Lessons for a Sunday Father

by Claire Calman

  “Anyone can make a mistake,” I say, “but we can sort that out for you, no problem.”

  “You better. Can you do it now?”

  Thing is, I haven’t got my tools on me. Didn’t see the point without knowing what the problem was. Plus if I’d brought them I could tell she’d have had me there till midnight.

  “Trouble is, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to get it out in one piece. I can have a go but I can’t guarantee it and I don’t want to leave you with a draught blowing in on you when you’re—when you’re using the bathroom.” She gives me a look then, a sort of assessing look. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was eyeing me up. “We might have to get new.”

  “Fine. So you can just drive back and get it now.”

  Unfortunately, it must have been a special order because it’s not one of the most popular designs and it’s toughened, so we’ll have to reorder and start again and that’s another two days minimum. She is not happy.

  “But—” Harry says the customer is always right and we rely on repeat business. “One, I’ll do it myself so you can be sure of a good job … And two, I’ll make it half-price. Can’t say fairer than that, can I?”

  She sighs.

  “OK.”

  She tells me to phone her the moment it comes in and I say I will and then when I’m at the door to go, she suddenly looks me right in the eye and gives me this dead sexy smile.

  “Thanks. I’ll see you soon then.” Her eyes are sparkling and she pushes a strand of hair back from her face.

  “Yes.” I feel like I’m going red. Get a grip, man, for God’s sake. “Very soon. Two days. Three at the outside.”

  I can feel her eyes on me as I walk back down the path. I don’t know. One minute she’s ready to tear me limb from limb and leave me out for the vultures, the next she’s flashing me a come-to-bed smile and straightening her shoulders so her tits stick out more.

  And, I have to admit it, I was intrigued. It’s not that I never get offers. In our line of work, we’ve all had bored housewives coming on to us and, OK, I’ve been pretty tempted once or twice—who wouldn’t be, so long as you still got blood in your veins, right? But you find a nice way to keep your distance and there’s no harm done. Unless you’re Lee, in which case he probably takes on all comers. But Angela was different. For a start, she was a career woman. Successful. A BMW but not a man in sight. Not the kind of woman that normally takes much notice of me, to be honest. And she was built too, you know? It’s not that I’d gone off Gail. Gail’s slim as a pencil though she goes on about her tummy like most women. But Angela was—well, on the large side if anything. Not just up front, but big hips, decent bum, something you felt you could really get a hold of. If you had the chance. I found myself thinking about her in bed that night. Besides, it’s not like Gail was throwing herself on me the second I got home every night, saying, “Take me, take me, Big Boy!” Half the time even if I tried to kiss her she’d just give me a peck back like she was my aunty or something.

  The next morning, I was on to Tuff-Glass first thing and begging them to make it a rush job.

  * * *

  And a couple of days later, when I go back, I know at once I wasn’t imagining it. I’m barely in the door before she’s falling over herself offering me teas and coffees, laughing at my jokes and giving me posh biscuits covered in chocolate an inch thick. No custard creams for her, that’s for sure. So I’m thinking, “Ay-ay, what’s occurring here?” I still can’t figure it out, but I’m so pleased she’s stopped biting my head off, it’s possible that I go a tad too far on the smiling and flirting front.

  Anyways, I crack on with the doors and I’m having a laugh with her, asking her what she does and can she get me a job ‘cause if it comes with a spanking new BMW in tow then I don’t care what it is but I’d like some of it thank you. And she says she’s a marketing consultant and she’s got her own company and she’s doing OK, only she says it like this, “Actually, I have been doing r-a-a-a-ther well of late.” Quite posh, like I told you before.

  Then she’s making me another cup of tea when she says, “Married?” Just like that. Only she’s smiling in this dead sexy way as she holds out the biscuit jar.

  I raise my eyebrows and delve slowly around the jar, taking my time, looking into her eyes.

  “Does it make a difference?”

  “I’d say you fancy yourself.”

  “Well, someone’s got to.”

  Now all the while this is going on, there’s another bit of my head—probably my brain, you know, the small bit—that’s saying, “Here, hang on a minute, mate, where’s all this heading?” Unfortunately, I’m not really listening to that bit. In fact, I’m kind of telling it to shut up because I’m doing just fine on my own and I’m not needing my brain at the current time.

  Then she says, “I know it’s an awful cheek, but you look like you might be a handy man with a drill and I’ve gone and bought this rather large mirror. I thought it would look nice in the master bedroom.”

  And I start thinking of various other things that I think would look nice in the master bedroom. I can see her blouse straining against her nipples.

  “A mirror? And you never got it from us? Cheeky. Oh, go on then. Have you got a drill? Or mine’s in the car.” Never travel without a drill. You never know when it could come in handy.

  She waves her hand around in the air.

  “Oh there should be one somewhere. I’ve no idea. Possibly in the garage.”

  I get mine to save buggering about. I follow her upstairs, getting a good look at her bum as she goes ahead of me, and think about putting my hand up her skirt. I could just reach out and touch the back of her leg, my fingers sliding over her legs, moving between her thighs, making her quiver. Then she’s at the top of the stairs and leading the way to the “master” bedroom. Why do they call it that? It’s just estate-agent bollocks, right? Still, the bed’s massive, queen size or king size or whatever. Big anyway. It’s so huge you can’t ignore it, so I say, “Nice bed.” I always was nifty with the quick one-liners. Still, at least it was short and to the point. She smiles and gestures at the mirror leaning against one wall.

  I can’t help myself now, it’s like I’ve entered bad comedy zone and everything I say sounds like a come-on.

  “Where do you want it then?” I smirk a bit at that ‘cause I’ve given up all pretence of trying to be cool and I know she knows I’m interested but I’m not sure what to do about it. Well, we go through the motions of offering it up to the wall and dickering about, then I mark the wall with a pencil ‘cept by now my hands are shaking and I’m wondering if I should take the risk and kiss her or if she’ll give me a slap and phone Harry to complain. Then I’m holding the mirror and she’s supporting the other side and I look at her reflection in the mirror and she’s looking straight back at me. She doesn’t look away. And then, without speaking, we put the mirror down, and I put my hand on the curve of her waist and pull her towards me and kiss her. Her arms loop round my neck and she kisses me back. She kisses me like she’s not been kissed for a while and wants to make up for lost time. I let my hand on her waist sneak down a bit so it’s on her hip, then round to her bum. I’d pull her closer but there’s not a breath of air between us as it is and I can feel her pressing hard against my groin. I slide my other hand over her blouse, as if I’m interested in assessing the texture of the material for some reason, but then my hand’s cupping her breast, thumb circling the nipple.

  I hear a low moan then realize it’s me. I touch her through the cloth of her skirt then I bend to hitch it up, my hand between her thighs just like I pictured it. I feel her hesitate a moment, wondering if she should stop me, wondering what she’s doing, letting herself be touched up by some bloke she barely knows in the middle of the afternoon. Then my fingers find the satin of her knickers, slippery and getting damp. She jerks against me suddenly as my fingers cheat their way under the elastic, paddling in her flesh.

  She pulls back for a m
oment; her face is flushed, her eyes glassy as if she’s a bit tipsy. All traces of her lipstick have been kissed to oblivion, but her lips are red and full, her breathing hot close to my face. I start to unbutton her blouse with one hand, the other hand still busy beneath her skirt, moving her towards that vast acreage of bed.

  “Wait a sec,” she says, still pushing against me, her hand cupping my head as I nibble her neck. “I need to get something, you know.”

  I nod and reach down to tug off my socks, then undo my trousers. She comes back from the bathroom with a packet of three. At least it’s a new packet. What could be more depressing than someone appearing with a packet of three, but there’s only one left? That’d make you feel like you were walking on a well-trodden path, eh? Anyways, she whips off the cellophane, takes one out and pushes me, with one finger, onto the bed.

  “I don’t know my own strength,” she says. She reaches for me, her hand going straight to my cock. She’s not shy, that’s for sure. And I’m thinking I’m already just about ready to explode but I want to be inside her. She rolls on the condom, then lies on her side, her leg hooked over mine. I tease her for a few seconds, rubbing the tip against her, then feel her hand on my bum pulling me towards her—aa-aah, I thought I’d forgotten how to do it, but it’s coming back to me now, oh yes. I bury my face in her cleavage, smell her skin, try to reach round her to undo her bra, hands clumsy with lust. She’s grinding against me, getting more excited as I push into her, but suddenly, that’s it—I can’t wait. I want to, but I can’t. I’m past the point of no return and I’m coming, feeling as if my eyes are rolling into the back of my head, but it’s too late.

  I shudder against her and collapse, my mouth hot and open on her cheek.

  “Sorry. I’m really sorry. I meant to hold out …”

  “Doesn’t matter.” She’s trying to be nice. I ease out carefully, then gently start to touch her again.

  “I want to make you come.”

  She smiles, then—can you believe it—my sodding mobile goes.

  “Um …” I’m tempted to leave it but it’s probably Gail.

  “Perhaps you’d better answer that?”

  “Won’t be a tick.”

  The screen display says HOME, so I answer it and pad out to the landing, away from the rumpled bed, away from Angela lying there with her skirt tangled round her hips, away from the scene of the crime.

  “Hey there!” I say brightly, suddenly feeling very naked. I shuffle closer to this plant in the corner with whacking great leaves, trying to cover myself up a bit with undergrowth as if Gail could see me through the phone.

  “Hi. Just calling to say can you pick up some wine on the way home?”

  “Okey-doke! What colour?”

  “White. Can you get that one we had before, with the blue squiggle on the label? Where are you now? Are you nearly through?”

  You could say that. Christ, this really wasn’t such a hot idea. Check my watch. Shit. It’s after five already.

  “Yeah. Just clearing up now. Gary only went and put the wrong glass in this customer’s door—clear glass for a bathroom. He must have sawdust for brains.”

  “And can you pick up some crisps for Rosie’s lunchbox tomorrow? Cheese-and-onion.”

  “Blue squiggly wine and crisps. Got it. See ya!” I press the end call button and stand there, naked on a strange woman’s landing, holding the phone like I’ve never seen it before. What the fuck am I doing? What have I done? But I’ve not got time now to dwell on what a total prat I am.

  Back into the bedroom. No sign of Angela, but the shower’s running in the en-suite.

  “Er, all right in there then?” I call out.

  She says something back but I can’t hear properly because of the water. I start picking up my socks and my shirt off the floor.

  “Want a shower?”

  Let’s see—do I want a shower? On balance, I’d say probably a yes to that. Alternatively, I could go home drenched in the smell of sweat, sex and the tang of another woman. What a good idea.

  She appears in a towel and smiles at me, but I don’t have a clue what she’s thinking. I smile back.

  “Sorry it was a bit … speedy.”

  She shrugs and drops her head down to towel her hair.

  “No sweat. Sounds like you’d better get going.”

  “Yeah. Guess so.” I head for the shower.

  I kiss her goodbye in the hall.

  “I’ll call you,” I say.

  “As you like.”

  And that was that. One brief shaglet equals one perfectly good marriage out the window.

  Rosie

  We went to Nana and Grandad’s for the weekend, but Dad didn’t come with us because him and Mum haven’t made up yet. On Sunday, Aunty Mari came over for lunch as well and she and Mum were talking in the garden for ages and ages but when I went outside Aunty told me to run along and play as if I was about five years old.

  Nat didn’t hardly say a word the whole weekend and at lunch he reached right across the table for the potatoes and Aunty said, “Someone wants to start watching their manners, young man.”

  “Just leave it, Mari.” Mum gave her a look.

  Then Grandad said, “Come along now, let’s not spoil a lovely lunch. Who’d like a drop more wine?”

  Nat said he would and Mum said not on your life and I said I would too and everyone laughed but it wasn’t funny. Then Nana poured me some lemonade instead and said, there you are, poppet, that’s much better than wine and I said thank you but then Nat gave me a snotty look because he hates it when I remember to say please and thank you but it wasn’t my fault he got told off in the first place.

  I was going to ask Mum if Dad would be home again when we got back, but Nat said I was being a silly baby and I wasn’t to ask her and he’d never talk to me ever, ever again if I did. I wasn’t being a baby, I just wanted to know. Mostly on Sunday evenings, we all watch TV or a video. Mum sits at one end of the couch and Dad at the other and I go in the middle. Nat lies on the floor in the front. He doesn’t like being on the couch with us because he says he likes to spread out and anyway he can never sit still and Mum has to tell him to stop fidgeting.

  When we got home, it was all quiet and there were no lights on and Mum clapped her hands together the way Miss Collins does at school and then she said right, if you’ve any homework still to do, off upstairs and finish it now. I did mine then I went in Nat’s room and he said, “See, told you Dad wouldn’t be here. You’d only have made everything worse if you’d asked Mum.”

  “Why can’t they say they’re sorry and make up, then Dad could come home again?”

  “Because they’re both, like, totally clueless and if you haven’t worked that one out by now then there’s no hope for you.”

  So I stuck my tongue out at him and said he was a big horrible pig with greasy hair and I ran out and banged his door. I ran into my room and wedged the chair under the handle in case he tried to get me back. Then I went all the way along the shelf above my bed and shook every single one of my snow shakers. I’ve got seven altogether. My best one is the one Mum and Dad got me when they went to France on their anniversary last year and Nat and me went to stay with Nana and Grandad. It’s got the Eiffel Tower in it and it’s supposed to be night-time but instead of snow it’s got gold glitter in it. I gave it an extra shake then I knelt on my bed with my nose right up touching the glass so all I could see was the world inside it and I made believe I was in Paris all on my own with no Nat or Mum or Dad or anyone. I was doing pirouettes right on the top of the Eiffel Tower and there were lots and lots of lights and all around me was sparkly gold snowflakes floating down.

  Nat

  He’s not coming back. I said he wasn’t and he’s not. All that stuff Mum came out with about it just being for a little while is total crap. It might work with Rosie, but she can’t expect me to buy it. Some of his clothes have gone. I went into their bedroom and looked in the wardrobe. Before, his clothes were all on the rig
ht and Mum’s were on the left. The clothes were all squashed up because Dad says Mum’s got too many things, God knows why, she doesn’t wear a quarter of them, he says. Now her stuff’s all spaced out and there’s a gap at one end, like his things were never there at all, like he never even lived here.

  Mum told us we would see him next weekend and that we can phone him whenever we like. She said he’d phone Wednesday and we could decide what to do at the weekend. I won’t be here when he phones. I’ve got swimming practice. My tumble turn’s too slow. Jason sees his dad only on weekends. He stays at his dad’s every other Saturday night and they go out and do stuff on Sunday.

  * * *

  I looked in the cupboard under the stairs. His fishing things were still there. He wouldn’t leave without them. Maybe he will come back. There were his rods in their covers. The big green umbrella. That funny little tent to keep the wind off. It’s not a proper tent really, no groundsheet or anything, but it’s better than nothing when the wind’s cutting along the coast or coming straight at you off the sea. We used to go a lot, Dad and me, down off the beach. I’ve got my own rod. Dad bought it for me one Christmas. The reel bit alone cost loads of money. It’s a proper one, a grown-up one. Rosie’s got a stupid little girl’s rod because she’s only come with us once or twice and then only so she wouldn’t feel left out and Mum said we had to take her and not to be a pair of spoilsports. She never caught anything except when Dad cast for her, so it didn’t count. I got a couple of flatties last time, only small though, so I chucked them back. Dad promised that one day we’d hire a boat so we could go further out. Don’t suppose he’ll bother now. He shouldn’t make promises if he’s not going to keep them.

  We used to go at night sometimes. You get there on a rising tide. We’d take like a kind of a picnic, Dad made it, not Mum, with soup or cocoa and sandwiches. But we’d always get chips as well once we were there. There’s a chippie down this side street off the front. It helps keep your hands warm, holding chips. I started going when I was only six or seven. We used to take my sleeping bag in case I fell asleep. I remember Dad lifting me up, like I was a ginormous great caterpillar in this sleeping bag and laying me on the back seat of the car. Then at home, I’d feel him lift me out again. It was all dark but he’d carry me up the stairs, my legs swinging in the bag as he bounced on each step. Then he put me down on my bed, still in my clothes, and he’d pull the covers up over the sleeping bag, and the last thing I heard was him saying, “Night-night, Natty. Sleep tight,” and then tiptoeing out again. And I’d say “Night-night” back, at least I always meant to say it, but by then I was too sleepy to speak. I thought I was saying it out loud, but I wasn’t. It was just in my head. You do stuff like that when you’re only a little kid.