Lessons for a Sunday Father (43 page)

But the more I think about it, and the more I stare at the picture, the worse I feel. My insides feel weird, like I might throw up, but my ears are burning like that time I had the flu and my legs are shaking as if it’s freezing cold. I shove the photo in my pocket and stagger out to the hall again. Pick up my bag. I can hear him on the phone.

“No, that’s one
large
Pepperoni Hot and one—”

I open the front door, click it closed quietly behind me, then clamber best as I can back down the stairs, practically breaking my neck in the process ‘cause of my blades. I hoik my bag onto my back, then I’m out on the street and pushing off. I don’t know where I’m heading, not back home, I know that much, but I don’t care. As long as it’s not back there, not with him. Anywhere else. Anywhere else in the whole wide world. I pick up speed, getting into a rhythm now, swerving round crumblies with their shopping as if they’re obstacles on a slalom run. The wind is cold, slapping my face in sudden gusts, making my eyes water, and my hands are freezing without gloves but I swing my arms to make me go faster, faster and faster, wishing they were wings that would lift me up above all the people and the cars and the houses and then there would just be me and the air, blading through the sky. I imagine him calling me, shouting “Nat! Nat!” over and over, but the wind is loud in my ears and I don’t want to hear him. A woman gives me a funny look, like as if I’m crying or something, but it’s only the wind. I rub my eyes roughly with my sleeve and I skate on, on and on, gliding, wheels spinning along the pavements, taking me further and further away.

He hasn’t come home. He left Scott’s place over two and a half hours ago and he’s still not back. It’s dark now. Scott thought he’d come straight here. He’s not at Joanne’s or Steve’s or Jason’s. Steve’s ringing round his other friends just in case. Joanne’s mother said she’ll call if they hear anything. I even tried his mobile but, of course, there’s just a message saying it’s out of service. I should have given him the money. He kept asking for the money and I didn’t give it to him.

I want to rush out and look for him. I want to run through the streets calling his name until I find him. Scott brought Rosie back so he could go out looking but he says I must stay here in case Nat comes back. He’s right. Greg has gone to the hospital to check the casualty department and he’s promised to phone from there. I wanted to call the police too but Scott says he’ll drop into the station in town, and I’m not to worry.
He
will find Nat. He’s
promised
to find him. Mari offered to pick up Rosie and look after her, but I want her here with me. She’s fallen asleep on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, so Cassie and I are speaking in whispers.

“Don’t worry,” Cassie says. “Nat’s no fool. He’s sharp as a razor. He’ll be OK.”

I nod shakily and try to drink my coffee.

Neither of us are saying it. I cannot say it out loud. If I do, maybe that’ll make it true. But I know she’s thinking it and I’m thinking it:
What if someone’s taken him?

I wish to God she hadn’t used the word sharp, I don’t want to think about anything sharp. I mustn’t think it. I owe it to Natty not to think it. Not even for a second. I pray inside my head, “Please, God, let him be safe. I’ll do
anything
you want. Don’t let anything happen to him. Take
me
instead. Please let him be all right,
please”
—over and over in my head as I walk up and down, hugging myself with my own arms.

“I could go and look as well,” offers Cassie.

I shake my head.

“Please don’t leave me.”

She gives me a long, long hug.

“I’m phoning Derek—Scott can’t do the whole town by himself.”

Scott phones and says he’s spoken to his mate in the police, given him a photo so he can keep an eye out and they’ll put the word out to the police on the beat. I give him Derek’s mobile number so they can co-ordinate.

“Don’t worry,” says Scott. “I’ll bring him back. I swear. You can rely on me.”

I head for the station first, hoping like hell he hasn’t got himself on a train to London or I’d never find him. It made me think of those programmes you see about teenagers, no more than kids really, living on the streets, getting into drugs, thieving, prostitution. Knowing Natty, he wouldn’t have had enough money for the train fare on him, but he might have snuck on, hid in the toilet from the guard. I know a bloke who works there so I track him down and show him Nat’s photo. He asks around and says no-one’s seen a boy that age on his own and they probably would have noticed one—you did if it wasn’t regular school time because you reckoned they’d be up to no good, vandalizing the toilets and what have you. I quell an urge to punch him one. Not my Natty, he’s not like that. It’s nearly half-ten now. I give him my mobile number and he promises to keep an eye out.

Then I drive round and round town, hoping I might just suddenly spot him, trying to think—where would he go? What would he do? Where would I go if I was Nat? Derek’s covering the park, the snooker hall, and the bus station. I check out the bowling alley, because I took Natty there a few times, but it’s pretty much all families. Real families, you know, out together having a good time, not like the godawful mess I’ve managed to make of mine. The sports centre is just closing up—they have some late-night coaching and stuff going on on Saturday nights. I go up to the reception desk and show his photo to the two women there. The older one says, “Sorry, love. I don’t remember him, but we get so many lads in that age. The courts and pool are closed. Only the main hall’s still open—take a look if you like.”

The other one, the young one, says, “Ooh, it’s like on the telly. Are you a cop?”

What a moron. Normally, I’d have tried to come up with a cutting remark, something clever, but I don’t care any more. I just want Natty back.

“No, not a cop. I’m a dad. He’s my son.”

The security guard comes with me to check the hall and the gents’ toilets. Nothing.

Back into town and I park illegally to nip into McDonald’s, knowing Nat can’t keep away from food for long. The manager says no, he doesn’t think he’s seen him but they have so many kids in and they all look alike now, don’t they?

“He was wearing a black padded jacket, black combat trousers and roller-blades.”

“Exactly,” he says. “They all are. Could be anybody.”

It’s not anybody, I want to shout at him, It’s my son. He’s my
son,
you idiot.

Still, getting angry isn’t going to get me anywhere. I go back outside, shivering from the cold. I hope wherever he is that it’s somewhere warm and safe and that he has a portion of chips to keep the chill off his hands. I could do with some myself because I’m freezing but I’m not getting any. It sounds daft but I can’t stand the idea of me being warm in the car with chips and Natty being cold and chipless and alone. But it’s the best way to keep your hands warm, holding chips, that’s what I’ve always told him, that’s the way we used to do it when he was little and we went fishing off the beach.

The—way—we—used—to. When—he—was—little. Hang on a sec. Hang on a sec. Would he? Could he have gone there? He’d have to have got the bus or hitched a ride. Dear God, don’t let him have hitched with all these nutters out on the roads. I give Derek a call on his mobile, see if he’s checked the bus station yet, and he says he’ll go there straight away. It has to be worth a try—I’m going anyway, I’m all out of other ideas. I ring Gail to check if there’s any news her end and tell her where I plan to go next.

“What do you think? Is it a long shot?”

“Go. Just go, Scott. I can’t think of anywhere else.”

“I’ll call you when I get there.” “Thanks. Please find him. Promise you’ll bring him back safe.”

“I promise.”

The phone rings a minute later and I jump, thinking maybe it’s Nat. But it’s Ella, calling from the flat, to see if there’s any news. She’d offered to come round and stay in case he went back and turned up there. It’s good to hear her voice, concerned but calm.

“Take care of yourself,” she says. “And keep warm.”

“I will. Get into bed and warm it up.”

“It’s best if I stay up. In case he comes back here. But I’ll let you put your cold feet on me. Special treat.”

“Ella?”

“Yup?”

“You know I love you, don’t you?”

I can feel her smile shimmering through the phone.

“Yes. I love you too.”

It’s been a while since I’ve driven this road in the dark—not since I last went fishing with Harry. Years ago, when Nat was not much more than a tot really, that’s when I first started taking him fishing with me, from the beach. You get a lot of blokes along this particular stretch, the occasional woman too, but mostly blokes—in ones and twos, mates or dads with their boys. Fathers and sons. I had this little wind-shelter tent and a tilley lamp and two folding stools and we’d go at night. You get there a couple of hours before high tide, stay three, four hours sometimes. There’d be a flask of coffee for me and a small one of cocoa or soup for Nat and we’d take along some sandwiches but we’d always go to the chippie as well because holding chips is the best way to keep your hands warm. And there’s nothing like the smell of chips and vinegar and warm paper in your nose when the wind’s biting your face off and the sea is grey and the sky is dark. And all you can see are the stars, the lights of the power station across the bay, the lamps of the men fishing and the red-hot dots of their cigarettes floating against the dark.

I park right on the front and scrunch down onto the shingle. Start asking the blokes who are fishing,

“Seen a young lad on his own?”

Showing them the photo. From one to the next I go, working my way along the beach. After about ten or twelve there’s a bloke fishing by himself, with the same kind of tent that I’ve got.

“Yes, mate. I chatted to a lad. I’m not sure if it was this one, it’s hard to see. Hair going forwards over his face like this? Dark padded jacket?”

“Yes, yes. That sounds like him.” My heart’s racing. Please let it be Nat, please let it be Nat.

“Yeah. I gave him some tea. He looked half frozen to death, mate.”

“Did you see which way he went?”

“To get chips, he said. But it must have been over an hour ago.”

I run along the beach then, stumbling on the shingle in the dark, calling out his name. The wind snatches my words and makes my eyes water, tears running down my face. “Natty! Na-a-t!” Running by the small shelter there on the promenade, I turn—and see a figure, a dark, hunched figure, almost invisible crumpled as he is right into the very corner.

I clamber up the beach, slipping and sliding, like trying to run up the down escalator, pull myself up onto the edge of the promenade. Stand up. Face him.

He looks up. Natty. I breathe out. I feel as if I’ve been holding my breath for hours.

“Oh,” he says. “It’s you.”

“Natty.”

“Why are you here? What do you want?” He looks terrible. Even in the dim light, I can see he’s pale and cold, his eyes dark and bruised looking.

“Hang on,” I say, not moving, not wanting to make him run again, though he looks defeated somehow, and weak as a half-drowned kitten. “Have a go at me in a minute. I’m ringing Mum before she has a nervous breakdown.”

I phone Gail, tell her he’s safe and well and she bursts into tears. Cassie comes on the line and says to call back in a while. I sit down further along the bench. Nat’s holding a half-eaten portion of chips.

“Hands holding up OK?”

He shrugs.

“Chips have gone cold.”

I edge a bit closer.

“Fish biting tonight?”

The ghost of a smile comes to his face.

“Stupid. Haven’t got my rod, have I?”

“Natty?”

“Mn?”

“I—this is difficult—I don’t know how to—Thing is, I guess I’m not much of a dad.”

He shrugs again.

“Feel free to contradict me at any point.”

A small laugh. Then silence.

“This little boy.” He takes out a photo from his pocket, the one from my bedroom, with Jamie on my shoulders.

“What, Jamie?”

“Mn. Is he your kid?” He’s not looking at me. He’s facing dead ahead, staring out to sea.

God, is that what he thought? That all along I’d had another son hidden away?

“What? No, of course not. Where did you get that idea?”

“Thought that’s why you left. What d’you need us for when you’ve got a whole other family all along?”

I slide closer along the bench.

“Oh, Natty. Shit. I can’t bear it that you thought that. Not for a second. Listen he’s Ella’s son, that’s all. I was carrying him because he’s little and he was tired. You know what they’re like at that age. Remember Rosie, eh? ‘Lift me up, Daddy! Carry me, Daddy!'”

We laugh a bit at that.

“He’s a nice kid, Natty. But he’s not my son.
You’re
my son.”

“Mn.” He scrunches up what’s left of his chips and leans out to chuck them in the bin. “You going to have kids with her?”

“Nah. I’m too old and knackered.” Then I think of Ella. Her calm face close to mine, her laugh, the way she moves around the kitchen, her hand reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear, singing to herself as she cooks. “I don’t know. We’re not at that stage yet. But—Nat—even if I did, no amount of kids could ever replace you. It’s not like getting a new battery and chucking the old one away ‘cause it’s no use any more. I mean, you’re
Nat.
My Nat. There’ll never, ever be another Nat.”

“What, never, ever, ever, ever?” We used to say that when he was little, you know, all that parent stuff … “Eat your greens or you’ll never get to be big.” “What?” Nat would say back, “Never, ever?” “Nope. Never, ever, ever” we’d go.

“Nope,” I say now. “Never, ever, ever, ever, ever … ever.”

“Why d’you leave us then?”

I shuffle right next to him and put my arm round him. Feel him stiffen, his body tense.

“I didn’t leave
you,
you dipstick. Jeez. How can I tell you? Grown-up stuff, it’s so difficult, Nat. I don’t understand it half the time. Mind you, your mum would say that’s ‘cause I’m not a proper grown-up—and she’s probably right. But it was nothing to do with Ella—I hardly even knew her then. The thing is, I messed up big time and it was all my fault and then—your mum and I—well, we just couldn’t be together any more. And, if I’d stayed, we’d have ended up rowing the whole time and maybe even hating each other—and that’d have been bad for us and bad for you and Rosie, too. Believe me, you and Rosie are the best things in my life, always have been. I’d do anything for you, you must know that.”