Finding You (14 page)

17 - Charlie

      ‘Why does your dad have to live in Thirsk?’ Julia asked me. She asks it because she doesn’t understand how families like mine can be so entrenched in their roots. My dad’s here because he belongs here. He’s a Yorkshireman born and bred and every bit as proud of it as my mother was of her Spanish roots. All the way up here, the rain battling with the sunshine, for the first time ever I have become acutely aware of the distance though, of the hours that separate me from my own family every time I come up to visit my dad. I kept thinking, was it all a dream, what happened last night? That beautiful evening I was enjoying by the river with Julia—our first time out for an intimate dinner together for so many months. We’d had so much to say to each other, exciting news. She’d agreed—for the second time—to marry me. I’d shared with her about the mooted promotion, so much good news, things couldn’t have felt better, but she’d been sad, worried over Hadyn, so many things on her mind and I ...

I’d nearly come out and confessed to her the one thing left that was eating away at my own peace of mind, hadn’t I?

If we had only jumped that hurdle last night as I had planned, I had hoped my happiness today would have been complete. Instead of which—I push my fingers through my hair, one hand on the wheel—we were called home too soon because of those faulty window locks and then, only then, did I discover how much more Julia had been holding onto than I knew. Is our little boy really so much more troubled than we’d thought? I have not seen it. I have not noted so many things that seem to his mother to be clear. Why did I not see them? It troubles me, and yet ... I have no doubt there’ll be a solution to it all. Perhaps Pippa Killman will tell me when I catch her at work next week. Julia frets, I know, but mothers always do; this’ll not be anything that’s never been seen before in the history of mankind. There will be a fix.

I would have preferred, in truth, if the timing had not worked out like this.  When I come up to visit Dad, I like to have all my wits about me. I aim to give him my full attention. Does he crave it? Does he look forward to my coming up? It’s hard to know. But I like to give it to him, nonetheless. By the time I’ve parked up, making my way across the familiar grey cobbled stones gleaming in the morning light after a night of heavy rain, my own Yorkshire roots are calling me, the distance forgotten. The beautiful stately building that is Grangeview House sits majestic in its own sizeable plot, surrounded by dry stone walls. Today, the manicured lawns up front are bright green, luscious in the early May sunshine in the way you can never quite get further south. I take in a deep breath of it, filling up my lungs with sweet Yorkshire air, feeling both happy and also sad to be here, a little apprehensive because I never know how well Dad might be on any given day. There have been times I’ve come up and he’s barely known me. 

He’s waiting for me in the comfortable conservatory area today. Rolli informs me he’s been a little anxious all week, impatient. Knowing I was due to come up, he’d kept asking if it was visiting day yet. And now, at last, it is. Dad’s sitting up in a chair today—not his wheelchair—looking very fine in a woollen suit with a bow tie, dressed up for me in the way he might have once been dressed to go visit some great aunt, looking dapper. He’s been sitting there a while. I can sense it before he even catches sight of me. In that brief moment before he turns, glimpsing his strong profile, that still-dark hair, the proud Roman nose, there’s something about him that catches in my heart, brings to mind the man he was before.
Hey Dad—remember me, your Charlie boy?
Then his voice as he turns and catches sight of me, painfully restrained, scarcely any sign of the happiness I know he really feels allowed to break through. ‘Ah. I see you’ve arrived, young man.’        

I go over to shake his hand, just as me and Rob were always taught to do. Dad takes mine readily, but he doesn’t linger over it. In Spain, I mourn silently, this greeting with my father would be a full-on hug. In Spain, I would kiss him on both cheeks, hold the old man close in both my arms for a brief moment. It’s what I’d like to do. I miss him, but ... after a lifetime of guarding his affections, I’m not convinced he’d be comfortable with it.

‘You’re well, son?’ His once-piercing eyes take me in, on form today, sensing all the processes going on underneath.

‘Very well. Thank you.’ I smile softly and sit. They’ve placed another chair just opposite his so we can converse with ease. Thoughtfully, it’s right by the distraction of the window, too, looking out over the garden in case we run out of things to say.

‘And you, Dad? How’ve you been?’

His face darkens slightly. He makes an impatient movement in his chair, about to impart a confidence. ‘Much better than they’ve been telling you, I imagine?’

‘How so?’

He lifts his shoulders. ‘You know I don’t really need to be here, don’t you? Tell me this was Roberto’s idea, please.’ He leans in a little, though there is nobody around who can hear us. ‘I was doing just fine at home in my own cottage, with just a woman coming in daily. Just
fine.
’

I bite the inside of my lip. He
was
doing fine when he retired at 82 from the WHO where he’d given dedicated service all his life. But then, after a year, he stopped being fine. He’s 87 now. Does he realise he’s been here four years already?

‘It’s been four bloody years,’ he adds, right on cue. ‘And I think I’ve amply proved my point that I can cope perfectly well on my own.’

I spread my hands, aiming at reasonable.  ‘Why would you want to be on your own when they look after you so well, here? And ... you have company here,’ I point out.

‘Why would I
want
?’ His eyes grow larger, as if the very question is preposterous. ‘I
want
, because a man’s independence in life is a very precious thing, son. The most important thing.’ 

He’s slipping down that chair, isn’t he? I slide over and plump up one of his cushions, adjusting his position without being too obvious about it.  I know that Dad isn’t comfortable, sitting up like this to receive me. He can’t be—he has issues with his spine these days—but he’s a proud man. From here, I can see Rolli and the other helpers edging nearer.

‘I think they’ll be bringing the tea tray over in a bit,’ I distract.

‘No
tea
!’ Dad mutters through his teeth as I prop him up a bit. ‘Have you up and down going to the loo all day if they give you too much tea ...’ He winces, easing himself slightly back onto the pillows, which smell of a strange combination of starch and antiseptic. Of course. It’s one of the issues Rolli’s warned me about. Dad’s getting dehydrated because he doesn’t drink enough. He doesn’t because toilet trips are painful for him. And, I suspect, humiliating. He’d rather not drink.

I feel a wave of sadness go over me when I think of that because this is my dad. It’s a common enough problem. I’ve seen it on the geriatric ward before when I was a houseman, all the old folk, they don’t like to bother the staff when they need help to go to the loo, or they’re too proud, or everyone seems too busy ... but
my dad
, after a lifetime’s worth of dedicated service to other people, he, surely, did not deserve to come to this? I’d offer to take him to the loo myself if he needed it except he’d die from humiliation.

‘I’d be perfectly okay if you needed to get back into bed,’ I offer gently.

‘Why on earth would I want to do that?’ Dad retorts. He doesn’t want to go to bed. I’m the reason for
not
being in bed. I’m the reason he’s been looking forward to having all week for getting up, for being a normal person, doing normal things during the day. Outside, the day is blustery but bright. I see it through the conservatory windows. Shall I take him out in his chair in a bit? We can stroll through the grounds and let him see the sky, so blue and huge, shot through with ragged clouds soaked up from the dales, let him feel that on his skin and in his hair again. Will he let me take him out? I glance back at him. Would he like that? 

‘So.’ He raises his chin slightly. ‘When am I going to hear all about that young woman of yours, and my grandson?’ 

I breathe out. He is on form, today, isn’t he? He knows I have
a young woman
though he’s only ever met her twice. And he knows he has a grandson by me.

‘Julia sends you her love,’ I smile at him.

‘Who?’ He leans his head in a little and I shuffle closer so he can hear me better.

‘Julia,’ I tell him slowly. ‘She sends her love. She wants to try and come up with me next time. Been a bit difficult with the little guy ...’ I mutter. ‘He’s still settling in and we don’t want to disrupt him yet.’

‘No,’ he agrees. Does he know, I wonder desperately? Does he really know about my son? That we have him back,
that we even lost him in the first place?
Last time I saw him, before the retrieval of our boy, Dad wasn’t in a place to be aware of anything much.

‘And ... um.’ I search around in my bag for the offerings I’ve brought along with me. A new copy of his favourite Poems by T.S. Eliot.  A packet of mints. Some snapshots of Hadyn. I plant one of the  pictures in his hand and he stares at it for a very long time without saying a word. I’m curious to know what he sees. I chose that photo deliberately. I wonder if he sees it?

‘Looks just like your mother,’ he comments at last, handing it back to me.  He
did
see it, then. I feel a surge of pride mixed in with the sadness in my chest. Dad saw it. Everyone else sees it, too, how much Hadyn looks like Conchita. Strangely, for such a long time, I myself was only ever able to see Julia in my son, despite what the rest of the world saw.

So. What now? I take the photo and place it inside his jacket so Rolli can frame it for Dad, later on. I’d hoped seeing that photo might elicit
some
reaction at least. Conchita was the love of his life. He worshipped my mother, but my dad doesn’t do sentiment. He never has. 

‘Oh,’ I remember suddenly. ‘Julia sent you this.’ I bring out a crumpled piece of paper from my bag now and Dad stares at it, a little bemused. ‘It’s some of Hadyn’s art,’ I explain. It’s a line of little black squiggles, that’s what it is, but Julia seemed very proud of it for some reason.

‘He’s very good,’ Dad observes. He folds the paper carefully and keeps it in his hands, and I’m not sure if he’s just being polite.

‘You’ve put his name down for Hillstones?’ he goes on. No mention of the abduction. No mention of the fact that we were stuck out in Spain for all those months. Just Hillstones. Dad looks all fine and dandy on the outside, but ... interesting how his mind works, I remind myself. What’s important to him, what he remembers. I shouldn’t let myself get too disappointed.

‘He’ll go to Trinity-St Mark’s,’ I tell him.

Dad looks thoughtful for a moment.  ‘I’ve heard favourable things about them, too. A good education makes a man, as you know. He’ll board?’

‘He’ll go as a day pupil.’

Dad’s eyebrows go up. ‘Well, if you think that’s best. Boarding them doesn’t hurt. Teaches them all sorts of life skills and toughens them up. Nobody likes it at first,’ he observes. ‘But it becomes less painful eventually.’

‘Actually ... it never became less painful for me.’ I look down at my shoes, marking his surprise when I say that.
What’s up with me this morning
?  That’s not like me, I frown. Have I perhaps been more upset over Julia’s revelations about Hadyn than I’ve let myself know? Rolli arrives now with the unwanted tea tray. Bourbon biscuits are piled high on a plate, and there are cups and saucers and a teapot for me to play Mum with and there, pushed nonchalantly to one side but still painfully obvious as an elephant in the room, is a blue plastic beaker with a lid on it.
Some of our residents can be a little unsteady,
Rolli smiles quietly, his head turned away so Dad won’t hear.
They can get the jitters. 
A baby-beaker. I know Dad’s seen it. I can tell by the way his lips have pursed, his dark eyes glittering like lumps of coal at Rolli’s back. He says nothing, but just that short pained glance where he catches my eye—
you see how they infantilise me here
—it’s enough. I take the beaker and shove it on the floor. It’s beneath his dignity, that. He didn’t want the tea, anyway.

At least, he said he didn’t. He’s looking at me thirstily though, so I pour him a cup and pray that today won’t be a day of the jitters.

Dad clears his throat.

‘I should say,’ he tells me with a degree of pride in his voice, ‘that you being a boarder saved you a great deal of pain, young man, though you mightn’t have fully appreciated it at the time.’

I lower my tea cup from my lips.

‘... Saved me?’ I shoot him a puzzled smile. Is this going to make any sense?     

‘This should be obvious to you,’ he continues. ‘Being there kept you away from the stress, to you, of being around your dear mother. Seeing her going downhill when she was sick would have been unbearably painful for you. That school saved you from that,’ he declares confidently.

‘I’d have rather been in Spain, actually, Dad.’

He frowns. ‘Nonsense. I’m sure you wouldn’t. You loved your mother to bits. Now, don’t deny it, boy. I know that you did.’

I loved her to bits. The milky tea settles like chunks of limestone in my stomach. Of course I did. Why keep me away from her, though?