by Fiona Gibson
‘What about the dogs?’ he asks, huffing up the stairs. ‘Surf gets anxious away from home. He likes to know where he is.’ The dog has jumped onto my bed and is nuzzling into the pillows.
‘Surf!’ Maggie cries. ‘Off Stella’s bed immediately.’ He shifts his head to the other end of the pillow, leaving a spillage of drool.
‘They can sleep up here with you,’ I say, ‘if they’d be happier.’
‘That’s probably best,’ Dad says, tossing his jacket onto the bed.
‘It’s good of Stella to have us,’ Maggie says, ‘isn’t it, Frankie?’
Dad glances around my bedroom, as if checking that the amenities match the high standard to which he’s accustomed at home. An oily dog smell has mingled with Mum’s perfume. ‘Don’t understand why you didn’t sell up when that boyfriend moved out,’ Dad murmurs. ‘Could have got yourself a nice little flat.’
To avoid feeling pressurized to cook one of his recipes, I take Dad and Maggie out for dinner. We left Surf barking urgently at the living-room window, smearing the glass with saliva, and Turf dozing under the table.
The restaurant is called Coq au Vin. Its tables are festooned with too many glasses and pink serviettes folded into elaborate fans. Glass dishes filled with corrugated curls of butter. I have never eaten here, but imagined it might be Dad’s sort of place: pretentiously ornate, with perfectly enjoyable food messed up with too many sauces and garnishes. The woman who shows us to our table has mauve shadows beneath her eyes. She looks exhausted from the effort of making everything so fancy.
Our table is jammed too close to the window. I feel conscious of my elbows and knees. ‘I’m sorry,’ the woman says—I’m hoping she’ll say, ‘I’m sorry, but the cooker’s broken, you’ll have to eat somewhere else’—but instead she explains, ‘The veal’s off, and I only have one portion of langoustine.’
‘That’s quite all right,’ Maggie says.
The woman hands us enormous laminated menus and disappears into the kitchen. The place smells fishy, and not in a good way. The menu lurches in and out of French like someone who’s beginning to learn the language but keeps losing confidence and tripping over their tongue. There’s a terrine de duck, pork fillets served with pommes au gratin, and chateaubriand de boeuf accompanied by a julienne de vegetables.
‘What’s a julienne?’ I ask Dad, knowing that this will delight him.
‘Ah,’ he says, and I faze off and watch what look likes like an office party tumbling past the window. There’s an abundance of Santa hats with flashing lights strung around their brims.
‘… Because a meal’s appearance,’ Dad chunders on, ‘is just as important as the taste, and so with your classic julienne, you’re talking a mixture of colors—carrots, fine beans, maybe some celery, all cut into very fine strips…’
Dad’s lemon sole is accessorized with a salad comprising limp leaves and tomatoes that look as if they’ve been cut with pinking shears. Maggie tucks into legumes au gratin, which seemed the closest thing on offer to a vegetable casserole. My pasta slips down my throat to form a swamp in my stomach. ‘How’s Friday Zoo?’ I ask, then regret it as Dad proceeds to enthuse about the show’s rising ratings and the positive feedback he’s received from the production crew and viewers.
‘If I say so myself,’ he says, ‘I’m coming across very well to a new, younger audience.’
‘Are they renewing your contract?’
‘That’s not finalized, but it’s looking good. I’m hoping, of course, for a show of my own.’
‘I’m sure it’ll happen, Dad.’
‘Of course it will,’ Maggie says firmly, patting his hand.
No one else comes into the restaurant. The woman keeps emerging from the kitchen to refill our glasses. Dad fills the room with the sound of enthusiastic chewing. I wonder what Surf’s doing to my house—whether he’s gnawed my cushions, or done his business on the rug. ‘He has the occasional accident when he’s overexcited,’ Maggie warned me.
Although we haven’t ordered dessert, the woman appears with a large silver platter piled high with profiteroles. They’re filled with something yellow and squidgy, like the kind of paint that offers excellent coverage with only one coat. The chef marches out of the kitchen and says, ‘Everything fine for you?’ I thought he’d be French, but he has a South London accent.
‘Excellent, thank you,’ Dad says.
‘I knew it,’ the chef announces. ‘Heard your voice, thought no—it can’t be.’
Dad beams at him. The chef has trembling cheeks and a mass of wild black hair that bushes out from under his hat. ‘You’re the one,’ he continues, ‘who got me into this game, all them years ago.’
‘Well,’ Dad says, ‘I’m honored to hear that.’
Maggie gazes proudly at him. Dad lights up a Café Crème. I noticed a line at the bottom of the menu that said No Cigar Smoking Please. Perhaps Café Crèmes don’t count as cigars, or the rule doesn’t apply to someone as important as Dad. He could probably set his hair on fire and no one would ask him to leave.
The chef rests a ham-colored hand on Dad’s shoulder. Pale smoke hazes the space above our heads. It’s the sweet, woody smell that filled the Citroën and Dad’s study. The smell of TV Frankie, who’s glowing now, as he and the chef discuss the finer points of choux pastry, just like it’s 1979.
Robert phones as I’m tipping the remains of Dad’s boiled egg into the kitchen bin. ‘Stella?’ he says, sounding anxious.
‘Robert, what’s wrong?’
‘They’re getting a place together,’ he blurts out. ‘One of those new flats by the marina. He’ll be living with my children, and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.’
‘Stella?’ Dad booms from the living room. ‘Stella, there’s a—’
‘That’s awful,’ I manage to say, trying to blot out Dad’s voice.
‘One good thing,’ Robert adds, sniggering bitterly, ‘is the Twit—her new boyfriend—was mugged in Barcelona. Some guy ripped off his money belt. My wife’s moving in with the kind of man who wears a money belt, for Chrissakes.’
‘Stella!’ Dad shouts, like a child taking offense at a parent having the gall to use the telephone. Surf hurtles into the kitchen. Maybe Dad sent him to fetch me.
‘She wants to formalize things,’ Robert continues, sounding calmer now. ‘See a solicitor, make arrangements. She wants custody, as if I’m not a good enough father—’
‘But you’re a wonderful—’
Dad looms in the kitchen doorway, a fragment of egg white stuck to his lip. ‘Stella,’ he snaps, ‘there’s a child playing around on your property. What does it want?’
‘Let’s speak soon,’ I tell Robert.
‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘It’s good to talk to someone who’s not—you know—a mother. You’re not biased.’
I hurry through to the living room where Midge’s face is pressed against the window like malleable plastic. ‘Can I come in and play?’ she shouts through the glass.
‘Who is it?’ Dad blusters behind me.
I let her in. She looks tiny, standing there gawping at Dad. Her antennaed headband bounces lamely. Dad has shrunk back into the chair. ‘Midge,’ I say, ‘this is Frankie, my dad. Midge is my friend from next door.’
‘Hiya,’ she says nonchalantly, rummaging in her jeans pocket. She fishes out a length of hairy green string onto which she’s threaded green Chewy Jewels. ‘I made you this,’ she says, ‘because you lost the other one. This one’s emeralds.’
‘It’s lovely, thank you.’ I slip the bracelet on. It’s warm and clammy from being in her pocket.
‘Don’t eat it,’ she warns me, ‘even if you get really hungry.’
‘I promise.’
Maggie comes down from her shower swathed in velour dressing gown. ‘Hello dear,’ she says, peering down at Midge.
‘Are you Stella’s mum?’ Midge asks brightly.
‘No,’ I say quickly, ‘Maggie’s my Dad’s…partner.’
&n
bsp; Midge screws up her nose, trying to make sense of the word. ‘Can I finish my model?’ she asks, meaning the torpedo shooter.
‘Not now, Midge. Come round some other time.’
‘You want me to go?’
‘We’re just a bit busy….’
Dad stares at the living-room door, perhaps willing her to vanish through it. ‘When are they going home?’ she asks loudly.
‘We’re not sure exactly. Soon after Christmas.’
Midge ambles into the hall and mutters, ‘You’re still mad at me for spoiling your makeup.’
‘No I’m not. That’s all forgotten.’
She gnaws a grubby fingernail. ‘I can tell you’re mad. You’re different.’
‘I’m just the same, Midge,’ I say, but we both know I’m lying.
Dad says it’s too wet to go out. Rain seeps into his bones, making them ache; this always happens when he comes back to Devon. Something to do with dirty rain. It’s why he left this town: the filth, the noise, the traffic fumes. You’d have thought he was talking about Athens, not a fading seaside town with a groomed bowling green and Saturday tea dances at the Ritzy Hotel.
Maggie is immersed in her cross-stitch sampler. ‘What about the dogs?’ I ask. ‘Won’t they need to be walked?’
‘Stopped on the way,’ Dad says.
‘That was yesterday,’ I remind him, but he’s turned back to study the newspaper.
By early evening Surf has taken to scraping madly at floorboards by the front door. Dad and Maggie are snoozing in the living room, their snores drifting out like bees’ hums. I hook on the dogs’ leads and usher them out.
While Turf ambles lazily, Surf lurches ahead, straining to be free. He’s the unruly brother, dismissive of rules and leads and pavements. Instead of heading down to the beach—I don’t want them getting sandy or wet—I climb Briar Hill toward the leafier edge of town, where we used to live. Roads broaden and houses become widely spaced, not with doors opening onto the street, but glossed railings and driveways.
Here’s Lark Avenue—number fifteen, our old house. So many bits have been added: a porch, a small conservatory, and a double garage where Dad had a compost heap. It looks like someone’s gone crazy with LEGO.
There’s no Slab anymore. The old cars were towed away, the concrete smashed up by growling diggers, and the area turned into a landscaped park. Mr Syrup must have made a fortune because suddenly he had a permanent tan, and started wearing a huge onyx ring.
There are dense shrubs where the Beetle used to be, and a skateboarding area where Lynette and her friends used to hang out and pretend they weren’t stealing glances at Charlie. I let the dogs sniff around the wet hedges and call Charlie on my mobile, expecting his answer phone. ‘Yes?’ snaps a real voice.
‘I thought you’d gone away.’
‘Plans changed,’ he says curtly.
‘What happened?’
‘Don’t want to go into it.’ He sounds like a boy, a boy who doesn’t want to talk.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Turf is peeing against a fountain made from shards of aqua-colored glass.
‘Should I have?’
‘No. Of course not. But Dad and Maggie are staying, and if you’re going to be on your own…’
‘I don’t want to get roped into this.’
‘Roped into what?’ Surf is sniffing a small mound of chips.
‘The big family Christmas.’
‘It’s not a big anything!’
‘I can’t face it.’
‘Please, Charlie, you can’t be all on your own at—’
‘It’s what you want, isn’t it? The happy family, all together at Christmas.’
‘I just thought, seeing as Dad’s here…’
‘You want us all to be normal.’
‘No I don’t,’ I snap, blinking back tears. He’s right, of course. For us to be a proper family is all I’ve ever wanted.
I cook Christmas eve dinner—my famous mushroom risotto—which Maggie enthuses over and Dad shunts around his bowl as if waiting for it to morph into something more interesting. We’re eating at the living-room table and trying to ignore Midge, who’s brandishing a bat and ball joined by elastic in the drizzly street. ‘Your bedroom’s awfully cold,’ Dad says. ‘I’ve managed to get the window shut, finally—’
‘You could have asked me,’ I say.
‘And isn’t your allergy flaring up, Maggie?’
She shakes her head and says, ‘It’s nothing.’
‘It’s that perfume-y smell,’ Dad continues. ‘Does something to Maggie’s sinuses.’
‘I spilled a bottle,’ I explain, but Dad has lost interest now and is narrowing his eyes at Midge.
‘What’s that child up to now?’ he asks.
‘She’s not doing any harm, Dad.’
Midge is waving and shouting something. Maggie smiles weakly and forks in the last of her risotto. ‘What?’ I mouth through the window.
She pulls out a scrap of paper, a sweet wrapper maybe, from her jeans pocket and hunches on my wall to scribble on it. ‘Doesn’t she bother you?’ Dad asks.
‘Not really. She’s a pretty good kid.’ I don’t add that I’ve lain on my bed, waiting for their insistent knocking to stop. One evening I peeped out and saw two droopy figures in the street. Jojo glanced up. I’m sure she saw me as I hurried away from the window. Later, when she asked where I’d been, I pretended I’d been napping and not heard them.
‘In my day,’ Dad adds, ‘children knew discipline. You didn’t stand for any nonsense. It’s all different now.’
‘She’s not doing anything wrong!’
‘You’re too soft, that’s your trouble. Can’t imagine how you keep control of a class.’
I march through to the kitchen loaded with plates. In the hall I find a crumpled note that’s been pushed through the letterbox. It reads: dont eet the braslet.
Next morning we open our presents. Dad and Maggie have given me a set of multistory vegetable steamers that fit on top of a stainless-steel pan. Dad tosses aside the chocolate-brown sweater I bought him, as if he’s examined it in a department store and decided it’s not his color. He turns the dog whistle slowly between his broad fingers. ‘It’s for training Surf,’ I explain. ‘The pet-shop man said these things never fail.’
‘They’re just a gimmick,’ he says. ‘Frankly, I’d say Surf’s untrainable.’
‘Anything’s worth a try, dear,’ Maggie says, fixing on the pearl earrings and necklace I’ve given her.
Jojo and Midge flood into the room bearing homemade gifts: a photo frame constructed from the kind of polystyrene container that holds chicken portions, and a shoe box with smaller boxes glued inside to form separate compartments. ‘It’s a jewelry box,’ Midge explains, ‘to stop you losing your bracelets.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, swamped by their hugs.
Jojo pores over the presents I’ve given her: a story called Fairy Wishes—its page corners are perforated to tear off and place under a pillow—and a book of Debussy sonatas. ‘Wow, thanks,’ she gushes.
‘Cool!’ Midge cries, ripping the paper from her spud gun.
Maggie picks up its discarded box and reads: “‘One potato can provide hundreds of pellets.” Did you have one of these, Frankie, when you were a boy?’ But Dad has willed himself into sleep, to a place where presents are more acceptable than dog whistles and brown sweaters; a cliff top, perhaps, populated only by untrainable dogs, and no children or spud guns.
Charlie shows up as Dad is loading the tartan bags into the boot of the Lada. They shake hands, like work colleagues commencing a meeting. Charlie kisses Maggie on the cheek, then hugs me and whispers, ‘She went with somebody else.’
Dad is peering into the boot. ‘Who?’ I ask.
‘Phoebe. So, no holiday.’ He shrugs, making light of it.
‘Oh, Charlie, that’s awful.’
‘Sorry for being such a shit on the phone.’
‘That’s okay.’ I squeeze his a
rm.
He crouches to ruffle Surf’s belly, sending him into a quivering ball of delight. Turf has already curled up on the back seat like a dense brown cushion. ‘Well, we’d best get going,’ Dad says. ‘I don’t like driving in the dark, not these days, with these crazy boy racers….’
‘Good to see you, Dad,’ Charlie mutters.
‘You, too. Thanks for having us, Stella,’ he adds stiffly. No one mentions that it’s dark already—that the streetlights came on two hours ago.
Something pulls inside me, a knot that won’t come undone. ‘Thanks,’ I say into the moist air, ‘for the steamers.’
‘They bought you ships?’ Charlie whispers.
Dad and Maggie climb into the car. He winds down the driver’s side window and says, ‘Make sure you have a word with those children.’
‘I told you, Dad. They’re quite sweet really.’
‘You and Charlie,’ he continues, ‘didn’t go around bothering neighbors. You were well brought up. You behaved.’
A loud snort of laughter explodes from my mouth.
‘What’s funny?’ Dad asks, frowning.
‘You had no idea what we did. You didn’t know us.’
He turns the key, starts the grumbling engine. His voice wavers as he says, ‘Of course I knew. I’m your father.’
16
Fireball
Splosh whiskey, vodka and Cinzano into a receptacle such as an empty SodaStream bottle. Pour in some fizz—lemonade, cream soda or dandelion and burdock. You might like to add some of the more unusual drinks which have lain untouched in the cabinet for years: Pernod, sloe gin or advocaat. Stealing a little from each bottle is unlikely to arouse suspicion. Shake it, add ice if desired, and drink.
NB: The fireball cocktail is best made when there are no adults present.
Charlie and I used to entertain ourselves by concocting liquid refreshments. I enjoyed the mixing and shaking—the swirling of colors, the soft pfff as we unstoppered the lids—but was less keen on the drinking part. For hours afterward I’d be conscious of a sourness in my throat. Charlie, however, devoured our cocktails with gusto (the only discernible after-effect was a potent whiff of Wrigley’s, which Dad never commented upon).
