Lessons for a Sunday Father (15 page)

Then I catch sight of my house keys, in an ashtray—nice touch, Gail—they still have my key fob on, with the photo of Gail in it, the one I took when we went on holiday to Cyprus. Her hair was longer then and it spilled over her shoulders and she looked tanned and happy and sexy. I pick up the keys and put them in my pocket, then I take them out again. The ashtray’s on the sideboard in the lounge so I reckon she’d twig right away if they were suddenly gone. Another time check. I’d have to take them to the key place on the way back to work, have a new set cut while I pick up the glass for the window, come back, replace my old keys in the ashtray, do the glass, clean up, then skedaddle. And time’s ticking on. Jeez, I hope she goes shopping.

See, told you. It was a piece of piss. Well, almost. I dropped off the keys, then zoomed back to work. Martin was out on a job and Gary was bleating about some bloke who’d told him to get a move on when he was cutting. Denise said where had I been, there were umpteen messages for me in the book, and had I remembered to look in on that job in Hawes Crescent, no. 14, they wanted a quote. Yes, I said, I was going there now, right now, and could she tear out my messages and hand them over, I’d do them on the move, no, I couldn’t stop now, something had come up, and Gary while you’re standing there with your mouth open, cut us a piece of glass, mate, here’s the measurements, and make it snappy. Cheers.

Afterwards, I went back to work and sorted out the thousand and one problems they’d managed to create while I was out, told Lee it was his turn to tidy up, then sat down with Harry and allocated the jobs for the next day. My heart was still racing but I didn’t mind. I kind of liked it, matter of fact. It made me feel alive. I dug my hand down into my left-hand pocket every now and then, just to feel the newly cut keys, pressing my fingertip along the metal zigzag of the latch key, the chunky prongs of the Chubb. They made me feel excited, somehow, hopeful, like they were more than just the keys to my house, that they were the keys that would give me back my life.

It’s not fair. Mum keeps picking on me while Rosie’s little Miss Perfect the whole time. Makes me sick. Mum said she was talking to some doctor at the surgery and he said how it was normal for boys of my age “to be clumsy and knock things over a lot.” He said there was some research done a couple of years ago that showed it was all to do with growing too quick so we can’t tell how far away things are like if we’re putting a mug on the table and we think the table’s nearer than it is. Mum said this all casual like she’s saying what’s for eats tonight, so I said,

“So? What’s your point?” kicking at the other kitchen chair while I’m sitting there.

“My
point,
Nathan—don’t kick the chair—is that there’s no need for you to worry about being a bit, well, awkward, at this age. It’s just a normal part of growing-up for lots of boys. I’m sorry if I get at you about knocking things over. I’ll try to be a bit more understanding now I know you can’t help it.”

I rocked my chair back onto its back legs, pushing against the table leg and started counting off on my fingers, making my points: “Number one, I do not ‘knock things over a lot.’ Number two, where do you get off talking to some stupid arse—”

“Nathan!”

“—doctor bloke about me? Three, that’s just crap, that is—how can getting tall make you not know where the stupid table is? He must be bonkers. And four—”

She looked at her watch, then back at me. God, that really gets to me. Every time.

“Is this going on much longer, Nathan? Only I’ve got to get off to church to confess to being a bad mother. They let you off with only three Hail Marys if you get there before ten.”

“Oh ha, ha. Excuse me while I pick myself up off the floor, I’m laughing so hard. And
four
—you’re always saying it’s rude to interrupt—”

“Is that number four …?”

“You did it again! You did it again! I don’t believe this.”

“You’ve forgotten what number four is, haven’t you, Nathan?”

“No, I haven’t. I haven’t. It’s just you interrupting me all the time. It’s a miracle I can speak at all having grown up with you lot and Rosie squealing all the time and you being all smart-arsy and Dad being—well—”

I saw her blink when I mentioned Dad. Good. Serves her right for being so mean and talking about me to a doctor as if I’m some kind of loony or something.

“Anyway, I didn’t forget. Number
four
is, I am
not
awkward and don’t go round telling everyone I’m some kind of dribbling retard who drops things all the time.” My foot slipped on the table leg then so my chair suddenly rocked forward again with a thunk. Mum rolled her eyes in that “Kids, eh!” way she does, so I kicked the table leg and got up and shoved the chair in until it hit the table. Then I walked out and nearly knocked myself out on the stupid doorframe. So I kicked that as well and went up to my room, digging my toes in to make semicircles on the stair carpet just to annoy her.

She came and knocked on my door when tea was ready but I said I didn’t want any. What’s the point? If I’m not there, she and Rosie can eat on their own and be all giggly and girlie. I’m not listening to all that. So I waited till they’d done, then I went down and put mine in the microwave and had it in front of the TV. I’d rather eat on my own anyhow.

Harry’s taken to asking me if I’m all right practically every half an hour. He’s not clueless, he knows something’s up. If Gail had been sensible and taken me back by now, I’d never have had to tell him. It’s weird though, aside from my kids, Harry’s the last person in the world I’d want to know how badly I’ve loused up—but at the same time, it’d be a real load off my mind to tell him. I don’t like hiding stuff from him. He’s always been straight with me. Maybe it won’t be so bad. I just don’t want to feel like I’ve let him down, you know? Harry wouldn’t cheat on Maureen in a thousand years. It’s not that he’s blind to other women, he’s got an eye for a short skirt same as any man, but he’d never act on it, never. Harry couldn’t tell a lie to save his life.

I feel worse about telling him than my parents. I’ll get round to notifying them at some point, but it’s not like they’re ringing up morning, noon and night enquiring after my welfare, you know? They’re quite fond of Rosie, I guess, in their own way, but I once heard my dad say to Nat, “You’re just like your father was at your age,” and, no, it wasn’t meant as a compliment. Luckily, Nat thought it was—he looked up to me then—and he went round with a big smile on his face. I’ve never forgotten it. I looked at my dad and I didn’t say a word, but inside I was thinking, “See, you miserable git, not everyone thinks I’m a waste of space. My son loves me—and that’s all that matters.” Dad looked away and poured himself some more beer without offering me any.

The only reason I’ll have to tell them at all, the parents, I mean—yeah, that’s how I think of them,
the
parents, like
the
Browns or
the
Smiths, like someone else’s family. We happen to be related but I figure it was just down to a glitch in the universe or a mix-up at the hospital. If it wasn’t for the fact I look practically like a replica of Himself when he was younger, I’d swear for sure I’d been adopted. Though why anyone who doesn’t like kids would take the trouble to adopt them I’ve no idea. Oh yeah, I’ll have to let them know—and suffer the barrage of I-told-you-so and marriage-is-for-life and but-it’s-no-surprise-to-us stuff and other tokens of parental love and support—I’ll have to tell them I’m not at home just now in case one of them croaks, ‘cause they’ll need someone to pay the undertaker.

Anyway. Telling Harry.

Friday. It’s ten to eight in the morning and I’m sitting in the office. One good thing about staying with Jeff is I’m getting in to work earlier and earlier every day to spend as little time as possible in his house. I hear Harry come in. The lads aren’t here yet, but I’ve not got long so I know I’d better get on with it.

“Harry?”

“Yup.” He sits down and looks at me over the tops of his glasses. This is hard. I want to tell him, but I don’t know what to say. Maybe I’ll do it later.

“Coffee?” Just tell him for God’s sake, just say it.

“Oh, go on then.” He nods and stretches up for the green invoice file. “And Scott?”

I’m on my feet, heading for the kettle.

“Fill me in some time about what’s up with you, will you? The suspense is doing me in.”

I stand behind him, so I can’t see his face. “You’ve not got a terminal whatsit, illness, or anything?” he says.

Weirdly, the thought makes me laugh. Life would be a whole lot better, a whole lot simpler if I was dying. I’d be so brave, struggling to speak as Gail lovingly tips a glass of water to my lips, tears pouring down her cheeks as she whispers how much she loves me, how she can’t imagine life without me. Sheila would rush down from Scotland to be by my bedside. Russ might even fly over from Canada, you never know. And the kids—ah, no. No. At least I’m not dying. Things could be worse. (If you’re listening, God, that’s not a request, that last statement; this is plenty bad enough, thanks.)

“No, no.” I pat him on the shoulder. “I might look as though I’m at death’s door. And, yeah, I feel like it too, but physically I am A-OK and—”

We both jump as the bell dings—someone’s come in the main door.

“Aww-right?” Lee’s face appears round the edge of the doorway. He comes barging right in and starts telling us how smashed he got last night, then the phone starts going, Gary arrives, blinking and bleary-eyed, and Denise comes in and starts fussing round my desk.

Finally, I get off the phone and Harry looks across at me.

“We’ve not been fishing for ages,” he says. “Fancy going down the coast one night?”

I nod. Fishing. Fresh air. Sound of the sea. Clear my head a bit.

“Yeah, good one. When?”

“I’m easy. Tonight?”

“Why not? You check the tides, I’ll get the bait.”

Even though I’ve got the keys to home now, I’m not going to chance zipping in and whipping away my fishing gear. I reckon Gail would be bound to notice. We could just take Harry’s tilley lamp and windbreak, but I still need my rods and stool. I’ll have to call Gail. Oh joy, oh joy.

“Hi, it’s me, but you can keep your hair on, I’m not ringing to get up your nose. I just want to pick up my fishing stuff.”

“Good. I’ve been meaning to clear out that cupboard for ages.”

“Well, there you are then. This’ll give you a head start.”

I go over at three, before Gail has to go fetch Rosie from school.

She doesn’t say a word when she opens the door, just gestures to the cupboard.

“I don’t need to take it all now …” I start selecting the stuff I need just for tonight.

“I’d rather you didn’t leave anything.”

It takes me three trips, backwards and forwards to the car.

“Well, that’s that then.” I stand on the front step. “Gail, I—”

She’s not looking at me, but she shakes her head, her mouth pinched tight shut.

“Sorry,” she says, “I can’t—it’s—I have to go. Rosie …” “Course.” I want to hold her, I want to stroke her hair and hold her close as I can, tell her I can make everything all right again. I try to gulp down the lump in my throat. The door starts to close. “Tell her I’ll see her Sunday!”

We pull up by the promenade just after 9.30 p.m. Harry gets out and looks up at the sky. It’s a clear night, cold but not raining at least, and the stars are sharp and bright as pins. There’s already a line of blokes dotted along the shore. Fathers and sons mostly, I reckon, but maybe some are just mates like me and Harry. We lug all the stuff down onto the beach and set up.

And now we’re done fiddling with the rods and the bait and the tripods and the shelter and the lamp. There’s just me and Harry and the sound of the sea sucking at the shingle and the sky dark and huge above us.

“Um …” I start promisingly. Why is this so hard? “Might even land a bit of cod tonight.”

“Only if we go down the chip shop.” Harry laughs and lights up one of those funny slim cigars. God, I’d love a smoke. I haven’t touched one for nearly seven years, but I could murder a fag right now. I mustn’t. I promised Nat I wouldn’t. “So, what’s occurring then?”

“Thing is …” I get up and start fiddling with my reel. “… I’m not exactly living at home right now …” Firm in the tripod a bit more with the edge of my foot “… See, Gail and me—well, she sort of threw me out and she doesn’t seem in a tearing hurry to have me back.”

Harry doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t make any crass jokes. He nods and passes me a Kit-Kat.

“Hm-mm. Another woman, was it?”

“Well, yes—and no. Yes, there was, but it was very brief and it really didn’t count, and no, there isn’t now and it didn’t mean anything anyway. But Gail won’t believe me or, even if she does, she’s using it as an excuse to get shot of me. She looks at me like I’m a bit of dogshit on her shoe.”

Harry laughs at that, but not in a snide way, and he turns to face me.

“So, where’ve you been staying?”

“At my mate Jeff’s. He lives like a student, only without the books or the brains. He’s forty-two but still believes in the washing-up fairy—just thinks it keeps missing his house by accident. I spend every night clearing up. I’ve never done so much cleaning. Still, stops me thinking. About everything.”

“Stay with us.” It’s somewhere between an invitation and a command and his tone takes me by surprise. I wonder if he’s just saying it because he feels sorry for me.

“It’s decent of you, mate, but I—”

“I mean it. We’ve got a spare room. We’d love to have you, give Maureen someone to fuss over again.”

“No, Harry.” I poke another finger of Kit-Kat into my mouth for something to do but it feels thick and sticky on my tongue. “I wouldn’t want to put you out.” I look down at my feet.

Harry picks up the Thermos and pours us both some coffee.

“You wouldn’t be, you daft bugger. Not at all. It’d mean a lot to us, in fact. You know, since Chris went away …” That’s his son, who went off for a trip Down Under years ago, met this Aussie woman and settled down, never came back, ‘cept about once every three or four years “You’ve been—well. You know what I mean.” He gets out his hankie and vigorously wipes his nose with it. It’s a white cotton one, the sort no-one has any more, ‘cept old guys like Harry. “You’re more than welcome’s all I’m saying.”