Lessons for a Sunday Father

by Claire Calman

  Gail

  How did my life get to be like this? I didn’t ask for this. When I was a little girl, I used to dress up and play weddings with my sisters. Mari used to make some poor boy down the road be the groom (which was a non-speaking part as far as we were concerned, aside from saying “I do”) and the two of us would take it in turns to be the bride and the vicar. Lynn was always the bridesmaid, of course, because she was the youngest, but we let her wear this sparkly headband as a tiara and catch the bouquet so she put up with it. I thought that when you grew up, you got married, got your washing-machine and your fitted kitchen, your three-piece suite and your drinks cabinet, and then you lived happily after. I mean, I literally thought that that’s what happened—just because you were grown up.

  And then, even when I was a teenager and supposedly had enough sense to know better, each time I started going out with someone new, I’d have this flutter of excitement in my insides, thinking, “What if this is it?” And I’d start picturing it in my head, our wedding I mean. And this is after I’ve been out with the guy once. I’d be thinking about my dress and what sort of sleeves it would have and how low cut it should be at the front and whether it should be pure white or maybe ivory would be better, and wondering if it would be best to go the whole hog and have the big fairytale number with the enormous skirt like an outsize meringue or should I be a bit more sophisticated and have something draped and elegant with a little beaded bolero jacket. I’m serious. I’d go on and on like this in my head.

  Then, of course, I’d go for the second date, and we’d see a film or something, and he’d try to grope me in the back row or we’d go for a meal and he’d eat with his mouth open and all my dreams—the dress, the flowers, the speeches, my dad looking pleased as punch—the whole lot would go out the window and I’d be looking over this guy’s shoulder in the restaurant trying to see if anyone better had come in the door.

  Then I met Scott. Right away, I liked him. The other guys I saw, they were all smooth, trying to impress and thinking they were slick. But him, he couldn’t get his words out. I knew he liked me from the way he would hardly look at me and the way he spilled his tea when I smiled at him. I thought he was sweet, just like a big kid really.

  And, guess what? Scott is just like a big kid. He doesn’t plan for the future most of the time, he doesn’t remember anything important, only silly stuff that you’d never need to remember, stuff about sports and bands and strange things he’s picked up from quiz shows. “How many sides in an icosahedron?” he’ll suddenly say while we’re driving along. “I’ve no idea, Scott. Just tell me and get it out of your system.” He calls me a spoilsport, wants me to guess. Once, taking the mickey, I said why don’t we play I Spy (Rosie wasn’t even in the car). “Righto,” said Scotty, taking me seriously, “I spy with my little eye something beginning with S—B—.” Know what it was? No? Neither did I. It was Squashed Bug, on the windscreen. What can you do with a man like that?

  Our Big Day turned out to be nothing like all my childish daydreams, of course. By then I was a bit more hard-headed and we were saving up to buy our first house. My parents said they’d be happy to splash out on a fancy wedding for me, or I could have the money for a deposit on a house. Scott said it had better be my choice as the money was coming from my family (I think his parents’ sole contribution was an extremely ugly fake crystal bowl that I gave to the Oxfam shop at the first opportunity) and he knew what girls were like about weddings. So we put the money down on a house and had a small wedding at a registry office, with me in a pale pink suit. See, here’s our wedding photo, God knows why it’s still out. I’m wearing this ridiculous flower thing in my hair and Scott’s in a grey suit with sleeves that were just too long so he looks like a boy out in his first grown-up jacket.

  Then we had family and friends back to my parents’ home for a buffet and my father made a proud speech, telling everyone about what I was like when I was little, how neat and organized I was, standing in the lounge playing teacher, my dolls all sitting in a row, me telling them to behave themselves or they’d be sent to the headmaster. Thank God Scott’s father didn’t try to make a speech. I don’t remember him saying anything much, I mean not congratulations or anything. Scott’s mother stationed herself by the buffet table, as far as I can recall, refilling her plate every few minutes and looking round nervously as if she thought someone would come up and stop her at any moment. Still, it was a good day, and we were both very happy.

  But, after all my dreams, now look at me. It was awful telling my family about Scott moving out, I felt so ashamed, like I’d let them down somehow. Mum was beside herself, twittering round the kitchen and making cups of tea every two minutes. Mari lost no time in saying how she’d always known it would come to this, if only I’d listened to her in the first place, she’d always said, hadn’t she, that Dennis was no good, wouldn’t ever amount to anything, coming from council house stock (yes, she actually says that) and trying to drag himself up by marrying me—as if we’re royalty or something. She’s a terrible snob, Marian, she thinks having a four-bedroom detached and a double garage with remote-control doors makes her a bloody Duchess. “That Dennis,” she calls Scott when she’s stuck in her you-could-have- made-something-of-yourself-if-you-hadn’t-married-a-loser groove—"that Dennis has done nothing but hold you back.” I’ve always claimed that I don’t feel held back, which isn’t exactly 100 per cent true, but I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

  To be fair, I don’t think she meant to be unkind. It’s just she’s got one failed marriage behind her already and I don’t think everything’s exactly a bed of roses with Robert either. He’s Husband No. 2, but he might as well be the Invisible Man, I can’t think when we last saw him. He’s one of those men who’s all hearty handshakes and rather crass jokes, trying to seem jolly the whole time, but when you actually talk to him, he sounds depressed. He wears those trousers with the permanent perfect creases down the front, and it always looks as if they’re holding him up somehow, rather than the other way round.

  Dad was lovely, though: “All marriages have their ups and downs,” he said, making sure Mum was out of earshot first. “Maybe you’ll find a way to work things out. Scott’s a good man at heart, you could go a long way and find worse.” Then he stood there, holding me, the way he used to when I was just a girl and had got in a stew about something or other.

  I shook my head slowly.

  “I think it’s too late for us to work things out.”

  “Well, if not, not. So long as our Gaily’s happy though, eh? That’s all that matters to us.”

  “I’m OK, Dad. I’ll be OK.”

  Scott

  You know, I look back and think about why I ended up in bed with Angela and I know, whatever I say, it’s going to sound like I’m trying to shift the blame and I’m not. I’m really not. All I’m saying is, if the restaurant’s always closed you can’t blame a bloke for trying the café, can you? After all, it’s not as if I’d gone off Gail or anything. I still fancied her. She’s got this gorgeous smile—well, used to have, can’t say I’ve seen so much of it the last couple of years come to think of it—and really nice straight teeth. That sounds a bit like she’s a horse that I’m judging or something but I don’t mean it like that. She’s sort of clean and pretty looking but her smile is really sexy, like she’s all wholesome on the surface but dead horny underneath. And she’s got knockout legs ‘cept you’d have to have X-ray vision to see them because she almost always wears trousers these days because they’re more practical and she’s not messing about tarting herself up to please someone else thank you very much. But she used to—wear skirts, that is.

  First time I saw her she was wearing this dress. It was white with little red dots all over it. It wasn’t especially short or anything but it swirled around her legs when she moved so that you noticed them and wished it were shorter and her hair was all shiny and I wanted to touch it. It was in that old caff that used to be in the middle of town—the
Mocha Bar it was called; still had its fittings from the Fifties, chrome and padded banquette seats and jazzy-patterned lino. So, I was there with a mate and she’s there with her mate and then she goes up to the counter for something and I’m up there faster than a whippet out of a trap, then looking all casual. She’s standing, waiting for Sylvie behind the counter to brew the tea. And Sylvie’s got it well sussed already and giving me this “So are you going to chat her up or not?” look and swirling the teapot round and round slowly, giving me time.

  “Yeah, tea for me as well then, please Sylvie.” My opening remark. Stunning. Who could resist me? And if you thought that was cool, how about my dazzling follow-up? “Got any doughnuts left?”

  Anyway, this dream creature in the dotty dress, instead of giving me the pitying look I deserved, actually turns and smiles at me. So I’m a goner then. There’s no hope for me. I’m practically dribbling. And this is when I lead up to the Big Move. I nod at her.

  “All right?” I say. Can you believe it? And, remember, I wasn’t fifteen when I met her. I’m too embarrassed to say. Oh, sod it, I was twenty-four—and no problems with the girls normally, I’d been around. But this one reduces me to a bumbling idiot. No patter. No clever compliments. No nifty innuendoes. Bloody hopeless.

  “Yes, thank you,” she says, smiling at me as if I’ve said something quite intelligent or amusing. “You?” she adds.

  “Yup,” I say, then, thinking it sounds too curt and abrupt, instead of keeping my big mouth shut like any sensible person I carry on: “Yes, indeedy, I’m all right. Certainly. All right, all righty. No worries.” By now I’m swearing at myself inside, digging my fingernails into my palms to jab some sense into me, ready to stick my head in the urn and end it all. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sylvie slowly shake her head to herself and start to pour the tea.

  Then she says she hasn’t seen me in there before and I say I do come in there, often actually, meaning to encourage her to come there again so I can accidentally on purpose bump into her but it comes out a bit rushed and a bit strange and it sounds like I’m being defensive, offering an alibi or accusing her of being dumb or a liar or both.

  And so I realize that it’s all hopeless and I might as well have two doughnuts and bugger the spots, so I turn to Sylvie for my tea.

  “Well, maybe see you around then?” says the dream creature. “I’m Gail, by the way.”

  The cup rattles in its saucer as I lift it, slopping some over the side. I stare at it, trying not to spill any more at the same time as trying to look casual as if it doesn’t really take 99 per cent of my concentration to transport a cup of tea all of ten feet to my table.

  “Yes. Definitely. Yes.” I risk a quick glance away from the cup to look at her. What a smile. “I’m De—Scott.” This was round about the time I’d decided to skip the Dennis altogether and use my surname instead.

  “DeScott?”

  “Scott.” I square my shoulders and try to look smooth. “Just Scott.” I nod coolly. “See you around then.”

  As I clunk my tea down on the table, more of it slops into the saucer, which now looks like a ruddy soup bowl. I won’t turn round, I tell myself. I won’t turn round. I won’t.

  I turn round. She is laughing with her mate, probably giggling about what a fathead I am and about how I can’t manage to hold a cup of tea properly.

  “I wouldn’t mind either,” says Roger, my mate. “You jammy bugger.”

  He was right. That was it, with Gail. On good days, I always feel—felt—I was a bit of a jammy bugger. And what the hell does that make me now?

  Nat

  Mum said, “Well, of course, I won’t make you go. Don’t see how I could make you. But …”

  I sat there, yawning, wishing she’d hurry up and get the lecture over so I could go round Steve’s. Mum was watching my foot as I jiggled it up and down and you could tell any second now she was going to say, “Nathan, please stop fidgeting, I’m trying to talk to you,” but she bit her lip. I stopped anyway for a second to watch her face, then started again, trying to speed her up a bit.

  “Nat, you know your dad loves you very much …”

  I snorted. Yeah, right. Funny way of showing it. That’s why he couldn’t stand to live in the same house as me any more. Mum does come out with some crap sometimes.

  “He does, Nat. I know it’s hard for you to see while you’re still so angry with him. You and Rosie mean everything to him.”

  I raised my left eyebrow at her to show I knew it was total crud what she was saying. It looks really cool.

  “It’s just your dad and I—well—you know, some-times grown-ups find they can’t live together any more and they decide it will be better for everyone if they live apart for a while.”

  Give me a break, puh-leese. Why’s it up to the parents to decide? What bright spark came up with that idea? They should have left it up to me or Rosie. I yawned again. I think she’s been reading all those sad self-help books. How To Tell Your Kids You’re Getting a Divorce, that stuff. Should be How To Tell Your Kids You’ve Fucked Up Big Time.

  “Scuse me? You talking to me?” I leant back in my chair. “I’m not Rosie, you know, you can’t pull that ‘sometimes grown-ups need to be apart for a while’ stuff with me. Why don’t you cut the crap and just tell me when you’re getting a divorce?”

  She sighed and slumped down onto my bed and started trying to straighten the duvet out which was a non-starter because she was sitting on it.

  “Oh, Nathan. I don’t mean to talk to you as if you’re a baby, but you’ve no idea how hard this is.”

  “Shouldn’t have got married in the first place then, should you?”

  She looked up at me.

  “How can you say that? You and Rosie are the best thing that’s ever happened to me and your dad …”

  “Yeah, yeah … and the divorce?”

  “We’re not at that stage yet, Nathan. Your dad and I—”

  “Can I go yet? I said I’d go round Steve’s.”

  “Well, I think this is pretty important, don’t you?”

  I shrugged.

  “It’s no big deal. People get divorced the whole time. Celebs never stay married more than two years. It’s to keep themselves in the papers—big battle slugging it out in the courts then fairytale wedding to the next one.”

  “That’s hardly the same thing, is it? This is a big deal, Nat, because this is us. Anyway, I just can’t bear the thought that you or Rosie would ever think—even for a second—that your dad and I having this time apart means we don’t love you.”

  I put my feet up on my desk to loosen my laces, thinking when I got round to Steve’s I would check out this new game he got sent from his aunt over in LA. She sounds pretty cool. How come he gets an aunt who knows all the best games and sends him brilliant new ones like months before they’re even out here and I get the kind of aunts who knit me crap sweaters barely big enough for a four-year-old and who ruffle my hair and ask me how I’m enjoying school. ‘Cept Sheila, that’s Dad’s big sister. She’s cool, but she lives all the way up in Scotland.

  I looked back at Mum. She had that look, like she was waiting for something, so I figured maybe she’d asked me a question.

  “Mmn,” I said and sort of smiled a bit.

  “Good.” She got up and put her arms round me and tried to give me a hug.

  “Mu-uum.” I pulled away.

  “Oh, you. You’re not too old to give your mum an occasional cuddle, are you?”

  “Mn.”

  “Anyway.” She stood behind me with her hands on my shoulders. “I’m glad we’ve had a chat. And you will think about it, eh?”

  “Right.” Think about what? I got up, shrugging her off. “I’m off to Steve’s.” I stopped in the hall as I grabbed my jacket and shouted back up the stairs. “What’s for tea tonight?”

  “Not sure. Pasta with some devastatingly delicious and unusual sauce probably.”

  “Pasta again. Can’t we go down the chippi
e?”

  “We’ll see. No promises. And Nathan?”

  “What?”

  “Back by quarter to seven at the latest if you want to eat, please. If you get held up, phone. No excuses.”

  “Yeah, yeah, blah, blah. Why don’t you just get me an electronic tag so you know where I am the whole time?” Unbelievable.

  Rosie

  When I come back from seeing my dad, Mum is ironing or getting the tea ready. She kisses me and says, “Had a good day, darling? Do something nice?”

  Now I know what to say and what’s best not to tell. One time, I came home and told Mum that I had chips and a Coke and a chocolate nut sundae and then we had cake in a little café. She said I must be sure and make Daddy give me a proper meal, not just chips and then I heard her on the phone to Dad and she was very cross and said he was like a bloody kid himself, didn’t he know anything, what was he thinking of and that he would never change, he was always irry-something and he must jolly well get a proper hot meal inside me with vegetables and not be pouring rubbish down my throat all day long and spoiling me for normal food.

  Natty doesn’t ask me about what I do with Dad, but I know he wants to know, so when I come in I creep up to his room. I lie on his bed while he watches his TV or plays on his computer. He says he is not playing but “doing stuff” but it is mostly games or e-mailing his friends or surfing the Net or talking to people in chat rooms until Mum notices and gets cross about the phone bill and that she can’t use the phone. Nat says she’s mean and how come we’re the last people on the planet with only one phone line, then Mum says he’s becoming a right little spoilt brat and that lots of people don’t even have enough to eat and he should be grateful. Then he makes that face he does when he’s in a funny mood. He doesn’t say anything, but he tilts his head like this so his hair falls forward over his eyes and there’s no point saying anything to him then because he won’t answer.