Lessons for a Sunday Father

by Claire Calman

  Nat has old toys under his bed which he says he doesn’t play with any more but when Mum said we should pass them all on to the children’s ward at the hospital, he said he had to sort them out first and then he didn’t do it. Also he has magazines with pictures of motorbikes in and one time I found a rude one with naked ladies in it and I said I was going to tell Mum but Nat said he would give me a Chinese burn if I did and I better not. I wouldn’t have told anyway. Nat said it wasn’t his, but that Steve must have left it to get him in trouble, and the next time I looked it wasn’t there.

  I look through whatever’s lying around on his floor or under the bed and say where we went and what we did and what I ate and what we bought and what we saw. Nat never asks anything but when he wants to know more about something, his hand goes still on his mouse and he leans back in his chair and kicks his feet forwards until they touch the wall. Mum will tell him off because he’s always kicking things and he leaves big black marks everywhere from his shoes. He leans back and I tell him things like, “So then we went to the beach and we saw a funny man with a hat on and he was talking to himself and I said he must be a loony and Dad said no, he might be a spy or a detective working undercover and was just pretending to be a loony so that no-one would suspect anything and that we should just act natural and then run and hide behind the breakwater. So we did and we crouched on the pebbles and Dad looked over the top and then I looked over the top to see if the man was still there. But he wasn’t.” Then Nat said the man was probably hiding behind another breakwater because he thought we must be the loonies because we were acting so daft and suspicious and if we weren’t careful someone would call in the men from the loony bin. But Nat was only saying it to try to scare me. He didn’t mean it. I could ask Dad. Mostly he doesn’t know the answers to things when you ask him, but he doesn’t mind. Before, when he was at home, if I asked him questions, he’d say, “Ask Mum” or “Ask your teacher” only now he says, “Mmm, let’s see now, where would we find that out?”

  Scott

  Hello, yes, it’s me. Here I am, back home again, playing silly buggers, acting like a prowler round my own house. Well, I had an hour or two to kill before my next call and I couldn’t be arsed to go back to work. I wander through to the kitchen. Looks tidy. Pick up an apple from the bowl on the counter and bite into it. Ha! I guess it’s a bit of a pathetic victory but I feel as if I’ve just pulled off a major bank job. At least it’s a crunchy one. Have a stretch out on the settee for a few minutes. I mean, it’s still half mine, right? Do you think you can get, what’s it called?—you know, access rights or whatever, to a settee? It’s dead comfy, this one, and big enough so your legs aren’t hanging off the end.

  Then I trudge upstairs—yes, shoes off first. You’re proud of me, aren’t you? I can tell. Quick look at Rosie’s room, everything all neat and in its place, even the postcards and photos on her pinboard are all pinned on dead straight. Go into Nat’s room and snort with laughter at the contrast with Rosie’s. You’d never guess they were related. Don’t even see how I can get in without treading on everything. Not that he’d notice. You could let a Tyrannosaurus rampage around in there and the place’d probably look a whole lot tidier than it does now.

  I sit at his desk for a minute and lean the chair back on its rear legs the way Natty does, pushing my feet against the wall. The monitor and hard drive lights are on on his computer, so I just sort of nudge the mouse a tad to clear the screensaver. He’s supposed to turn it all off if he’s out for hours but he’s always forgetting. Can’t think who he gets that from, must be Gail’s side of the family. Well, I reckoned he might have left it mid-game and I could just play for a couple of minutes. Sure as hell wasn’t likely to be his homework on the screen. Anyhow, I was just looking, OK? Not snooping. All right, maybe a bit of snooping, but I didn’t think it was going to be anything, nothing private.

  It’s a word document, with his address at the top, on the right, like you do for a business letter, as if he’s applying for a job or something. And then there’s the date but three days ago. And then underneath that, it says,

  Dear Dad

  And that’s it. The rest of the page is blank.

  I sit there for what feels like forever, a lump in my throat. I keep trying to swallow. Then those two words go kind of blurry and my chest feels tight and I can’t move. I feel like I might stay like that for the rest of my entire life, picture them finding me, a skeleton in Nat’s chair, my bony fingers still clinging to the mouse, my jaw gaping.

  I’d probably still be there now if something hadn’t jolted me out of it, something that’s the one thing I absolutely don’t want to hear, can’t believe I’m hearing: the slam of a car door right outside and Gail’s voice from the front step.

  “Can you manage that, Rosie? Leave it if it’s too heavy.”

  Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit. I’m up on my toes and out to the landing in a second. Peering over the stair-rail to see Gail’s outline through the frosted glass of the front door—skid into the bathroom—no, you idiot, not in here—into Rosie’s room—everything way too small to hide in or under—back into Nat’s room—try to crawl under the bed but there’s too much crap—back into our room—open the window—Christ, I’ll break my sodding neck jumping from up here—yank open the wardrobe—Jeez, why do women have so many sodding clothes? How’s a man supposed to hide in the wardrobe when it’s full to bursting with 400 sodding outfits you’ve never seen her wear even once? Footsteps running up the stairs. Quick—under the bed. Bathroom door closing. So glad I didn’t hide in there. Right, that gives me at least a minute if she’s having a wee, as long as Rosie’s not in the hall. Back out from under the bed—onto the landing—coast’s clear. Flush of the toilet. Bloody hell, that was fast. She’s never that fast when we’re at the pictures or having a meal out and I’m sat there like a lemon for hours. Down the stairs, heading for the front door. Oh, dear God, shoes—where the hell did I put them? I know, I know—in the front room. Can hear Rosie in the kitchen—whizz past the half-open door—dash in—grab the shoes—heading back to the door when I hear Gail again, coming downstairs. Jesus H. Christ, can’t the woman spend a minute tidying her hair or something? Why’s she in such a hurry all of a sudden? Leap back into the front room and crouch down behind one of the armchairs. Marvellous. This is comfortable—I can’t stay like this for long, I’ll get cramp. I’m not designed to be folded. Round and round in my head, I’m saying, “Keep calm, keep calm,” telling myself it’s OK, that I’ll look back and laugh about all this at some point. Big mistake. Soon as I think that, I realize it is kind of funny and I nearly laugh out loud. Bite the inside of my cheek hard, too hard, nearly take a whacking great chunk out of it. Then I take a sneaky look over the top of the armchair. I reckon I only need about 30 seconds clear to scoot to the front door, open it quietly and sprint down the front path and round the corner. As they’ve only just come in, I don’t even have to shut the front door because they’ll think they’ve left it open by accident. I creep to the door and listen.

  “Peanut butter sandwich, Rosie?”

  Excellent. She’ll have her back to the door for at least a minute. I tiptoe to the front door, still clutching my shoes, turn the latch slowly, out and pull the door to behind me and I’m down that path faster than Linford Christie being chased by a velociraptor. The front gate clangs behind me but I don’t look back. Don’t stop till I’m at the car. Then I shove my feet into my shoes, get in and lean my head on the steering wheel.

  Then a nasty thought comes to me. I don’t believe this. Oh shit. Where the hell did I leave the sodding apple core?

  Nat

  At school, we did like how to write a proper letter like if you’re applying for a job or something. Useful, huh? Kind of thing you need to do the whole time when you’re thirteen. Miss Farnham showed us how you lay it out with the address and the date and all that, then she asked us like when would you use it and Toby who’s a total nerd said,

  “Please,
Miss, if you were reserving a hotel room in advance.” He is such a suck-up.

  There were a couple of other “Please, Miss” type ideas, writing to your bank manager and stuff. It was such a thrill, I could barely sit still, you know? We were all supposed to be taking notes. Then Miss says, “Nathan, how about you? Do you have a suggestion? When might you want to write a formal letter?”

  “I wouldn’t, Miss, I’d send an e-mail.”

  “Yes, Nathan, but that wouldn’t always be the most appropriate method of communication, would it? And, even if you were to send it by the e-mail, you might still want to phrase your letter in a formal fashion.” She is the Teacher that Time Forgot, no doubt about it.

  I thought a sec, doodling in my rough book, then I said, “Yeah, right, like if you wanted to complain about something …”

  “Good, yes, that’s right. What kind of complaint would merit a formal letter, do you suppose?” Can you believe it? That’s how she talks the whole time. I’m glad she’s not my mum—What do you think would merit being selected as an edible item for the breakfast table, Nathan? Jeez.

  “Dunno. Well, yeah, like if you wanted to complain in a shop say if you bought some Nikes and they were loads of money then they fell apart after you’d worn them like only one time and the shop never give you your money back, you could write to the chairman …”

  “Yes …”

  “—Or if you thought someone was incredibly boring, you could write to complain and tell them to be like less boring …”

  There were a few laughs round the class but Miss went all red and said, yes, fine, let’s not get carried away and that it was best to confine your letters of complaint to issues that were specific such as faulty goods or booking hotel rooms rather than just your subjective views on other people which were really only a matter of opinion and not what we were concentrating on just now.

  Then Joanne Carter stuck up her hand.

  “But Miss? Miss, in the papers, people are always writing in to complain about everything. And that’s only opinions, isn’t it? My dad reads them out at breakfast.”

  “Yeah, that’s right, Miss,” I said to back up Joanne. She looked back over her shoulder at me and smiled. She’s dead pretty. She’s got really nice hair. I might ask her out. Dunno. Have to see.

  For our homework, we were supposed to write a formal letter. You put your own address at the top, then you put the other person’s address or the company you’re writing to or whatever. And you do the date and then you start off Dear Sir or Dear Mr Snotface. Miss said I should have a go at doing a complaint letter seeing as how I seemed to have so many ideas on the subject. I think she was trying to get back at me, but in that special smarmy way teachers have like they’re much cleverer than you and there’s no way they’re going to let you forget it. So I thought about going one better and writing to her.

  Dear Miss Farnham

  Further to my recent comments in your class this morning, I am writing to complain formally about the tremendous, mind-blowing, stratospheric tediosity of your lessons. Might I enquire as to whether you have any plans to make any of your lessons even slightly interesting? If not, I should like to inform you that I will be unable to attend for the rest of the term. I have consulted my doctor and he thinks I am well in danger of dying of boredom and that it is better for me not to risk it.

  Also, as well as being very BORING, you had a ladder in your tights which my Mum always says is something that looks dead trashy.

  Yours sincerely

  Nathan Scott

  I was getting quite into it by the end so I thought I’d have a crack at writing a letter to my dad as well, but it was a whole lot harder. I put my address and then the date and then I put,

  Dear Dad

  Then I just sat there. I thought of everything I wanted to say:

  Dear Dad

  I hate you so much. You have left us in a right mess. Mum keeps crying in the bathroom with the door locked and turning up the radio so we can’t hear, but we’re not stupid. Rosie has started sucking her thumb again and Mum says she must stop because she can’t afford to be getting her braces for her teeth. Every time I ask Mum for money, she does that frowny face and says we have to be more careful now. Plus another thing is I think Rosie misses you, like when you used to go in and kiss her good night and make up stories about spaceships and bionic rabbits and girls with magical powers. I never seem to have any money and I haven’t been bowling for ages. I am fine. How are you?

  I read it back and then I deleted it, all except for the Dear Dad bit, and I tried again.

  Dear Dad

  I am writing to complain about what you have done to our family. It doesn’t bother me any, but you have got Rosie to think about because she’s only little and she needs two parents not just one. Also since you went Mum gets in a big state every time anything goes wrong like the car or the washing machine. She says it’s not that you used to fix them or anything but at least she could moan at you or you’d call the garage so we wouldn’t get ripped off, like she would because she’s a woman.

  Nah. Another go:

  Dear Dad

  Is it true that you were unfaithful to Mum and slept with another woman? Was it going on for ages or more of a one-off sort of thing? You are always saying to me that I should think ahead and not rush into things that might get me into trouble, so I guess you should have thought of that before and then you would still be at home and it would be OK still.

  It’s hard, this letter thing, isn’t it?

  Dear Dad

  Come back. Please. I wish you hadn’t messed up but you did and it’s too late. You and Mum said there’s no problems in the whole world that can’t be fixed by people sitting down and talking about it, but all you have done is gone off and all Mum’s done is cry and get cross and drop plates.

  Sod it. Delete, delete, delete, delete … I went back letter by letter, don’t know why, watching the words disappear one by one until it just said “Dear Dad.” Maybe I’ll have another crack later. Dunno. S’pose it was a stupid idea, writing to him. And I still had to turn in something for homework. I looked round at the walls of my room, and my posters, then wrote my formal letter to the chairman of Ferrari.

  Dear Sir

  I am writing to complain about the acceleration in your latest F40 model. At that price, I was expecting it to reach Mach 3 in under 10 seconds and parachute-assisted brakes as standard. However … etc. etc.

  Miss was well impressed.

  Rosie

  It’s not fair. Nat said I was in his room but I wasn’t. He told Mum that I’d touched his computer and she said maybe I was doing my homework on it and it was only fair for him to let me use it when I need to. And she said if he couldn’t be sensible about it, we’d have to move the computer downstairs and that would be the end of it. Nat said I’d left my apple core on his desk and Mum said why didn’t he just put it in the bin and stop going on about it because she wasn’t going to spend the rest of her life keeping the peace between us two and we could sort it out between ourselves. Then she said that, seeing as how Nat’s the oldest, she didn’t think it was too much to ask for him to be a bit more grown-up about this sort of thing and it was only an apple core and could we all just move on and forget about it.

  Then Nat came in my room and said I’m not to use his computer without asking first and he shouted at me and said I’m not to eat or drink near the keyboard. He said I was just a baby and I might have broken it or made it all sticky. I told him it wasn’t me and I never used it and I wasn’t even in his stupid old room, but he said, well, who else could it have been then? Mum never uses it and there isn’t anyone else. But it wasn’t me.

  I told Dad on Sunday about the apple core and about Nat being so horrible, and he was really nice and got me some new mauve sandals for summer and said I could have some nail varnish too. It’s got all silver glitter bits in it. But then when I went home and showed Mum, she said I was too young to wear nail varnish. I told her that lo
ads of girls in my class wear it and she said she didn’t care and she wasn’t having me look like a—well she wasn’t having it anyway. Then she said maybe I could wear it for family parties and things like that, but not for school. So I said OK, but can I put it on my toes ‘cause no-one would see it then, but I can still show it to Kira and Josie at breaktime, and she said I could.

  It is my dad’s birthday on Friday. He is forty now, which is already fairly old. He says that it isn’t and that you are only as old as you feel on the inside, and that’s what matters. He said that last year, on his birthday, and Mum said if that was true then she must be about 120 because she is tired all the time. Nat said he feels like about eighteen or nineteen so everyone should treat him like a grown-up, and Dad said if he wanted to be treated like an adult, he’d have to start acting like one. And Nat said, huh, he could talk. So Dad made like he was going to punch him, but he was only playing, and Nat did it back. That was when they were still friends. That was before. And Dad said he thought I was about twenty- eight on the inside because I’m always so sensible. I said I’d like to hurry and grow up, but Mum said you shouldn’t wish away your childhood because it’s the best time in your life. And Nat said yeah, right, how could it be the best time in your life when all it meant was that you got bossed round by everyone else and couldn’t do what you wanted?

  I am nearly 10. But not yet. I will be 10 in four months, one week and three days. In the evening. I was born at 10.28 p.m. It says so on this little pink card they gave my mum at the hospital. And it says Sex: F. That stands for Female. It doesn’t say my name: Rosalie Anne Scott, because they didn’t know yet that I was me.