Lessons for a Sunday Father (38 page)

Well, we saw Rosie’s form teacher and she said everything a parent could want to hear, so you’ll excuse me if I have a brief boast—she said that Rosie’s bright and keen and always tries her best and that she’s got a lively, enquiring mind and is a pleasure to teach. Scott and I were beaming away, hoping the other parents would overhear. She also said that sometimes Rosie seems rather quiet and thoughtful, but that was only to be expected under the circumstances. I gave her a rather thin smile at that point and I could see Scott champing at the bit, wanting to tell her to mind her own business, but I kicked him under the table and he managed to restrain himself for once.

Mum and Dad came to the parents’ evening at school. When dad was still living at home, he never used to come. And now he’s in his flat, he said he really wanted to come and wouldn’t miss it for the whole wide world. He picked Mum and me up and we all went together in his car, then he brought us home afterwards and we got chips on the way back. Dad bought some for Nat, too, and he put extra vinegar on them the way Nat likes, and got him a pickled onion, and he gave them to me to look after and told me to be sure to give them to Nat. I think Nat is still being stupid about Dad, but he can’t hate him all that much because he ate the chips and then he went and breathed all horrible pickled onion on me and did a big burp and Mum said he was disgusting, but she was laughing when she said it.

My room at my dad’s is nearly finished now. I’ve got a carpet and there’s a rug by my bed which has got fishes on it and we went and chose a special duvet cover for my bed when we were in the market. It’s all blue and it’s got a unicorn in the middle of it and all these clouds like the ones Ella painted on my wall. The unicorn is like a white horse with a twirly-whirly horn coming out of its head which looks like a long, pointy shell or a really tall ice-cream like the ones you get from the van in summer. Mrs Lewis said it’s supposed to be magic. I asked my dad if he believed in magic and he said he wasn’t sure but he could do with some if I knew of any that was going about. Mum says she doesn’t believe in magic, but she still makes out there’s a tooth fairy who puts the money under your pillow when you lose a tooth but everyone knows it’s your mum who puts it there really. Mum’s friend Cassie says there is magic, and she says she keeps it in her make-up bag and every morning it works a miracle for her.

Mum bought me a lamp to go in my room at Dad’s place and Dad put up a pinboard for me on my bedroom wall, so I could put up some postcards and pictures like I have at home. I’ve got a photo of Mum on my board and a photo of Nat but he’s covering half his face with his hands and sticking out his tongue so it doesn’t look all that much like him. I have a photo of my dad too, but I keep that one in my bedroom at home because when I’m at the flat he is there too so I don’t need a photo of him, I can just look up and there he is.

I had the mobile off half of yesterday because I was round at Ella’s doing something very important which couldn’t possibly be interrupted, and I didn’t get a chance to pick up my voicemail messages until lunchtime. And yes, it was very nice, thank you for asking. No, not the messages. What on earth’s the point of us all being slaves to mobile phones now? Far as I can see, it’s just to give you the illusion that you’ve got a buzzing, happening kind of life, the kind of life where people need to be able to reach you twenty-four hours a day when, as we all know, 99 per cent of the population uses them to say things that you wouldn’t waste your breath on if you were standing face to face. And for someone like me, all it means is you’re more stressed because customers and suppliers and every Tom, Dick and Harry can hassle you whenever they feel like it, so you end up switching the phone off, then telling people you were working in a basement and had no signal. Then half the time you forget to charge the sodding thing or you’re in some kind of dead zone and are stood there in the middle of a street like a total prat saying, “Hello? Hello? Are you there?” looking like you’ve just been let out for the day and your carer’ll be back for you any second now to wheel you away to the happy home.

Anyway, the posh voice comes on saying, “You have …
six
messages. To listen to the messages, press …” blah, blah. A couple are just boring things to do with work then there’s this one from Maureen, you know, Harry’s wife from First Glass, with a big pause first like she’s not sure whether to leave a message.

“Scott, dear. It’s Maureen. Sorry to ring you so late, but—well—it’s Harry, you see. Perhaps you could call—oh, but I won’t be there. Or you could—no—I don’t think—well—perhaps I’ll try you again later. Goodbye, dear.”

What do you do with people who leave messages like that? Still, it was timed at half-twelve at night, long past Maureen’s cocoa and bed time. Shit, I hoped like hell Harry was OK. It didn’t sound good. I’d better give him a call at home. The next message was Maureen again.

“We’re in the Roughton Hospital, Scott, but I’m not sure what—” her voice dropped as she obviously turned away to speak to someone and I pressed the phone right into my ear to try to hear her: “Oh—I’m not sure they’ll let you in—you see it’s family only—you better come—I’ll ask the—I’m sure they’ll—yes—Goodbye, dear.”

By now, I’m practically yelling at the phone.

“What? For chrissakes, what? What’s happened, you silly cow? Tell me what the fuck’s happened!” But as it was just her recorded message it didn’t have much effect.

Then there was one from Gail.

“Scott, now don’t panic but it seems Harry’s been taken into the Roughton. Maureen left a garbled message on the answerphone but she wasn’t very clear and I couldn’t really make head nor tail of what she was saying. I don’t want to worry you, but it sounds as though Harry may have had a heart attack. I don’t know anything else, I’m sorry. I hope he’s OK. Give him my best won’t you, when you see him? Take care. Let me know what’s happening if you get a moment.”

And a last message from Maureen.

“If you could just come and see him, Scott. He was asking for you, see. He’s in the …” It sounds as though she’s speaking through a gobful of cornflakes. Can’t hear a frigging word.

At the hospital, I finally make it to reception to ask for Harry’s whereabouts, having had to accost about fifteen strangers in the car park for change for parking. It can’t be right, can it, charging in a hospital car park. What if you’re in to see your dying mother or something? “Tell Ma to hang on just a few more minutes—I’ve got no pound coins.” Colin got clamped in there one time so I didn’t dare risk it. Risk it and go as a biscuit, that’s what Rosie says. God knows where she got that from. Anyway, they track him down on the computer for me and I spend another half-hour waiting for the lift and wandering round dead-end corridors that must have been laid out by the bloke who designed Hampton Court maze.

I’m sure I pass the same sign saying “Mortuary” at least three times. I wonder if Ella’s brother-in-law’s in, I could pop in and say hello. No, he works nights. Anyway, it gives me a shiver just to think about it, what a creepy place to work. Behind that door are actual dead bodies, you know, people who were once—well—people. I mean proper, real live people who had jobs and drove cars and had sex and traipsed round Safeway of a Saturday morning and taught their kids how to ride a bike and who drank too many lagers once a week and liked prawn won tons—or didn’t like prawn won tons but at least had an opinion one way or the other, you know? Only now all they are is cold dead
things,
with no more feelings or thoughts or opinions than if they were just outsize leftover won tons themselves. God, it’s depressing.

Eventually, with the aid of a compass and directions from a passing nurse, I find the ward and ask at the desk for Harry Wilcox.

“Oh, are you his son?”

I hesitate. Maybe Maureen’s told them that in case it’s family visiting only. There’s a lump in my throat and I’m finding it hard to swallow. “Are you his son?” I want to say yes. He’s been more of a dad to me than my own’s ever been, that’s for sure. God knows I wouldn’t be feeling this crap if it was my own dad. Yeah, I know that’s a horrible thing to say, but it’s true. Then suddenly that makes me think about Nat—all this tumbling through my head in a couple of seconds—hoping that one day he won’t be standing in a hospital ward wishing it was me lying there and not some other bloke he’d come to think of as his dad.

Maybe Harry had said it. He must be OK—awake and thinking of me as his son. I bite my lip and clear my throat, which sounds really loud like I’m standing next to a microphone.

The nurse smiles sympathetically. They must be used to grown men making complete fools of themselves in public.

“It’s all right,” she says. “Your dad’s out of intensive care. He’s doing really well. Next bay along on the right.” She turns away then back again. “You got here very fast. I thought Mrs Wilcox said you lived in Australia. Did you charter a Concorde then?”

The light dawns.

“Oh, no. That’s Chris.” Chris. Harry’s son. Harry’s real flesh-and-blood son. He lives in Melbourne, has a good job and a big house in the suburbs. Harry and Maureen have been over there twice, think the world of him, though I know Harry’s hurt that Chris ever went there in the first place, hurt his only kid has never showed the slightest interest in taking over the family business. Harry used to talk about retiring over there one day, said Chris was always asking him to come, but I knew it was just talk. I didn’t think he’d get a residency permit for a start and anyhow, Harry’s as English as they come. He might go on about loafing on the beach and watching the girls in their bikinis, but it’s just what blokes say, isn’t it? Harry couldn’t survive more than a week without his HP Sauce and his pint at the George and Dragon. He needs to be around lousy weather and customers changing their minds every three minutes—or what would he have to worry about? What else would keep him going?

So I walk to the next bay and there’s a bed with a mound in it that I guess must be Harry because next to the mound is Maureen sat in a chair and knitting away at top speed like she’s going against the clock at the Olympics. I say hello and bend down to kiss Maureen on the cheek.

“How is he?” I whisper. His skin’s got that greyish, waxy look people often have in hospitals—it’s all that crap food and fluorescent lighting, I suppose.

“Having a nap, love,” she whispers back. People always whisper in hospitals, don’t they? Like in a library. It’s creepy really, like what you’d do if someone was already dead. Though I can’t see the point of whispering round a corpse—what you gonna do, wake them up?

I cast around for another chair but Maureen gets up.

“Sit here a minute. I’m desperate anyway.” She stuffs her knitting into her bag and scuttles off in search of the toilet.

Harry’s eyes flicker open and he turns his head towards me. His voice is so quiet, I can barely hear him, so perhaps it’s only my imagination that I hear him say:

“Son?”

“I’m here, mate.”

“Glad you came.”

I pat his hand awkwardly and lean in closer to hear him.

“Been overdoing it on the squash court again, then?” Harry hasn’t done any kind of sport since 1972 as far as I know. He always says his only exercise is chasing late payments and, to be honest, he’s not much cop at that, I usually end up doing it. “Or were you having it away with a young floozie and she wore you out?”

A smile crosses his face.

“I should be so lucky.” He looks round vaguely. “Where is she?”

“Who—Maureen or your floozie?”

“Behave. Herself. Maureen.”

“Toilet. Why? Do you need something? I can get it, unless you want me to hold your bedpan.”

He shakes his head.

“Good just having you here … thought I was a goner for a while there.”

“No chance, mate. You’re tough as old boots—when’s the last time you even had a cut, for chrissakes?” Harry’s hands are like leather. “We’ll have to slip something nasty in your tea when we want rid of you. Anyway, never mind the chit-chat, what happened? Don’t skip any of the gory bits.”

So he tells me—as much as he remembers anyway. He’d been sitting in his armchair at home having coffee and a biscuit and watching the telly. It was one of those docusoap programmes about—get this—a sodding hospital, and it was kind of funny but dead depressing at the same time because there was no money and half the staff were walking zombies who got about five minutes’ kip a day and Harry said it made him think you really wouldn’t want to get ill because you might get a surgeon operating on you who’d not slept for a week. Then there was this bit where this man got brought into casualty. He’d been slashed across the face with a Stanley knife and there was blood pouring down his face. Harry said he was feeling a bit queasy and was reaching down for the remote which had fallen on the floor to change channels, find a quiz show or something, when he had this horrendous crushing pain in his chest, like as if someone had dropped a house on him. He couldn’t breathe properly and he felt sick. Maureen had got a hell of a fright, he said.

“I shouldn’t think it was a picnic for you either, by the sound of it.” He gives me a weak-looking smile and says he’s doing all right.

“It’s good to see you,” he says, patting my hand back. “I mean it.”

He seems a bit vague and I can’t tell if he’s just dopey from his nap or a bit out of it. God knows what drugs they pump into you after something like that. Wouldn’t be surprised if all the patients are coked to the gills as a matter of routine—keeps ‘em quiet, need less nurses and that, like they do in prisons. Bromine, is it? Bromide? Something like that. Mega-tranquies of some sort anyhow.

It’s weird visiting people in hospital. For a start, they’re in bed in their pyjamas only you’re supposed to chat away like everything’s normal and you’re surrounded by other blokes all in their pyjamas with their families all huddled round them. And you bring grapes and flowers and magazines and a card and so each patient’s got like a miniature house round them with their vase and their cards and their wife sat next to them—only really it’s just like playing house the way kids do when they’re little because it’s no more like being at home than having a picnic on the hard shoulder of the motorway is like having a relaxing barbie in your back garden. You can’t relax ‘cause there’s all this equipment bleeping away or—worse—not bleeping all of a sudden, and there’s tubes going in and coming out carrying God knows what, you’d rather not know thank you, and nurses bustling past and some poor sod mindlessly polishing the floor apparently twenty-four hours a day to make you think the place is clean as a whistle when we all know a hospital’s the last place you want to hang out when you’re ill because it’s full of germs and diseases. The only thing you almost never see, if you think about it, is a doctor. You’d think chaps in white coats with stethoscopes round their necks would be two a penny in a hospital, but God knows what they do with them ‘cause I didn’t see a single one fluttering round Harry that whole first time I was there.