Lessons for a Sunday Father (42 page)

What it is is he’s going to do people’s painting for them and put up their wallpaper and their tiles in the bathroom, like he did in the flat. Ella says he’s really, really good at it and he shouldn’t be so modest. Actually, I think Ella is better than him because she can paint proper pictures and things on the walls, animals and butterflies or whatever you like, but Dad can only do plain.

Nat’s coming to Dad’s on Saturday. We’re going to get pizza, proper take-out ones, not just the sort you get in the freezer. Ella’s not going to be there though. Dad said she was seeing a friend. But Nat’s coming and he’s going to see my room and Dad said maybe we can both go with him to help him choose a van in a couple of weeks. I think he should have a blue one. I’ve gone off mauve.

OK, I did accept the money from Harry, but only once he showed me he’d have enough put by for himself. It’ll help me get set up with a van and ladders and all the gear I need and tide me over for a while until I’m up and running. I told Harry any time he’s bored and fancies a spot of work, he can come in with me because I’ll still take on the odd glazing job alongside the decorating.

When Ella first suggested it, I laughed. Me, run my own business?

“Why not? You’ve got the skills, the trade contacts, you’re used to managing things. You’re not afraid of hard work, you’re good with people, trustworthy …”

“Carry on, don’t stop now you’re getting up a head of steam.”

“… and you’re also getting big-headed—but with good reason because you’re lovely and sexy and funny and you’ve got this really gorgeous bit right here—” She lifts up my shirt and lays her cool hand on my back, just above my bum.

“It’s no good me being gorgeous where no-one can see it. What about the rest of me?”

She gets these little curves at the corners of her mouth when she smiles. Not dimples, curves—like mini-smiles laying on their sides.

“Oh, the rest of you is just about bearable, I guess.”

Nat’s coming over on Saturday night. I had to tell Ella, ask her, you know, if she’d mind … She was great about it.

“Don’t force him to meet me when it’s probably taking him all his courage to come at all. We’ll take it slowly. I don’t mind. Let him go at his own pace.”

I take her hand and rub it gently between my own.

“Yeah, you’re right. Thank you.”

She pulls me down to kiss her.

“Good luck.”

I’m going to need it.

He thought he’d make me come round. Like he used to when I was just a kid. When I was really small—littler than Rosie even—if I was being naughty or cross with him, Dad would pick me up and turn me upside-down, then he’d tickle me or make like he was about to chuck me across the room until I started laughing and then he’d laugh as well and Mum’d come in and say, “What
are
you two up to? It’s like running a zoo, this house. Come on, it’s feeding time for the animals. Chicken and chips!”

He must still think I’m only about four and he can just tease me out of it. But there’s nothing he can do this time. I don’t want to see him again. Not ever. Never, ever, ever. That’s what we used to say. Like if he was trying to get me to eat vegetables at dinner, he’d say, “Eat up your greens or you’ll never be big and strong” and I’d say, “What, never?” Then he’d go, “Never ever” and I’d go, “Never, ever, ever?” until Mum would say, “Oh, for goodness’ sake, give it a rest you two—you’re driving me crazy.” It was always “you two” then, like we were both her kids. Rosie was only little and she was never naughty all that much so she didn’t get told off even half as much as me. Then I’d say, “But I’ll never like greens. Never.” And Dad would say, “What, never ever?” And we’d be off again, laughing and making slurping noises with our drinks and playing tabletop football with our peas, flicking them between the knives and forks as goalposts when Mum wasn’t looking.

OK, what happened was this. First of all, you need to know that it’s not like I’d made up with him or anything because I hadn’t. You got that? But I kind of said I’d take a look at his flat, just a look right, mainly because Rosie was giving me earache going on and on about it, and Cassie said she was going to take a look, and Mum was nagging me, so I thought if I went maybe everyone would stop hassling me about it. Anyway, I said I’d go round, just to look. No big deal. For an hour or so. See Rosie’s room and that. Maybe have some pizza. And Dad said OK and
she
wouldn’t be there.

It’s not all that far and it wasn’t raining for once, so I roller-bladed round there. He’s got this flat on the first floor. I rang the bell and he buzzed me in and I went up the stairs still in my blades. It’s OK if you turn your feet sideways. I couldn’t be arsed to take them off ‘cause I wasn’t going to be there long and the laces take for ever to do, but I had my trainers in my bag, anyway.

Course, at home Mum never lets me keep my blades on indoors because she says it crucifies the carpets and she keeps saying I’m going to crash into things and knock them over—which I don’t. Anyway, I’m at the door and he opens it but he just stands there not saying anything and looking at me like he’s never seen me before. Then I clock that we’re looking at each other almost on a level, eye to eye, ‘cause with my blades on I’m like nearly as tall as he is. He gives me this funny smile, with his mouth all weird and pressed together like he’s scared to smile normally, then he goes,

“Hey!”

And I go,

“So, am I coming in or what?”

I’m waiting for him to tell me to take off my blades or something, but he doesn’t. He just opens the door wide as it’ll go, right back so it bangs against the wall. The hall’s like really minuscule and it’s got this funny matting stuff on the floor, not proper carpet. It’s really rough and hard and if you kneel down on it for more than about a minute it makes all patterns on your knees, even through your trousers. I know ‘cause this boy I used to hang out with, Ian, they had it all over the whole house. Point
is,
it’s not the best stuff if you’re wearing blades and what with that and trying to get round the door into the kitchen and round him all at the same time I kind of lose my balance and Dad grabs my arm. I don’t need his help. Jeez, you’d think I was an old lady trying to cross the road or something the way he holds onto me. Then he squeezes my arm and makes like he’s about to say something. So I give him a look, sideways on so’s he can’t really see and I’m not kidding, he looks just like Rosie does when she’s trying not to cry. ‘Cept this is my dad here, right? When Rosie does it, her eyes look all wet and she bites her lip on the inside. Mostly it works but you can see she’s doing it. So this freaks me out like only a major amount and I kind of push past him and stagger into the kitchen, which has a vinyl floor. Excellent. So I’m gliding round that smooth as you like, pushing off from one wall to the other, even though it’s only small. Dad gives me a Coke straight from the fridge and gets me a beer glass and puts about fifteen ice cubes in it, like you’d have in a restaurant. I love it like that, so cold it makes your teeth hurt.

Rosie shows me her room and I say, “Yeah, very nice.” She’s got loads of stuff there. She must be leaving things there each weekend. There’s a couple of posters and her scruffy old bear she’s had since she was about two years old and there’s a board up with pictures of her friends on it, bit like her room at home really, and there’s a picture of Mum and—Rosie!—a stupid one of me she took last year. It’s not even properly in focus. There’s an inflatable chair in the corner and she shows me some stickers she bought with her pocket money, little penguins and polar bears, and says how she’s going to put them on cards and do speech bubbles so they’re saying things and have I got any good jokes about the Arctic for her to use. Then she drags me over to the painting on the wall by whatserface. Actually, it’s not that bad. It’s got birds flying around and the clouds really look like clouds. The castle’s dark but there’s this one window lit up in one of the turrets and it really glows like there’s an actual light on in there.

I’ve still got my blades on, so Rosie tries to tow me around the flat. There’s two bedrooms, one for Rosie and one for Dad. No prizes for guessing where his
girlfriend
sleeps when she stays the night. I’m not stupid. In the lounge, there’s a round table to eat at and a settee and a telly, CD player and stuff. And a couple of whacking great pot plants, big jungly ones. We never have plants indoors at home ‘cause Mum says they always die on her and she can’t be spending her whole life picking up the dead bits off the carpet all the time.

I lay down on the settee with my blades hanging over the arm at one end and Dad says,

“Course, this opens out y’know, Nat. It’s a sofa-bed. I got it specially. Case you wanted to come and stay. Some time. Any time. Whenever.” He’s looking down at the carpet which is like normal carpet, not like in the hall, and I could see all these grooves where my skates had been. I reckon he’s about to say something about it, but then he says,

“I’d really like it if you came to stay. Your mum’s cool about it too. So it’s down to you now really.”

“Mn.”

“So, what do you think then? About coming to stay?” He’s fiddling with his ear now, like he does when he’s nervous.

“What, on this? How come I don’t get my own room with a proper bed and works of art all over the walls then?”

Dad jingles his change in his pocket.

“Oh, Nat. I’m sorry. Really. But what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t shell out for a three-bedroom house when you weren’t even talking to me. But, if you want to come and stay, I’ll get somewhere bigger, course I will. This new business is going to do well, I know it is, so I’ll have a bit more coming in I reckon. Look, we’ll do your room properly—however you like—with a hard floor so you can skate in there if you want. And you can put up your posters and stuff—we could take a look at some places this weekend—”

“Yeah, yeah, all right, keep your hair on. I haven’t said I’ll stay yet.” He goes back to jingling his coins.

“But think about it, OK?”

“Mn.”

“Anyway. Pizza-time I think. Pizza, pizza, pizza. You hungry?”

I nod. Course I’m hungry. Like, when am I ever not hungry? “Pepperoni Hot or have you switched allegiance?”

“No chance. Pepperoni Hot. Can I have a big one?”

“Rosie!” he calls through. Mum says you’re not supposed to shout from room to room. She says Dad’s got no manners, but it’s a lot easier than running backwards and forwards the whole time. “What kind of pizza do you want, sweetheart?”

Rosie comes in balancing on her tiptoes, she thinks she’s a ballet dancer. She gives us a little twirl, showing off.

“Cheese and tomato, please. No bits on it.”

“Come on, Rozza.” I stretch out one of my skates and give her a shove. “What’s the point of a pizza with no bits on it? It’s like macaroni cheese without the cheese.”

“It’s like a guitar with no strings,” says Dad, taking her hand and twirling her round.

“A Ferrari with no wheels,” I say.

“A ballerina with no tutu,” Rosie joins in. Well, she’s only ten, what do you expect?

“Shepherd’s pie without the shepherds,” says Dad, getting carried away.

“But there aren’t—” starts Rosie.

“A bowling alley with no
balls!”
I bellow.

Rosie’s giggling away like a mad thing by now and Dad goes off, laughing, to look for the number of the pizza delivery place. Rosie starts tugging at my arm.

“Come and see Dad’s room. You haven’t seen it yet.”

We can hear him talking to himself in the kitchen. I reckon he’s going a bit bonkers, it’s his age most probably.

“I’m sure it was in this drawer. Where did I put it? I bet she’s moved it. Women—they’re always tidying things away so you can’t find anything …”

* * *

Rosie pulls me into Dad’s bedroom. Big double bed with a swirly red bedspread on it, not at all like he and Mum used to have. There’s a chest of drawers with candles on top and a vase of flowers. Real ones, not plastic. On the shelves, there’s some books. My dad hasn’t got that many but there’s others as well, ones I haven’t seen before that I reckon must be
hers.

And on the shelves, in front of the books, are two framed photos—one of Rosie and one of me. They’re the crappy ones they do at school. Total rip-off. I look a complete nerd in my one ‘cause they make you brush your hair so it’s all smooth like a total dork and they keep telling you to smile so you can see my teeth. They are majorly uncool pictures. Rosie’s is OK, I guess, because she’s still a kid and sort of cute. Then on the shelf below that there’s another two photos, but not in frames. Rosie points to one of them.

“That’s Ella. See? She’s pretty, isn’t she?”

I ignore her. The other picture is of Dad. He’s carrying a little kid on his shoulders. A boy with brown curly hair, wearing a bright yellow sweatshirt.

“That’s Dad with Jamie. He’s only two and a half.”

“And who the fuck is this Jamie kid anyhow?”

“Nat! You’re not s’posed to swear—”

“You can’t tell me what to do. I guess you’ll go running off to
Daddy
now.”

“I wasn’t! I’m just saying—”

“Yeah, yeah. Who is he? Don’t look like that. It’s pathetic.” She’s doing her little lost kitten face, biting her lip.

“Jamie’s Ella’s little boy. I
tried
to tell you before, but you wouldn’t listen. He’s two and—”

“You said that already.”

“OK! He’s really clever. He knows lots of different makes of cars, just from the badges. Dad taught him. And he can—”

I give a big yawn, really exaggerating it.

“Mn.
So
interesting …”

Rosie stomps back off to her room. She is so easy to wind up, it’s untrue.

I pick up the picture and look at it really hard, like if I look long enough I’ll know everything in it. Dad’s laughing and the kid is laughing too and he—Jamie’s—got his hands half over Dad’s eyes but you can tell they’re only playing and joking around and Dad’s holding both his legs. I guess
she
took the picture.

I can see it all now. It’s so obvious I feel totally stupid that I didn’t click before. He must think we’re so dumb. I can tell Rosie doesn’t know. But I know why he left now and all that stuff about him and Mum not getting on any more and needing to spend time apart is a load of crap. Everything he’s said is lies. Mum knows. She must do, she’s not stupid. So everything she said is lies too. She could have told me. I’m old enough. I could have kept it from Rosie. She should have trusted me.