Lessons for a Sunday Father (33 page)

“She’s a star. A little star. She’s helping me get the flat sorted. You know what she’s like. She should be running the country by the time she’s twenty.”

“And …?” He pauses, takes a slurp of his tea, not looking at me. “Any change?”

I shake my head.

“Nah. Still out of favour.” I squat down and tap the edge of one of the panes as if checking it. “I miss him, y’know. Can’t help it.”

Harry’s hand on my shoulder.

“I know,” he says. “You just hang on in there.”

“Hi!” Gail tucks her hair behind her ears, which makes her suddenly look very young. She looks like she could be Rosie’s big sister. “You better come in.”

I lean towards her and she turns her face slightly, with an awkward smile, so I kiss her cheek.

I sit at the kitchen table while she flutters around, making a pot of coffee and digging around in the depths of the dishwasher for clean mugs and generally making heavy weather of it.

“Biscuit?”

I have the distinct feeling she’s putting off saying whatever it is she’s prepared herself to say. And I can’t say I’m in all that big a hurry myself. I eat my biscuit slowly, looking down at it between bites with interest as if it’s some rare and ancient Roman coin I’ve just unearthed rather than a chocolate chip ‘n’ hazelnut cookie.

“Well,” says Gail.

“Well,” I say.

She laughs.

“Last night …” She tucks her hands under her legs so she’s sitting on them, like a little girl.

“It was lovely,” I say, smiling at her. “Really great.”

She flushes and starts fiddling with the chain round her neck.

“Yes, it was certainly very nice, wasn’t it?” She sounds as if she’s describing an afternoon tea, with cakes and scones. “Um. Yes. Well …”

I know what she’s going to say, of course. How clueless do you think I am? If I haven’t learned anything these last few months, then there really would be no hope for me. I may not be Mr Sensitive, but I’m not a complete dipstick either. I’m just letting her stew a bit, that’s all. I don’t want to make it too easy for her.

“Hmm?” I reach for another biscuit.

She gets up then and crosses over to the coffee maker and makes a show of fiddling with it.

“This doesn’t seem to be very easy.” She keeps her back to me. Her head bends forward as if she’s peering into the top of the coffee thing, then suddenly I see her shoulders shaking and I realize she’s crying. She’s not making a single sound, but she is definitely crying.

I get up then and go and stand behind her. Lay a hand on her shoulder.

“No-o-o-o—” Her voice wails and her words come out in tight gasps, “You—don’t—understand—it’s—not—I—can’t—I—don’t—you—”

I put my arms round her softly and feel her lean against me. I’ve wanted to hold her for so long and now I am but it’s not the way I thought it would be. It’s not the way I thought it would be, but it’s the way it is. She’s sobbing now, her body shuddering against me as she tries to speak, to choke the words out.

“It’s all right,” I say, holding her like a child, the way I used to with Nat when he had a bad dream. “Sssh now, ssh. I know. It’s all right. I know. I know.”

And I do.

It’s too late for me and Gail. It’s been too late for a long time. I think Gail knew—maybe even before she shut the door on me that night. It just took me a long time to see it. Just because we had sex, I kidded myself that it meant everything was all right with us again, that we could just wipe the slate clean and things would go back to the way they were before. But, if I’m honest, I know that it could never have been as simple as that. I liked the idea of “us,” you know? Of belonging—to a family, to a couple. I liked being part of something that wasn’t just me by myself. But I don’t even know that there was much of an “us” any more. The best thing we had going for us was the kids—and we’ve still got them, so maybe we haven’t done too badly after all. I’m not sure why Gail slept with me again—maybe she’d simply had a bit too much to drink, I’ve given up flattering myself and trying to believe she couldn’t resist me; maybe she just wanted a cuddle and then got carried away; maybe she didn’t feel so hot about turning forty and wanted to feel young and gorgeous and sexy. Can’t blame her for that, God knows. Maybe, like me, she wanted to make things all right—even for only one night, to pretend we were young again with no kids, no pressures, no responsibilities, and life was easy.

I keep wondering if there was a moment when it disappeared, what we had, like if it slipped out the back door one night at ten to twelve? I guess that’s not the way it goes. I suppose it happened slowly, gradually crumbling away from under us like a dodgy cliff while we were too busy getting through from day to day. It started not that long after Rosie was born; there never seemed to be any time for us any more. We were just parents. Sure, I would have a night out with the lads, or Gail would go out with a girlfriend or one of her sisters once a week, but if it was just us on our own, we’d end up watching the telly or renting a video.

And it wasn’t even just that. I still remember something my brother-in-law said when he married my sister, Sheila. Doug’s a real laugh, you know, and you’d think he’d make a really joky speech. But he didn’t. He just said all these things about how great Sheila was and how much he loved her and—I’ll never forget it—he said, “Being with her helps me to be the best that I can be. I feel like I’m a better person when I’m with her.” I felt a bit choked up, only I didn’t click why at the time. You see, that’s not how it was with Gail and me—not for me and I reckon not for her either. We didn’t bring out the best in each other and, if you do that for too long, I reckon that after a while you forget that there’s any best left to bring out.

Looking back now, I feel such a fool for trying to kid myself for so long that it would be OK between us. It’s like a child of six could have seen that Gail didn’t want me back, but I kept ignoring all the incredibly obvious signs, telling myself everything would be back to normal and that I could just slip back into my old life like a pair of well-worn jeans and it’d be a perfect fit. I suppose it was easier. As long as I told myself she’d have me back, I didn’t really have to do anything. I could just drift along, never making any plans, because everything would be fine as soon as I was back home. But it wouldn’t have been. Gail would still have been Gail, and I would still have been me. We’d have been back sharing a bed, a roof—pretending we were fine and telling ourselves it was better for the kids at least. And it’s better to be miserable in company than miserable on your own, right? So what if you’ve been out of love so long, you don’t even have the memory of the memory of what it felt like to be so full of life any more, to feel your heart thumping, the blood humming through your veins? At least that other person, they’re familiar, right? At least there’s someone sitting opposite you at the breakfast table, even if you find yourself re-reading the back of the same cereal box every morning so you won’t have to look into their eyes and know that there’s nothing left to say.

How she could have let it happen? Let him walk out on us a second time? She should never have let him in past the front door, never mind inviting him to the party and going all fluttery-eyed over him and letting him, you know. And now he’s gone off again. At least Rosie didn’t know about it.

Cassie comes round a lot and she and Mum sit up late drinking wine and eating all the ice-cream in the freezer so there’s none left for us, and Mum’s always on the phone to her or to my Aunty Mari or Aunty Lynn. When I come past, her voice goes quieter and she stops saying anything interesting, then she goes “Mm … mm” or “Hang on a sec” and waits for me to move away.

She should have given him a whacking great punch. That’s what I would have done. There was this boy in my class once who was being bullied, right? Simon. And when it came out there was this whole big thing at school and we all had to sit round in a circle and say what we felt about it and go through the school’s anti-bullying policy all over again. It was bloody stupid. We’ve got it on posters all over the school in any case and a load of other ones as well about how you’re supposed to behave and about being polite and not chewing gum in class and respecting the school premises and all that and no-one takes a blind bit of notice of any of it. Anyway, they wrote to all the parents and Mum insisted on “having a talk.” I told her no-one bullies me, but she said we should discuss it—especially ‘cause Rosie had that problem one time. But that was ages ago and she’s never had anything since then. Mum said it was important that I understood that if ever anyone tried to bully me, I should come straight to her or Dad and tell my teacher and blah blah blah blah blah. Dad just nodded and said, “Your mother’s right” but later on when we went roller-blading, Dad said, “If anyone ever picks on you, Natty, if there’s a group of them, you suss out who’s the leader then get him on his own and hit him once as hard as you can and you’ll get no more bother.” Mum says there’s never an excuse for violence and you can always resolve things by talking, but she and Dad tried it and now look at the mess we’re all in. Dad says people who tell you there’s never a need to use violence are usually people who’ve never been on the wrong end of it themselves and that if some toerag is trying to punch your lights out, then saying, “I really think we should discuss this in a civilized way” isn’t going to cut much ice. I mean, who cares about being civilized when you’re the one laying in the gutter with your head kicked in?

   *   *   *

I boil the kettle for a Pot Noodle. Mum comes in.

“All right there?” she says.

I nod at the kettle. “'s just boiled.” I shrug. “You want—coffee? Instant, I mean. I’m not messing about with that other stuff.”

The look on her face is something else. Jeez, it’s only a coffee.

“Uh, yes. Yes, thank you. Thank you very much, Nathan. That’s really thoughtful of you.”

“Yeah, all right. Don’t go overboard. ‘s no big deal.”

“It is to me.”

She sits down at the table and I pass her over the coffee, only spilling a little bit.

“Care to join me?”

It’s better to stand. It makes you grow taller. I stay leaning against the counter.

“Mn.”

“Nathan.” She’s looking down into the coffee and keeps touching the mug as if it’s a gold bar or something and she can’t believe it’s really sitting there on the table in front of her.

“Mn.” Not another lecture, please. Give me a break.

“Nat. I realize these last few months must have been pretty strange and confusing for you.”

“Whatever.” I stab at my noodles and mush them around with my fork.

“Don’t worry, I’m not planning to lecture you. Just hear me out a minute.”

“OK. Shoot.”

“I’ve made a bit of a hash of things …”

“Mn.”

“Quite. Well, I have. There’s no getting round it. I think it’s been easier for Rosie in a way because she’s younger and she’s carried on seeing your dad. But you—I worry about you, Nat.”

“'m fine.” I shovel a forkload of noodles into my mouth, but they’re still too hot.

“I really don’t want you to see your dad as the villain in all this.”

I roll my eyes. Puh-leese. The guy walked out the door without a second thought—what would you call him?

“No, really, Nat. You know, I think in grown-up relationships, when they don’t work out and everything seems like a big old mess—well, there’s usually no heroes and no villains, hmm? Just people trying to do their best—”

“Yeah, right.”

“—trying
to do their best—even though it may not look like it from the outside.”

I dig down into my noodles and give them another sloosh round. If you don’t do that, it’s never mixed properly at the bottom.

“You know,” she blahs on. “Like when you’re swimming—and you’re going as fast as you can and you’re trying
so
hard, you really are, but … well, sometimes you just don’t win. Because that’s just the way things are.”

“I usually do though. ‘Cept in backstroke and butterfly.”

“True. But have a little compassion for the rest of us who trail a couple of lengths behind, eh?”

    She gets up then and starts pulling things out the fridge and the cupboards to get ready for our tea.

“All I’m saying is, please try not to blame your dad too much, OK? And if you could see your way to giving him another chance, go out with him one Sunday, it’d mean a lot to him, it really would.”

“Should have thought of that before he walked out on us then, shouldn’t he?”

“Walked out?
What do you mean? He
didn’t,
Nat. I thought I explained it all to you. I thought you under-stood—we were having a lot of problems and we needed some time apart.”

Excuse me? Like, uh-duh, do I look like I’m Rosie? I’m not buying it. How clueless does she think I am?

“Mn.”

“Quite the contrary, in fact. I threw—well, I
asked
your dad to leave.”

I stop twirling my noodles. They look like worms, have you noticed that? Like slithery, slimy worms. Dead worms.

It can’t be true. I reckon she’s making it up to cover for him. Grown-ups are always saying it’s wrong to lie but then they lie the whole time. You can’t trust anything they say. Not any of them.

This is the last time. Absolutely, definitely the last time. I won’t come back to my house again. Well, not uninvited, not like this any more, sneaking around. I’m not even sure why I’m here now—except it feels like I’m saying goodbye. I go round each room, touching the furniture, patting the settee as if it’s a dog, sliding my hand along the sideboard, walking my fingers over the top of the TV, then I make myself a coffee and go up to our old bedroom. Gail’s room now. I open the wardrobe and run my hand along the clothes, feeling them, remembering when she wore them. OK, mostly not remembering—Gail always says I never notice what she wears, but that’s only half-true. See, this dress here, this blue one, she wore that when we had that Greek holiday. And these black trousers, she wears these practically all the time. And this white top, she looks really nice in that when she’s got a bit of a tan. I go over to the dressing-table and lift up the lids of the glass pots—cotton-wool in one, earrings in another, a necklace with big mauve shiny beads on it that Rosie made her. Tucked into the mirror frame are her birthday cards from the kids. The one from Nat is a shop-bought card, a cartoon one. There’s a woman in curlers on the front peering at herself in a mirror and it says
CONGRATULATIONS
… then inside it says, “… Only another 20 years to go and you can start collecting your pension.” The one from Rosie is hand-made, of course. It has 40 on the front in enormous multicoloured numbers and a flower on a long stem that sort of snakes its way all round the edge as a kind of border. Inside it says
HAPPY BIRTHDAY MUMMY. YOU ARE
40
TODAY. LOTS OF LOVE FROM ROSIE XXX.