Lessons for a Sunday Father

by Claire Calman

  “Course not.” The very idea. What the hell else does she want from me? “I was thinking you could have me publicly flogged in the High Street.”

  “I’m glad you find it amusing.” Her voice is cold, as though I’m a stranger bothering her on the street. “It must be lovely never to have to take anything seriously. Still, the answer is no, I don’t want to talk to you. Probably not ever again.” She turns away and bends down to riffle through a filing cabinet.

  “Gail!”

  She turns back towards me.

  “Ah, about your specimen, is it?” She raises her voice and a couple of people look up from their magazines. Time to go, I think.

  “I’ll call you later.”

  This is not part of the master plan.

  I phoned her later, at home, but she let the answerphone get it so I’m saying, “Hello? Hello? Gail, come on, love, pick up,” talking to thin air like a total wally. Then I turn up at home, but she won’t open the door.

  “At least let me see the kids then. You can’t stop me seeing the kids.” I can see her face through the frosted glass panels. The pattern’s called Arctic. It’s all right but all the world and his wife’s got it. I’ve been meaning to swap it for something unusual, etched glass maybe, sort of Victorian style.

  “I can do whatever I like, Scott. You’ve forfeited any rights you may have had.”

  Well, that’s not true, is it? She can’t do that, can she? I’m not a wife-beater for chrissakes, though I’m thinking of taking it up. Joke. And I’ve certainly never laid a hand on either of the kids. I’m the last person on the planet to do that. She can’t keep me away from them.

  “You can’t do this!” I’m shouting now.

  She shushes me and tells me to listen.

  “Scott, calm down a minute. You can’t see them because they’re not here. Nat’s got late practice tonight and Rosie’s over at Kira’s.”

  “Can’t you just let me in so we can talk?”

  There is a silence. She’s coming round. She realizes we have to talk, that she’s just been making a mountain out of a molehill. She’s going to open the door. We’ll go into the kitchen and have a nice calm chat.

  “No,” she says, “I’m too upset to see you or talk to just now.” She doesn’t sound remotely upset to me, just cold and hard and horrible. “I’ll call you when I’m ready.”

  “But what am I supposed—?”

  “Just go away now, Scott. Please, just go away.” Then she walks away and I see her shape retreating down the hall.

  I think of going down the side path and banging on the door of the back porch, pressing my nose to the glass, making silly faces. If I can make her laugh, if I can only make her laugh, then she’ll have me back, I know she will. But I haven’t the heart for it. I can’t bear the way she looks at me now, like she’s never seen me before.

  I sit in the car, wondering what the hell to do next. Then I drive up to the pub and go in and have a pint. I spread the paper out in front of me, but I can’t read it. The words are just black bits on the page, like an army of ants frozen on the spot. I turn the pages, a man catching up with the news, dropping in for a quick pint on the way home to his wife and family, looking forward to a home-cooked meal and a warm house, having a well-earned break after a hard day. Is that how I seem? Or do I look like a man who’s managed to lose his wife, his kids and his home, with a ho-hum job, a crap car and nowhere to sleep tonight? And I’m sodding starving.

  I pick up a burger and fries in town and eat them sitting in the car parked on a double yellow till a warden tells me you can’t park here, didn’t you see the lines, you’ll have to move on now unless you want a ticket. Why do they say that? Who would want a ticket? Though in my case, frankly, it’s the best offer I’ve had all day. It’s the only offer I’ve had all day. Life not miserable enough? Have some rubbish food and scoff it down in your car in 30 seconds flat so you get indigestion and have a bit of an argy-bargy with a traffic warden. Another excellent plan from the man who just chucked his entire life down the toilet.

  So I head back to work, stopping off at that petrol station on the way, the one with the jet wash. My car’s filthy and God knows I’ve got nothing else to do with my life, I may as well kill time and wash the bloody thing. Least then I’ll have a clean car. I’ll still be a miserable sod, true, but at least I’ll be a miserable sod with a clean car. It’s important to have some standards, right?

  I don’t know if you’ve ever been on an industrial estate at night. Probably not. You’re probably someone who’s got a normal life that doesn’t involve sleeping at work, having your spouse chuck you out on the street at midnight, or creeping about industrial estates after everyone else has gone home. Anyway, if you were thinking of trying it, I shouldn’t bother. First Glass is on an estate a couple of miles outside town and it’s dead creepy at night, not a soul to be seen. There’s security lighting of course so the parking areas are all bright as a floodlit football pitch, but it’s quiet as a graveyard. I manage a chirpy whistle and jangle my keys noisily to scare anyone off who might be lurking. Really scary that, a man jangling his keys. Is it a gun? Is it a knife? No, it’s a man, fully armed with a set of … keys. Terrific.

  I do the alarm and slump into my chair in the office. On my desk there’s a cheese roll and an apple and a banana muffin. My lunch. Cheers, Harry. The burger didn’t do much to fill me up so I chew my way through my late lunch and think about whether I’m going to phone Colin or Jeff.

  Jeff’s basically a decent bloke, but he’s never grown out of playing air guitar to godawful old rock music and since his wife flew the coop the house is a bit of a pigsty. Jeff’s one of those people who likes to leave the washing-up till later. Much later. Till it starts crawling towards the sink on its own it’s so desperate for a wash. So I opt for Colin. Yvonne answers. Of course. Thank you, God, no chance of your playing on my side for a while, is there? If it wouldn’t put you out too much. You know, just for a day or two would be nice.

  “Yvonne! All right, angel? Is Col around?”

  “Is that Scott?” How long has she known me? Unbelievable.

  “Yes, it’s me. How’re you doing?”

  There’s a baffled laugh from the other end of the phone.

  “I’m doing fine, thank you, Scott. And how are you? How’s Gail and the kids?”

  Go and get Colin, for chrissakes. “Fine, thanks! We’re all fine! Is Colin there?” “No, he’s round at his mum’s. Won’t be back till late.”

  “OK then! Not to worry!” My jaw aches from trying to keep a smile in my voice.

  Jeff it is.

  “—'lo?”

  Cheerful as ever. This is going to be fun. “Jeff mate, it’s me. Scott. How ya doing?” “'m OK.”

  I can feel my shoulders sagging just listening to him. “Fancy a pint tonight?”

  “All right.” Don’t get too overexcited now, will you? “See you in the Coach & Horses in twenty minutes?” “All right.”

  This is not my life. This is someone else’s life that I’ve fallen into by mistake. I’ve slipped through a black hole or a time warp or something and I’ve become Mr Sad, ringing up his depressed friends so we can be depressed and drunk together rather than being depressed and stone-cold sober on my own, being chirpy and nice so’s I can talk some other sad sod into letting me doss down on his settee for the night rather than trying to sleep on my desk or under my desk or on a workbench or just slitting my wrists somewhere and making an end of it.

  So I meet Jeff in the pub, we both have more to drink than’s good for us and I tell him my life’s fallen apart and he says it’s the women, always the women, and he’ll never get over her, never, and do I know that she broke his heart, do I know that. And I say I do know that, Jeff, I do, and I silently hope to hell my life will never be as lousy as his because I wouldn’t bother getting up in the morning. Then we roll back to his house and it’s even worse than I remembered, but I’m so tired and also had just a little bit too much liqu
id refreshment maybe. But not drunk. No, I’m definitely not drunk. And he says course I can stay, I can stay any time, he’d do anything for me, his old mate, I can have his old bedroom, the one he used to—the one he and his wife—where they—he can’t sleep in it any more, he’s in the back room, course I can stay there, no probs, as long as I like, any time.

  I have a slash, then blunder through to the bedroom. The quilt’s covered in blue flowers and the chest of drawers has got one of them little china statues on it, a whatsit, a figurine. It’s like a little boy sitting on a stool with his hands in front of his face and his head bent forward as if he’s sobbing his little heart out, you know? Also, he’s been dropped or chucked across the room at some point ‘cause he’s got these two ruddy great cracks in him and been glued together again. If I had that in my bedroom, I wouldn’t want to sleep in there either. Anyway, I pat the little fellow on the head and say, “Know how you feel, matey. Don’t worry—things can only get better.” Then I shed my clothes in a pile and slide under the quilt and the last thing I hear is Jeff stumbling about, cursing at the door, the wall, the toilet and anything else that gets in his way. I slip into sleep, telling myself it’s all just a bad dream and every-thing’ll be all right in the morning. When it’s tomorrow, it’ll all be OK. Roll on tomorrow.

  Gail

  If I let him back tonight, I wouldn’t have to tell the children. I wouldn’t be standing here with my insides churning away like a cement mixer, trying to think up fairy stories as to why their father’s suddenly disappeared without trace. We could go to see a marriage guidance counsellor, talk to someone about his problems in an adult fashion. I picture it in my head—me, sitting legs-crossed and very calm, my voice low and reasonable. I am saying that he’s betrayed my trust, and I feel as if I mean absolutely nothing to him. Also, as well as carrying on with another woman, he’s irresponsible and leaves me to do everything plus I can’t remember the last time we had a real conversation. I rest my hands, one neatly across the other, on my leg, and say we rarely make love and when we do, it’s a routine, as predictable as loading the dishwasher: slot everything in their correct positions, add powder, close door, twist dial and push in. All systems go. He starts by nuzzling my neck, murmuring into my ear. Then he moves to my breasts; he tends to favour the left, because he’s right-handed, I suppose, but then he might say, “Oh, and I mustn’t neglect you, must I?” That’s him, talking to my right breast. He does that, chats to them as if they’re cute little pets. He keeps one hand on my breast, tweaking the nipple or cupping the whole thing in his palm as if he’s trying to guess the weight of the cake at a village fête, while the other slides lower, following its inevitable route downwards as surely as a swallow heading south for winter.

  I suppose I’m no better when it comes to our love life. We’ve found what works, more or less, so why change it? It’s like once you’ve hit on how to bake a half-decent sponge cake, why bother to scout round for another recipe?

  Next time he phones, I could talk to him instead of hanging up. Or I could phone him. That’s what Cassie would do. She’d say I need to decide what I want and start taking control. Sounds so easy, doesn’t it? Except I don’t even know what I want.

  We could work through this. People do. This happens to thousands of couples, millions probably. I tell myself that it’s no big deal. It happens all the time. I bet that’s what he’s thinking—that everyone does it only he’s just unlucky he got caught.

  For the hundredth time today, the thousandth time, I think of last night. I had the weirdest feeling I was watching the whole thing on a cinema screen, like it wasn’t really happening to me at all. Scott kept saying the same ridiculous things over and over again—pretending to be sorry and saying how much he loved me one minute, then trying to offload his guilt by claiming I’d pushed him into it because he’d felt so rejected and unloved. How pathetic can you get? That is so typical of him, he never takes responsibility for anything. Never. My own voice sounded cold and distant, as if I was only speaking a part that had been written for me by someone else. It sounded harsh and bitter, only I kept thinking I should be feeling so much more upset. But I just felt sick and strange and afraid and all I wanted was not to have to look at him any more; I couldn’t bear the thought of looking into his eyes and not knowing whether he was lying.

  Maybe I should make him tell Nat and Rosie, see how he feels when he has to tell his own children why he can’t be at home with them any more. It’s his fault, so why should I have to come up with an explanation that they can handle? But, if he tells them, he’s bound to lie. He’d try to twist it all around, make them think I’m being unreasonable and unfair, that he’s being punished for one small mistake. No, I have to do it.

  I phone him on his mobile.

  “Gail!” His voice is full of relief, I can hear it. He thinks I’ve forgiven him, that I’m going to ask him to come back. You arrogant little shit, I think, feeling real anger stirring inside me, making me come alive again. “I’m so—”

  “Save it. I’m not ringing to exchange pleasantries.” My voice stays calm, a model of control.

  “But can I—?”

  “No, you can’t. I’m going to tell the children. Tonight. I’m just letting you know.”

  There is a silence. Scott’s usually a bit of a babbler, so I wonder if his phone’s lost the signal.

  “Scott? Hello?”

  “Yeah. Still here. Sorry. What are you going to say?”

  “I think I should tell them the truth, don’t you? They’re not babies any more.”

  “Do you have to?”

  Typical Scott, wanting to worm his way out of trouble.

  “Well, I realize you may not prize honesty as much as I do, but I don’t see why I should be expected to lie to my own children.”

  “No, course not. Not lie exactly. But can’t you just …?” His tone is wheedling, whingeing, like a child wanting its own way.

  “Can’t I just phrase it so you come out of it all smelling of roses? And you think that’s a reasonable thing for you to ask, do you?” This is not the way I meant to sound. I was going to be calm, sensible and mature, but it comes out bitter and sneering. I sound like a schoolteacher, telling him off.

  “No. I guess not.”

  “Fine, that’s agreed then.”

  I wonder where he’s sleeping. I wonder if he’s staying with her. I bet he is, I bet he went straight there, fell into her bed and—, I’m not going to think about it.

  “I’m planning to sort out your things in a day or two. Where are you staying?” “At Jeff’s. But Gail, we really need to—”

  “You can pick them up one day next week, once the kids have gone to school.”

  “But what about the weekend? Can’t I—?”

  “No. I’m taking the kids to my parents this weekend.”

  “You can’t stop me seeing them.”

  “Don’t you dare tell me what I can and can’t do!” My throat feels dry, dry and sour. I slump down on the stairs and lower my head, feeling sick and faint.

  “When can I see them?”

  I don’t know, I don’t know. I can’t do this. I don’t want this to be happening. I hate him for doing this to us. This isn’t my life. I don’t know how to do this.

  “I don’t know.” I take a deep breath and clutch one of the banisters as if it might save me. I feel as if I’ve been thrown overboard and I’m lost, adrift and alone, with no hope of rescue. “Um, maybe next weekend. You know I wouldn’t stop you seeing them. You’re being ridiculous, trying to make out I’m being mean to you and that you’re the victim in all this.”

  “I’m not. I just—”

  “We need a few days’ breathing space, that’s all I’m saying. Please just leave us alone for a few days.”

  “Well, OK then. If that’s what you want. And could you tell the kids—?”

  “What?”

  “Tell them I said—just tell them I said hi.”

  Scott

  I
suppose I ought to mention the event that triggered off my Great Departure. I didn’t exactly leave of my own accord. Not entirely. Gail encouraged me to go. Yup, I guess locking me out on the front step in the middle of the night definitely counts as encouragement. Now, it’s not quite what it sounds like, so bear with me. OK, it is what it sounds like but I know as soon as I confess that I slept with someone else you’ll write me off and be thinking “Cheating slimebag—no wonder she chucked him out” and it really wasn’t like that. I guess I should have filled you in properly before, but I reckon you’re not stupid and it wouldn’t take an Einstein to figure it out. Whatever. Anyway, the fact is that, due to circumstances beyond my control—i.e. being a man—my dick accidentally ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or wrong person, more accurately. And Gail found out.

  First of all, let me say I did not have an affair; it was barely even a fling—not so much a one-night stand as a one-hour stand and it’s doubly unfair because I’ve never strayed before, not even once. I realize that doesn’t let me off the hook but I just wanted you to know that I don’t make a habit of this. I know it must sound like I’m trying to get myself off the hook—"Miss, Miss, it didn’t count ‘cause I didn’t enjoy it.” But it’s like soggy chips—you feel you’re wasting your—your sort of wickedness allowance because for the same fat and calories and what have you, you could have had really good chips and enjoyed being bad. But you’ve bought them now so what are you going to do but eat them and feel pissed off that you’ve used up your chips quota? Then you have to have a Diet Coke with them, to cancel them out. And maybe a doughnut after to have something properly bad to make yourself feel better because of the chips and to get rid of the taste of the Diet Coke.

  I’ll tell you about Angela later, the one who was the cause of all the trouble, the one who accidentally became over-familiar with the contents of my underpants. Anyway, after our totally insignificant semi-shag, I’d gone back to work to fetch my stuff and then I went home. Now if I’d been more of a devious bastard instead of just a stupid fathead, I’d never have slipped up. But it’s not like I carry a copy of How to Commit Adultery—And Get Away With It in my back pocket.