Lessons for a Sunday Father (9 page)

“Why can’t they say they’re sorry and make up, then Dad could come home again?”

“Because they’re both, like, totally clueless and if you haven’t worked that one out by now then there’s no hope for you.”

So I stuck my tongue out at him and said he was a big horrible pig with greasy hair and I ran out and banged his door. I ran into my room and wedged the chair under the handle in case he tried to get me back. Then I went all the way along the shelf above my bed and shook every single one of my snow shakers. I’ve got seven altogether. My best one is the one Mum and Dad got me when they went to France on their anniversary last year and Nat and me went to stay with Nana and Grandad. It’s got the Eiffel Tower in it and it’s supposed to be night-time but instead of snow it’s got gold glitter in it. I gave it an extra shake then I knelt on my bed with my nose right up touching the glass so all I could see was the world inside it and I made believe I was in Paris all on my own with no Nat or Mum or Dad or anyone. I was doing pirouettes right on the top of the Eiffel Tower and there were lots and lots of lights and all around me was sparkly gold snowflakes floating down.

He’s not coming back. I said he wasn’t and he’s not. All that stuff Mum came out with about it just being for a little while is total crap. It might work with Rosie, but she can’t expect me to buy it. Some of his clothes have gone. I went into their bedroom and looked in the wardrobe. Before, his clothes were all on the right and Mum’s were on the left. The clothes were all squashed up because Dad says Mum’s got too many things, God knows why, she doesn’t wear a quarter of them, he says. Now her stuff’s all spaced out and there’s a gap at one end, like his things were never there at all, like he never even lived here.

Mum told us we would see him next weekend and that we can phone him whenever we like. She said he’d phone Wednesday and we could decide what to do at the weekend. I won’t be here when he phones. I’ve got swimming practice. My tumble turn’s too slow. Jason sees his dad only on weekends. He stays at his dad’s every other Saturday night and they go out and do stuff on Sunday.

   *   *   *

I looked in the cupboard under the stairs. His fishing things were still there. He wouldn’t leave without them. Maybe he will come back. There were his rods in their covers. The big green umbrella. That funny little tent to keep the wind off. It’s not a proper tent really, no groundsheet or anything, but it’s better than nothing when the wind’s cutting along the coast or coming straight at you off the sea. We used to go a lot, Dad and me, down off the beach. I’ve got my own rod. Dad bought it for me one Christmas. The reel bit alone cost loads of money. It’s a proper one, a grown-up one. Rosie’s got a stupid little girl’s rod because she’s only come with us once or twice and then only so she wouldn’t feel left out and Mum said we had to take her and not to be a pair of spoilsports. She never caught anything except when Dad cast for her, so it didn’t count. I got a couple of flatties last time, only small though, so I chucked them back. Dad promised that one day we’d hire a boat so we could go further out. Don’t suppose he’ll bother now. He shouldn’t make promises if he’s not going to keep them.

We used to go at night sometimes. You get there on a rising tide. We’d take like a kind of a picnic, Dad made it, not Mum, with soup or cocoa and sandwiches. But we’d always get chips as well once we were there. There’s a chippie down this side street off the front. It helps keep your hands warm, holding chips. I started going when I was only six or seven. We used to take my sleeping bag in case I fell asleep. I remember Dad lifting me up, like I was a ginormous great caterpillar in this sleeping bag and laying me on the back seat of the car. Then at home, I’d feel him lift me out again. It was all dark but he’d carry me up the stairs, my legs swinging in the bag as he bounced on each step. Then he put me down on my bed, still in my clothes, and he’d pull the covers up over the sleeping bag, and the last thing I heard was him saying, “Night-night, Natty. Sleep tight,” and then tiptoeing out again. And I’d say “Night-night” back, at least I always meant to say it, but by then I was too sleepy to speak. I thought I was saying it out loud, but I wasn’t. It was just in my head. You do stuff like that when you’re only a little kid.

OK, what’s the worst-case scenario, I said to myself. Gail’s always saying I’m too much of an optimist and that’s why I keep being disappointed. But what’s the point of carrying on at all if you think everything’s going to turn out badly the whole time? Gail says it’s best to prepare yourself for the worst then if things are only a bit crap you feel like you’re ahead of the game. My words, not hers, but you get the gist.

I was still pretty sure she would come round and everything would be all right. I figured I’d be on the wrong end of some heavy-duty sulking and sarky remarks for a while and I’d get not enough nookie to keep a nun happy, but that I’d live through it. It’s not like I’m not used to it or anything. If I was really unlucky, I reckoned she might make me go to one of those marriage guidance people. I’ve seen them on telly—d’you remember that series, with all the couples? Half of them you couldn’t see why they’d ever got hitched in the first place, they never said more than “Pass the sugar.” Hopeless. Yeah, like I can afford to be smug. Anyway, the marriage guidance bods, they’re always like these really creepy blokes who sit there stroking their beards while looking at your wife’s tits and asking nosy questions about how often you have sex. And the women counsellors are just as bad, all smiling and nodding and homely looking then—pow!—just when you’re thinking maybe this isn’t so bad, they stick the knife in and jiggle it around: “So it’s been a long time since your husband’s given you any pleasure in bed?”

Gail knows I can’t stand all that stuff—like those couples that go on chat shows and talk about, well, everything: “Yes, I did find it difficult to maintain my erection, but Sue was very loving and we were able to laugh about it together …” Hilarious. What a giggle. Would you go on telly and tell millions of people you couldn’t get a stiffy? Why not send cards round to all your mates while you’re at it? Take out an ad in the paper. No need for an ad round here. They’re so desperate for news, it’d probably make front page:

Anyway. That’s another thing I do that drives Gail crazy—keep going off the point. How do I know it drives her crazy? You’re thinking I must be some kind of expert on the subtle signals women are supposed to give out, right? Clearly, Gail never heard all that stuff about women being subtle. When I annoy her, which is like about fifty times a day, she starts gnashing her teeth and lunging at me with the potato peeler. “Is this all part of your feminine mystique?” I say, dodging out the way and flicking at her with the tea-towel. “I have an inkling you’re a little bit upset about something. Tell me if I’m getting warm.” Colin says when Yvonne’s pissed off (when isn’t she pissed off? I want to ask, but I’m too much of a gent), she goes into a sulk. Her mouth goes all pursed like a cat’s bum and if he goes “What’s up?” she says, “Nothing” which of course means “Everything, and you better start being sorry even if you don’t know what it is.” And it’s always something minuscule like he forgot her mum’s birthday or she’s got on a new lipstick and Colin didn’t notice.

Oh. Worst-case scenario. I remember. Well, I reckon the absolute worst, worst, worst-case scenario is if Gail doesn’t let me come back for, say—well, ever. She couldn’t stop me seeing the kids ‘cause I’ve never been cruel or violent or whatever. So, absolute worst is—no Gail to cuddle up to at night ever again.

And I’d have to find a new place to live and support me and them for a lot more than I do now.

And I’d not get to hang out with Natty and mess around with the computer or go roller-blading or swimming or fishing whenever we want.

Or tell Rosie a bedtime story and kiss her good night.

So that’d be the worst.

Fuck.

   *   *   *

Still, that’s really, really unlikely. I mean, it was only a sodding fling, right? She’d have to have a screw loose to hold it against me for ever. It happens all the time. I read it somewhere: 50 to 75 per cent of men have at
least
one affair after they’re married. So, looking at it logically, I’d be downright abnormal if I
hadn’t
slept with someone else. It’s obviously completely natural. Look at lions, for instance—you get one male with loads of females, don’t you? I should find that article and send it to her. You know, to prove it. Then she’d see I wasn’t so bad. We could start over, a clean slate, and I wouldn’t go off the rails again. I mean, statistics might be on my side, but you don’t want to push your luck, right?

I’d like to say I’m getting used to being on my own, that I’m enjoying this unexpected return to a bachelor lifestyle. I’d like to say that living at Jeff’s house is a non-stop riot and that we have a load of girls over for drunken orgies every night. Ha! I wish. The joke is, I’ve turned into Mr House-Husband, spending half my evenings elbow-deep in suds or hoovering like a dynamo and tutting at Jeff when he leaves his cups and plates all over the house the way Nat does. With Gail, it was always moan, moan, moan that I didn’t pull my weight round the house—if only she could see me now. Maybe then she’d stop looking at me like I was some slime creature who’d crawled out from under a rock.

At first, every time I attempted to have a sensible conversation with her about the Subject, she’d go into snide overdrive and things would spiral out of control and I’d end up wishing I’d never brought it up. But eventually, she agreed to have a talk, a proper sit-down talk as opposed to her slagging me off on the front step.

“Not because I think you’ve got anything to say that’s worth listening to,” she said. “But at least once I’ve heard you out you can stop going on about it.”

I went through the whole thing again, and told her how much I love her and miss her, but nothing seemed to make any difference. I was being completely reasonable, I swear, and I pointed out that we’d been having our ups and downs and it wasn’t all down to me—but she just went right off the bloody deep end.

“It’s not that I’m trying to make light of it,” I tell Gail, “but it really didn’t mean anything, I swear.” I
am
trying to make light of it, of course, but so far honesty seems to have been not the best policy for the King of Fuck-Ups. “I do realize how serious this is. I’m just saying that it’s very, very common and we shouldn’t let it get all out of proportion. This happens to lots of couples, but they manage to work things out.”

“This
as you so carefully put it, does not
happen
to lots of couples, Scott. Infidelity isn’t an earthquake or a bolt of lightning and we just happened to be standing in the wrong place at the wrong time—it wasn’t me, Miss, I was just lying there and this woman threw herself on top of my willy. It’s pathetic. Take some responsibility for once in your life. Now that you’re a big lad of forty you might try acting like a grown-up. Who knows? You might even get to like it. Many of us act like grown-ups every single day and come to no major harm.”

“Cheers. I
do
take responsibility. All I’m saying is plenty of blokes—and women as well for that matter—”

“But not me.”

“No, not you. I’m not saying that, course not. Where was I?” She always does that, throws you off so you lose your thread.

“Hunting for some sort of easy way out? Up shit creek without a paddle?”

She never used to talk like that. I don’t know what’s happened to her lately.

“My point is, Gail, lots of people have meaningless affairs—”

“So it was an affair? You’ve given up pretending it was a one-off mistake then? It’s a good idea to stick to the same story once you’ve started lying, Scott. Do try to keep track. Perhaps you should keep a small notebook. So, are we getting some truth out of you at last?”

“No. Yes. No. I mean, I
am
telling the truth. No, it wasn’t an affair, I told you. Look …” I rub my fingertips hard against my forehead; my brain is beginning to throb. “Can I just say what I’m trying to say for a sec?” She shrugs, then folds her arms, her expression a perfect cross between smug superiority and complete boredom.

“I mean—just ‘cause someone goes off the rails once or twice, it’s not as if it’s really the be-all and end-all, is it? If someone makes one small mistake—which they really, really regret—it doesn’t—”

She interrupts me. This is her idea of letting me finish. I just want you to know it’s not all one way, that’s all. She may make out she’s the poor little victim but Gail can give as good as she gets. Better, even. I might as well have laid down on the floor, waved a white flag, and let her march straight over me on her way to conquer the rest of the planet.

“Scott,” she says, spitting out my name like it’s an insult. “You only ‘really, really regret’ what happened because you got caught. Otherwise you’d have been swaggering around thinking how clever you’d been. And your story still keeps changing. Was it once or was it twice? Surely even you must have noticed?—though I dare say
she
may not have. And if you don’t call betraying your wife’s trust and breaking your marriage vows and lying and cheating and letting down your children the be-all and end-all, then I’m afraid all I can do is feel sorry for you. You don’t have the slightest idea of what it means to be a husband and a father, do you? I think you barely understand even how to be a passable adult. You’re just a silly overgrown kid. Honestly, I might as well be a single parent half the time—I ought to have received extra child benefit for having you in the house.”

I’m stood there, words lodged in my throat, trying to swallow, feeling my sodding eyes start to water. Bugger this, I am not going to cry, I’m just
not.
Nobody, but nobody, makes me cry. Not any more. But I’m not having her call me a sponger. No way. So I lost my rag completely at this point, but who wouldn’t have? I meant to stay calm, I really did, but she shoved me over the edge because she gets off on being the mature, sensible one and making me look like the toddler having a temper tantrum. Well, good bloody luck to her. At least I don’t go round looking like I’ve got a poker up my arse the whole time.