Boys Don't Cry (9 page)

It is a shame that he didn’t love Melanie though.

Time to get out of this shower before I turn into a prune. But at least a shower has made me feel human again.

When Dad came back downstairs forty minutes later, he had a face like a handful of mince and his eyes were blazing.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Your brother didn’t stop complaining from the moment he took hold of the box till the time I turned the last screw,’ said Dad. ‘
I’ve
got a damned headache now.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Having a shower. Tightening a few bolts and using a screwdriver have apparently made him pigsty dirty.’ Dad flopped down in the armchair and watched as Emma examined her new teddy bear, sticking her fingers in its ears. ‘Haven’t you picked her up since we went upstairs?’ he asked me.

I shook my head. ‘She’s been fine playing with her toys.’

‘Have you spoken to her?’

‘To say what?’

Dad sighed. ‘Dante, you’ve got to talk to her all the time. How d’you think she’ll learn to speak if you don’t talk to her?’

‘What should I say?’

‘Anything and everything,’ said Dad, adding quickly, ‘anything that’s appropriate.’

‘Yeah, Dad. I’m not completely stupid.’ Though the evidence, now poking at the eyes of the teddy bear, might suggest otherwise.

‘I never said you were,’ sighed Dad. ‘You’ve got to stop thinking that every word I say to you is a criticism.’

‘Could’ve fooled me.’ The words shot out of my mouth like bullets.

Dad sighed again. ‘I know . . . sometimes I’m a bit hard on you . . .’

‘Sometimes?’ I scoffed. ‘I can’t even remember the last time you praised me for anything. When was the last time you said “Well done, Dante”?’

Hell, when was the first time?

‘And what should I be praising you for? Knocking up some girl and having a kid at seventeen?’

‘No, Dad. I’m not expecting praise for that,’ I replied angrily. ‘But once in a while, just once in a while, a word of praise or encouragement would be nice.’

‘I praise you when you’ve done something to deserve it.’

‘What? Four A-stars for my A levels wasn’t enough? Getting the grades to go to university wasn’t good enough?’

‘Of course it’s good enough. You did well,’ said Dad.

Oh my God! ‘Don’t strain yourself,’ I replied.

‘I mean it. You got good results and I’m happy for you.’

‘Yeah, and if I use the telescope at Jodrell Bank I just might be able to detect that. Nothing I do will ever be good enough for you, will it?’

‘Now you’re talking rubbish,’ Dad dismissed.

‘Am I? As far as you’re concerned, I always have been – and I always will be – a total waste of space.’

‘That’s not true. But I had such high hopes for you. I wanted you to do something with your life,
be
someone.’

‘Instead of what I am – which is a screw-up with a kid? Well, I’m sorry, Dad. Sorry, sorry, sorry.’

‘Don’t shout at me . . .’

Emma started bawling. Not just crying, but bawling.

‘Emma has the right idea. The way you two were shouting at each other would make anyone weep,’ Adam said from the door. ‘What the hell is wrong with both of you?’

Dad stood up. Adam headed over to Emma but I got to her first and picked her up.

‘It’s OK, Emma,’ I whispered. ‘I’m sorry. It’s OK.’ I held her close, my hand moving slowly stroking her back, whispering words of apology into her ear. I turned to see Adam and Dad standing close behind me.

‘D’you want me to take her?’ asked Dad.

And prove to Dad that in this, as with everything else in my life, I was a failure? I shook my head. ‘I don’t need your help. I can manage.’

Emma kept moving her head, straining to look over my shoulder. It took a few seconds but I finally realized why.

‘Emma, your mum isn’t here. She’s gone away and left you – with me. She’s not here. And she’s not coming back.’

‘Dante, don’t tell the child that,’ Dad admonished.

‘Why not? It’s the truth, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘Emma, you and I are in the same boat.’

I don’t know if Emma understood me, probably not, but she quietened down a bit after that, resting her head on my shoulder. I was here, her mum wasn’t. And at least for this moment, as far as Emma was concerned, I’d done something right.

I couldn’t sleep that night. It wasn’t that Emma kept me awake, she didn’t. To my surprise she slept the whole night through, so that was an unexpected result. No, what kept me awake was something else. Fear, like a ravenous animal gnawing on me. Fear of the future. Fear of the unknown. Fear like I’ve never felt before. More than once I got up and stood at the side of the cot, just looking down at Emma. Once, twice at most, I stroked her cheek or her hair before I even realized what I was doing. But the more I looked at her, the more terrified I got – and not for me but for her. She deserved more than I could give her. She deserved more than to be dumped by her mum. Quite frankly she deserved better. But I guess no one gets to choose their parents. You were just lumbered with what you got.

It’d been a strange evening after Dad and I had our bust-up. After one of our mega arguments, I usually strode off to my bedroom, Dad would retreat into his and Adam would stay downstairs watching TV alone.

But not this time.

Dad assembled the highchair whilst Adam got down on
his knees and started pulling silly faces at Emma, making her chortle. I tried to make myself useful by sorting through all the things Dad had bought. But all I did was shift them from one spot on the sofa to another and back again. When Dad left the room to take the highchair into the kitchen, Adam rounded on me.

‘What the hell, Dante? What is
wrong
with you?’ he asked, moderating his tone after a swift glance at Emma.

‘Huh?’

‘Dad’s doing his best. Can’t you even meet him halfway?’

‘Now wait just a minute—’ I began. A mew from Emma and the scrunched look of anxiety on her face forced me to smile and change my tone as well. I took a deep breath. ‘I’m more than willing to meet Dad halfway but he won’t take a step in my direction.’ I spoke softly so Emma wouldn’t get alarmed. ‘Did you hear him say congratulations or well done when I told him my exam results? ’Cause I didn’t.’

‘No, I didn’t hear that,’ my brother admitted, adopting the same sing-song sickly sweet tone for Emma’s benefit. ‘But I didn’t hear a single thank you from you when you saw what Dad bought for Emma either.’

‘I did say thanks.’

‘No, you didn’t,’ Adam insisted. ‘The trouble with you and Dad is you’re too alike.’

‘Are you nuts?’ I was outraged. ‘I’m nothing like him.’

‘Yeah, you keep telling yourself that,’ Adam dismissed. He turned back to Emma and started pulling more faces. Then he picked her up and put her on her feet. ‘Go on,
Emma. Walk to your daddy. Go ahead. Walk to your daddy.’

That made me start. The word ‘daddy’ scratched at my skin like sharp fingernails. Dad came back into the room.

‘Don’t want to walk to your daddy? I don’t blame you,’ said Adam, thinking he was being funny. ‘Walk to Grandad instead. Can you say “Grandad”?’

‘Oh my God!’ Dad exclaimed. ‘Grandad? I’m not even forty yet.’

Dad made it sound like, at thirty-nine, he was eons away from forty.

As the evening wore on, Adam didn’t let up. I swear he didn’t pause for breath once. Dad and I were the opposite. We didn’t say one hell of a lot. Dad and I ferried Emma’s new things upstairs to my room and to the kitchen as necessary with barely a word spoken between us. I kept sneaking glances at him.

Dad . . .

Funny how, before today, that word meant just a person who was always there but in the background, like wallpaper. Funny how that one short word could now travel so far and go so deep. Once the sitting room was clear of all but Emma’s toys and one or two of her new books, we stayed downstairs. I don’t know why Dad and Adam stayed put, but I was relieved. I must admit, I was more than a little nervous about being alone with a baby.

Damn, I still couldn’t get used to that word – baby.

Dad turned on the TV, pretending he was watching some quiz show or other, but he barely took his eyes off Emma. Adam lay on the carpet and chatted away to Emma about all her new toys and anything else that popped into
his head. I sat in the armchair and just watched. The atmosphere only changed when Emma started to grizzle, which quickly turned into something more meaningful.

‘You need to feed her, give her a bath and get her ready for bed,’ Dad informed me.

At my stricken look, he said, ‘At the risk of being handed my head, would you like some help?’ He had adopted the same tone I had used earlier with Emma.

The room went quiet. No unintelligible burbles from Emma, no incessant chat from my brother. They were both watching me like they knew
exactly
what was going on. I turned back to Dad.

‘Yes, please,’ I mumbled.

‘Pardon?’ Dad cupped a hand round his ear. ‘I didn’t quite catch that.’

Adam, the git, started to laugh. Emma looked from me to Adam and began to giggle too. Dad’s lips twitched. And then, just like that, we were all laughing. Laughing like we’d all just heard the best joke in the world, when it wasn’t even that funny. I guess after the day each of us had had, we needed to let off some steam.

But what I really felt like doing wasn’t on the menu.

Dad nuked a macaroni cheese in the microwave, then boiled some peas and carrots. He instructed and supervised as I mashed them up, mixed them all together and fed them to Emma. Dad told me to always take the first mouthful myself to test the temperature, but duh! I’d already figured that out for myself. To my surprise and slight revulsion, Emma loved it. I gave her the spoon to feed herself but more ended up covering the highchair and
me than in her mouth, so I took over. After that, Dad told me what to do and watched whilst I gave Emma a bath and put her to bed. The bath was tiring – and nerve-racking. I got just as wet as Emma with all the splashing about she did. And I couldn’t take my eyes off her for a single second. I had visions of her slipping down into the water if I even blinked for too long. By the time she had on her night-gro and was in her cot, I was knackered. It wasn’t just all the physical stuff of feeding and bathing and nappy changes and trying to coax her into lying down and getting some sleep. It was the mental exhaustion of having to concentrate and pay attention every second.

And people did this voluntarily?

Trying to get her to go to sleep was the most exhausting. Every time I lay her down, she’d pull herself upright and stand hanging onto the side of the cot. After the third or fourth time of doing this, she started to cry. Again.

‘She’s in a strange room and she’s not used to you yet,’ said Dad from my bedroom doorway.

‘So what should I do?’

‘Sit her on your lap and read to her or sing or something,’ Dad suggested.

‘Sing?’

Dad smiled. ‘That’s what I used to do with you.’

‘You did?’ I asked, stunned.

‘Yep.’ Dad shuffled slightly and looked down, like he was sorry he’d shared.

‘But your singing sucks.’

Dad looked at me, one eyebrow raised. ‘Didn’t seem to bother you when you were a baby.’

‘That’s because I couldn’t protest and didn’t know any better,’ I replied.

‘True!’ Dad smiled. ‘If I were you I’d make the most of Emma at this age. Before too long she’ll be looking at you like you’re a doddering old fart who knows absolutely nothing – if she even bothers to look at you at all.’

Dad’s words echoed around the room.

‘Is that how I treat you?’

‘Most of the time – yeah,’ said Dad. ‘But that’s what happens when your kids grow older. At least Adam still thinks there’s a tiny bit of life in the old dog yet!’

Dad and I regarded each other.

I turned away first. ‘I’ll read to her. I think she’s upset enough without having to listen to me sing.’

Picking her up, I went over to my bed and sat down, carefully placing Emma on my lap, her back to my chest. Leaning slightly to grab one of her bedtime books from the foot of my bed, I held the book in front of both of us and opened it. But it was damned awkward.

‘If you let her lean against your arm, then you’ll both be more comfortable and she’ll probably fall asleep faster,’ Dad advised.

Which I have to admit worked far better. I read the picture book through twice, explaining the pictures as I went before Emma finally fell asleep. Then I moved like an arthritic tortoise to carry her to her cot, praying every second that she wouldn’t wake up. I even managed to lie her down without waking her up, after supporting her head the way Dad told me.

The day was finally over.

The fear wasn’t.

When the house was still and dark and everyone was finally asleep, I switched on our computer, letting the light from the monitor wash over me. One typed-in web address, a few keystrokes and a couple of mouse clicks and I was at the desired page. I sat still for, I don’t know how long, just staring at the screen. Damn it, I had to do this. I couldn’t give up my future, I just couldn’t. I confirmed that I would be taking up my place at the university.

Now I just had to make sure it happened.

Switching off the computer, I tip-toed upstairs and back to my room, before tumbling into bed.

When I finally felt sleep creep up on me, I closed my eyes, thinking,
When I wake up, things will be back to normal. I’ll have my life back
.

I’d wake up from this strange dream where I’d been landed with a baby who was a terrifying stranger.

I woke up to the sound of plaintive mewing, like next door’s cat was upset or something. Eyes closed, I mentally swatted away the noise. Then I remembered. When I managed to will my eyes open, Emma was standing up, holding onto the sides of her cot, watching me. Throwing back my duvet, I stumbled out of bed. The closer I got to her, the more the smell hit me. And the smell was appalling. I mean, really,
really
bad in a throat-catching, nose-blistering way. I didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to know I was about to be hip-deep in baby poo.