie and walked back down the front path again without him, I felt this pain. A physical pain, like someone had sewn a rock into my chest. I kept thinking the front door would suddenly open again and I’d hear him call, “Dad! Wait for me!” his footsteps running to catch up. Then, after a while, the weeks go by, and you tell yourself it’s not so bad, you can handle it. You tell yourself that because you haven’t got a choice, your son doesn’t want to see you and you’ve only yourself to blame—so what else can you do but handle it? Roller-blading on Sunday. Maybe he’ll come.

Sunday. Rosie carries her roller-blades in a clear bag so everyone can see them. Hers are girlie ones—pink, and they only just still fit her. If she has fun today, we’ll have to see about getting her some in a bigger size.

“Don’t suppose Nat wants to come?” I make my voice casual, with a shrug in it. “We’re blading down at the old airstrip.”

Gail raises her eyebrows and says she’ll ask him, he’s here for once, why don’t I come in a minute, she’ll just pop upstairs.

Rosie and I stand in the hall, whispering for some reason like we’re in a library, and making silly faces at each other. Rosie says we must talk in alien language, so the earthlings can’t understand us.

“Spreditski-nurdle?” I say.

“Wuddok. Krattle-boff-tik,” she says.

“Zeshkrit fagen-sprodnik!”

“Scott?” Hm? Sounds too familiar. Gail, coming downstairs. “Rosie, love, get a couple of drinks from the fridge for later. There aren’t any shops down there, are there?”

As soon as Rosie goes into the kitchen, Gail drops her voice.

“I think he really wants to come, but he doesn’t want to lose face and look like he’s caved in, you know what he’s like.”

I nod, but I’ve not talked to him for so long, I’m not sure I do know any more.

“He says he’ll consider coming, but there are conditions …”

“What is this—hostage negotiations?”

Gail tilts her head on one side, waiting to carry on, being patient with me.

“He says you’re not to try to talk to him and he won’t come for the whole day and he doesn’t have to speak to you.”

“Should be a fun day.”

“Scott, come on. What do you think? He has to be round at Steve’s by one in any case. They’re expecting him for lunch.”

It’ll be tough, I know that. Still, it’s Natty. Natty, who I’ve barely seen for months, no more than glimpses through doorways or the sight of his back as he skates away from me on a Sunday morning, speeding down the street to some other lucky house.

“OK. It’s a deal. Tell him.” I’ll bring him back, then take Rosie for lunch.

“At least I’m getting fit,” says Gail, running up the stairs again.

Nat’s roller-blades are black with red markings on the sides and silver-grey wheels. They are the only footwear Nat owns that ever get to see a lick of polish. Nat skates like he swims—free, easy, like he was born to move this way. Funny when he looks almost awkward when he’s just walking along.

He comes crashing down the stairs like a one-boy rhinoceros stampede, jumping the last four steps and totally avoiding my eyes.

“Take your jacket, Nat,” Gail says.

“Don’t need one.”

“Take one anyway.”

He unhooks his black one from the coat pegs and swings it over his shoulder, his skates tucked under his arm, heads out to the car.

Gail and I attend to business, the handover of funds for the week, and she says, can I remember to bring back Rosie’s swimming towel next time, it could probably do with a wash, and I say, no need, it’s sorted, I’ve already washed it. I can tell she’s surprised, and I feel ridiculously pleased with myself.

In the car, Nat is in the front passenger seat and Rosie is whining.

“Dad, I always sit in the front. Tell Nat it’s my seat.” She kicks the back of his chair with some force. “Nat, you can’t just grab it the first time you come with us. It’s not fair.”

“Hey, Rozza, no kicking! But if you’ve had it every week up till now, it must be my go, right?”

“Da-ad?”

“Come on, Rosie. You have it on the way back, eh? Or we’ll never get going.”

A small pause, while she considers how much mileage she can get out of this.

“Can I have a lolly then?”

What is it with kids? You spend your whole life trying to bribe them or barter with them or threaten them every step of the way. Before you have kids of your own, you’re so smug and superior, aren’t you? You tell yourself you’re not going to spoil them the way you see other parents doing, you’ll know just how to handle it if they throw a wobbly in the supermarket. And then you have them and next thing you know they’re wailing fit to bust in the biscuit aisle and you’re shoving a chocolate bar in their face fast as you can and begging them to behave themselves. And you may be six feet tall and they only come up to your knees—but look who’s won?

“Yes, you can have a lolly, but only after your lunch.” This is so both of us can maintain the pretence that I’m still the one in charge. Fortunately, Rosie understands this, so she accepts that I have to be allowed to get my own way sometimes.

The airstrip is the biz for blading, I must say. It’s smooth as a rink but with great tufts of grass that have busted their way through the asphalt, which you can use as small jumps or to slalom round. There are two other people further down, also roller-blading and, beyond that, a man and a boy with a remote-controlled toy aeroplane, buzzing above the strip like an outsize bug. The strip is perfect for Rosie but too easy for Nat. He needs proper jumps and ramps really. I watch him whiz by at speed, a dark shape against the clear sky like some great black crow. I skate along more slowly, so Rosie can keep up, then Nat says he’ll show her how to do flashy turns and I have a sit-down in the grass and weeds by the side and watch them both for a while. Nat takes both her hands and skates backwards, towing her in front of him. Rosie squeals, “Too fast! Slow down!” but she’s loving it, you can see. Even backwards, he glides—glancing behind him now and then to watch for the tufts of grass. Then he looks across at me and, just for a moment, I think I see him smile. But I’m not sure because the sun is in my eyes. I tell myself it’s a smile, of course it is. But it’s only a moment and when I raise my hand to shield my eyes, he’s looking at Rosie again and the smile, if it was ever there, is gone.

I am

IO

Somehow we all survived the school summer holidays, though I must confess I spent the last two weeks praying for the start of the new term so I could have my precious little bundles off my hands again and return to sanity. Scott pitched in more than he ever used to at least, though it wasn’t that much help with Nat who’s still taking things slowly as far as his dad’s concerned. Nat went out on a few trips with Scott and Rosie, but only if it was swimming or seeing a film, still I suppose it’s a start. We’ll all just have to be patient. Scott even took Rosie up to Scotland to stay with his sister while Nat was away in Cornwall with Jason, and they had a great time. Rosie loves Sheila and they all made a fuss of her and she came back with what feels like hundreds of tartan knick-knacks for her room including some horrible furry little gonk
thing
clutching miniature bagpipes.

Also, it was Rosie’s birthday—10 at last! It feels like she’s been looking forward to it for ever. Anyway, we had a party at home for her and Scott and I agreed that Rosie would love it if he came as well. He managed to behave himself fairly well (for him) and had the kids playing silly games and shrieking with laughter and they all got very excited and thought he was wonderful and he was grinning from ear to ear like a big kid himself. Then we turned up the music and we adults had drinks in the kitchen while the kids held a mini-disco in the lounge—have you seen the way they dance these days? All wriggling their hips and sticking out their flat chests, desperate to be sexy—except they’re only ten years old. It’s truly hideous. Then they practised the dance routines they’ve seen on the telly being done by those awful bands they all go mad for, and I spent most of the next day trying to scrape up bits of ground-in cake from the carpet. Scott wanted to join in the dancing, but I thought it would embarrass Rosie (have you seen Scott dance?) and talked him out of it.

What else? Oh yes. Now don’t laugh but I did go on another date. Well, more than one actually. I’ve been seeing Dr Wojczek. Greg, I mean. It’s short for Gregor. He doesn’t really look like a Greg, but I can’t quite bring myself to say Gregor because it sounds silly. I knew he had been married but I’d assumed he was divorced or separated, but actually he’s a widower. His wife died two years ago of cancer—just before he joined the practice. Poor man. It must have been awful.

Anyway, we went out for dinner to that rather posh restaurant in Wye and I felt very nervous, which was silly because of course I’ve known him for nearly two years. It was strange though, being out with someone else. For the first hour or so, I was thinking, “I don’t know how to do this. Should I be laughing more? Should I be talking less? What if he finds me boring?” Then after a while and a couple of glasses of wine, I forgot to think about how I was and what impression I was making and I started to enjoy myself. And there were candles and we had wine and I ate far too much and it was all such a treat, I can’t tell you. When you’re cooking for a family day in and day out, desperately trying to think of something new that you can defrost or whip up in half an hour and that your children won’t push round their plates saying, “It tastes
funny,”
it is so wonderful to be taken out to dinner. Except all through the evening I couldn’t stop wondering what it would feel like to kiss a man with a beard—because I never have, not in my whole life. I was sitting there opposite him and I kept imagining it. I had to stop myself lunging across the table at him to have a quick stroke. I thought it might be really prickly.

Course, Cassie was on the phone at crack of dawn the next day, when we were all in our usual chaos, tearing round trying to eat breakfast and find our games kits (you know what I mean). She said,

“Sorry, I couldn’t wait. How was it? Did you
do
it?”

“It was only
dinner!
Of course not!”

Honestly, what does she think I am?

* * *

We didn’t do it till our fourth date. And, by the way, it’s not prickly. But it does
tickle.

It was Rozza’s birthday. She had all her little friends round for a party and a disco, but it wasn’t a proper one, just dancing around to CDs in the front room. We pushed all the furniture against the walls and Mum changed the light bulbs in the lamps so there was a red one and a blue one and a green one. It was quite funky actually. Well, it was OK for little kids. And we had piles of fried chicken and jacket potatoes with different fillings and Mum did Coke floats with ice-cream. My dad came and goofed around for a while. Rosie liked it.

In the holidays, I went with Jason and his family to Cornwall and we did windsurfing. You fall off a lot at the beginning, but it was still pretty cool. Jason’s stepdad tried to do it but he’s a bit of a noodle and he couldn’t balance right. I guess he’s too old. Bet my dad could do better than him. Yeah, well. Still, the stepdad—Mr Wonderful, that’s what they call him, only not to his face—he’s not so bad, he’s better than Jason’s real dad if you ask me. He got us loads of ice-creams and he doesn’t keep asking you stupid questions the whole time, he just lets you alone.

Yeah, I went out with Rosie and my dad a couple of times, so what? It was only swimming and blading and that. It’s not like I had to talk to him much or anything, only to say what I wanted when we got something to eat. Big bloody deal. I wasn’t going to go, but Joanne said I must be a loony tune letting Rosie have all the treats by herself and she’d never let her little sister get away with it.

Mum’s going out with someone, and Rosie and me wind her up about having a
boyfriend.
He’s like way too old to be a boyfriend, of course, he is majorly decrepit. Mum says he’s “only forty-five.” Yeah, like I said, a total crumbly. And he’s got a
beard.
Creepy. It’s that Dr Whatsit only we’re supposed to call him Greg as if he’s a mate or something, so mostly I don’t call him anything, ‘cept I call him Weirdy Beardy to Rosie. When he came to pick up Mum the first time, he shook my hand and said, “Hello, Nathan. How do you do. Or you prefer Nat, yes?”

“Mn.”

“Your mother tells me you are quite the hotshot with computers.”

“I do OK.”

“I really envy you. Gail is trying to teach me how to use mine properly at the surgery.” “
Mum’s
teaching you?!”

He must be seriously crap.

“Oh, yes.” Then he looks at her with this soppy face. Vomit time.

Rosie says she bets they snog a lot, but I reckon they are getting a bit old for it. Anyway, he hasn’t stayed over yet—not unless he sneaks out at six o’clock in the morning. Next time he comes round, I’m not going to go to bed till I know he’s left. I asked Mum if he was moving in and she said,

“No, course not! Do you really think I’d install some man without talking to you and Rosie first? Besides, I’m in no rush.”

She can’t get married again yet anyhow, until she gets a divorce from Dad, and that’ll take ages and ages.

We’re back at school this week. Thrillsville.

I guess you want to know if I ever had enough guts to phone up Ella, you know, the sandwich lady. Well, no I didn’t, but only because I didn’t need to in the end. I had to bide my time till after the weekend ‘cause I couldn’t track down her card and I didn’t know her surname so I couldn’t look her up. I’m no good on the phone anyhow. I’m better when I can see what I’m doing.

But, come Monday morning, I’m ready to make my move.

I hang back till after the small queue’s subsided and there’s only a couple of blokes lounging nearby, eating their rolls outside in the sun.

“Hey there. So what treats have you got in store for me today?”

She smiles.

“Oh, mostly leftovers and a few stale crusts. Still, you just name what you want, then I can tell you I’m all out.”

“Now that’s what I like—a woman who can satisfy my every need.”

I was right. Definitely no wedding ring. But maybe she takes it off so it doesn’t get all covered in crumbs.

“I’ve got that chicken in herby mayonnaise thing you like.” Ah-ha. See, she notices these things. “Or Spanish omelette? Roast beef? What do you fancy?”

Don’t ask.

I go for the chicken and while she’s doing it, I pounce, smooth and slick as a panther.

“Um …” I say.

“Ye-es?” She’s smiling at least. Come on, mate, get a move on. She’ll be off in a minute. Don’t you just hate working under pressure?

“You do a great job, feeding us lot day in and day out.”

“Thank you. It’s nice to feel appreciated. It makes getting up at six every morning to begin the day’s buttering while I’m barely conscious seem almost worthwhile.”

“Maybe I could do the same for you some time?”

She pauses, her knife poised mid-spread.

“You’re volunteering to help me butter my rolls? Or you want to make me a sandwich?” Her face is straight, her voice deadpan.

“Er, neither actually. Just wondered if you fancied going for a bite to eat some time.” Casual. Keep it casual, case she says no. “Or just a drink. Or a coffee.”

“Oh. OK.”

“That’s OK as in yes, right?”

“I guess it is.” She bags up my chicken baguette and gives the bag a neat twirl, then she looks straight at me and gives me a grade A, full on, green light, bell-ringing, neck-tingling humdinger of a smile. “What took you so long?” she says.

Anyways, we fix up a where and a when and we meet outside that nice old pub on the river and I get there early. And when this woman appears and smiles at me, I’m thinking, “Hmm, she’s a bit of all right” before I click that it’s her, the sandwich lady, Ella I mean. Only she’s wearing a dress and there’s not an apron in sight and her hair’s loose, falling around her shoulders and, yes, my God, the woman’s even got legs. Two of them. And not bad legs at that. For some reason, I seem to have forgotten how to breathe and I feel myself blushing like a sodding schoolboy and, dear God, does none of this ever get any easier? Then she waves and comes over and she says hi and I say hi and after a little bit of awkwardness we’re up and running and talking like there’s no tomorrow and no, I’m not telling you it all now, you’ll just have to wait.

Gail’s seeing that doctor from the surgery. Dr Whatsit. Only Gail says it like this: Dr Vocheck. Yes, the one whose idea of being the life and soul of the party is to treat everyone to a rousing folk song in a foreign language. I’d rather listen to Rosie speaking in alien. Spridski zekroddok? Actually, sometimes it feels like we really know what we’re saying. I’d probably do better talking like that the whole time.

Gail told me after she’d been out with him a couple of times. I can’t say I was overjoyed at the thought. I don’t know if she’s had sex with him yet and, frankly, I’d rather not think about it and if that makes me a miserable toerag with double standards then so be it. Anyhow, we had to work out how we’re going to handle the whole going out with other people thing. I’m not having someone moving straight into my house and putting their feet up on my settee and sleeping in my bed and living at my expense. Not a chance. I told Gail that and she said,

“What sort of man would have so little pride that he’d sponge off another man like that? Don’t be ridiculous. Credit me with having some taste and sense at least, won’t you?”

Anyway, so we agreed: what we get up to is our own business but no flaunting it in front of the kids. That means no overnight “guests” when Nat and Rosie are around until the person’s been introduced slowly and they get on OK with them. No snogging on the stairs, no strangers wandering round the house naked. I told Gail she can’t be trailing a whole string of different men through the house.

“Yes, that does sound like me, doesn’t it? You can talk. And excuse me, I notice none of this will hold you back much.”

We still have a bit of a ding-dong now and then, but we can’t keep it up any more, we’ve lost the heart for the battle.

Rosie stays with me every other Saturday night now and sometimes one night mid-week if we can get ourselves organized and remember what she needs for the next day, but Nat still hasn’t set foot in my flat. He barely says a word to me, even if he comes out with me and Rosie, which he’s done all of four times I think. Not that I’m counting or anything. I don’t know what I have to do to square things with him. I hope he decides to make up with me before I’m on my deathbed. There’s probably a way to deal with this, but I’m buggered if I know what it is. I wish I knew how to talk to him. In the past, like before, him and me always got along, but it was just him being him and me being me, we never had to think about it, certainly never had to talk about it. But now—well—I’d like that back again and I don’t know how to get from where we are now to where I want us to be and I reckon Nat doesn’t know either. Or, worse, maybe he likes it this way, maybe he really doesn’t want me in his life any more. Shit. I know I have to find a way to talk to him, I do know that—but please won’t somebody tell me what the hell I’m supposed to say?

Scott’s seeing someone else. At first, I thought it must be
her,
that woman he slept with, and I wondered if he really had carried on seeing her all along. But he insists it isn’t and, for once, I believe him; he’s got no real reason to lie any more.

Rosie tries not to talk about her, Ella, in front of me, which is sweet of her, but sometimes she can’t help it and she babbles away about what they’ve got up to together.

“Ella and me made fairy cakes and she let me weigh all the sultanas and everything and put out the paper cases. We had to do forty-eight because she’s got lots of customers and they all like cakes and she’s going to show me how to make brownies.”

And this domestic whiz turns out to have an artistic streak too. Rosie says she’s doing a painting on her bedroom wall. I’m pleased for Rosie, of course I am, it’s just I’m beginning to feel I’m just the boring old mummy who can’t compete with this creative
girl
who seems to know what bands are in and what colour nail polish is fashionable. OK, she’s not really a girl, Scott says she’s nearly thirty-seven so she’s no spring chicken either, but she
sounds
young. At least she’s not some eighteen-year-old bimbo, that would be much worse. But I think Rosie’s getting fond of her and it’s not that I’m jealous or anything, but I can’t say I’m overjoyed about it.