Lessons for a Sunday Father

by Claire Calman

  Rosie flings open the door, jumps up to give me a hug, then kisses her mum goodbye and settles herself in the car while Gail and I see to the business end of things, i.e. the handing over of vast sums of money from me to her. She tells me when there’s anything extra the kids need but, give her credit, she never asks for extra for herself. She’s decided to start working longer hours at the surgery now, so that’ll ease things a bit all round. True, the money’s nothing to write home about, but then she says what else could she do? I’ve always thought Gail was pretty brainy actually, a lot brainier than me that’s for sure, but she’s never pushed herself. Yeah, I know, like who am I to talk?

  On Sunday morning, we go out for a bike ride, then we find somewhere we can have a lunch—a roast or shepherd’s pie—proper food, not just chips as Gail says; I am trying here. In the afternoon we rent ourselves a video and sit on my settee with our feet up like an old married couple, then at the end we rewind to see all the bits we liked best again. Or we have a look round the shops and Rosie helps me get bits and pieces for the flat. She picked me out a vase and some cushions, she says you have to have things like that or it’s not a proper home at all.

  A few times, we’ve gone up to London for the day. We even went to the Science Museum. I know, I know, I said you’d never get me in a museum till I’m long dead and they want my bones for a display case: Late 20th century/early 21st century male. Origin: South-east England. Note how the skull and skeleton show signs of excessive stress consistent with having suffered a crap life. Actually, we went because of some project she was doing at school to do with methods of transport, and they’ve got models of aeroplane wings and that sort of stuff which all move and it showed you how a plane goes up in the air and stays there. It’s all to do with the shape of the wing and the speed of the air over it and under it. I think. Funny, I always thought planes stayed up because you’re all on there with your fingers and toes crossed and praying like buggery that it’s not time for your number to come up. The museum wasn’t half bad actually. It’s more like playing now, with things to do and funny demonstrations and computers and everything. She said I was embarrassing because I kept having a go at all the things, but they never had them when I was a kid so I don’t see why I should miss out now. Still, I wish Nat had been there. He’d say he was too old for it, but I reckon he’d have got a kick out of it. If we go again, I’ll tell Gail, see if he fancies coming along.

  Gail says I should write him a letter as he won’t speak to me if he answers the phone, just goes and gets Rosie. It made me think of that time, when I saw what was on his computer screen. Just “Dear Dad.” Maybe he didn’t want to say anything else, or didn’t know how. Must run in the family because I had a go at writing to him, I really did, only I’m not much of a one for letter writing and I couldn’t get it to come out right. And in the end the only bit that seemed to make any sense was “Dear Nat” and “love from Dad"—and I didn’t think that would make much of a letter so I never sent it.

  On Sunday, Rosie asked me about Christmas.

  “Da-a-a-a-dd-ee-ee?” she says. So I know she wants something. Mostly she just calls me Dad.

  “Ye-e-e-e-s, Ro-o-o-o-o-s-ee-ee?”

  “Silly!” She hits me on the arm. Children are so violent these days, what’s the world coming to?

  “Go and pick on someone your own size, you bully!” I rub my arm, hamming it up like mad and screwing my face up in pretend pain. “What do you want, Piglet? More pocket money? The latest Nikes? Fame and fortune? Whatever it is, the answer’s probably no, so go ahead, ask away!” I pat my pockets. “Your old dad’s a bit short of the readies this week.”

  “No, Daddy.” She takes out her purse. It is pink with tiny beads stitched on all over it but there are gaps from where Rosie has pulled off some of the beads with her teeth, one at a time. She says it stops her biting her nails, but her nails are so short now there’s nothing left to bite anyway. She unzips the purse and shows me her little stash of money. “See?”

  “You little hoarder—can I have some?”

  She chews her lip for a moment and pokes through the contents with two fingers.

  “OK. How much do you want?” Dead serious.

  “Oh, Rosie, sweetheart!” I pick her up and whirl her round in the air the way I used to when she was just a tot. “I don’t want your money. I was just kidding.”

  “You can if you want.” Aged nine (sorry, nearly ten), going on thirty-five. She tucks her hair back behind her ears.

  “I’m fine.” I take her hand and we swing arms as we walk along, heading for the harbour to see the boats before we go for fish and chips. She does a funny half-skipping step to keep up with me. “I’m chuffed to bits you offered me your money, but hey—”

  “What?”

  “I don’t want you worrying about money, love, OK? Just ‘cause things are a tad tight at the moment doesn’t mean we’re on the breadline. Your mum and I would never see you or Nat go without.”

  “What’s on the breadline?”

  Questions, questions.

  “You’d make a great quizmaster when you grow up. Or you could host Newsnight, have the politicians quaking in their shoes. On the breadline means being poor—like only having enough to eat bread, I suppose. Actually, now I think of it, I’m not sure it is that. I think it comes from being so poor that you were given free bread but you had to queue up for it. Surviving and no more.”

  “Only bread. No chips?”

  “Uh-huh, no chips.”

  “No … roast chicken with peas and gravy?”

  “Definitely not. No. And absolutely no Barbies or DVDs or PlayStations or any of that.”

  “Oh.”

  I don’t want to turn into a boring old fart (too late, too late, I know) who’s always droning on about the past and how it was in my day, but kids today, sorry, but they haven’t got a clue, have they? I mean, thank God they haven’t and all that ‘cause I’ve always sworn Rosie and Nat would have everything I never had. But they think being poor means living in a house with only one telly or having to borrow the latest computer game from a friend. I’ve never told my kids much about what it was like when I was growing up. This is only thirty years ago we’re talking about here—but it feels like a whole other universe, a different millennium. Actually, it was a different millennium, but you know what I mean.

  We lived in this row of council houses—my parents are still in the same house, all these years later. Thing is, none of our neighbours were flush either, so at least we were all in the same boat. If anyone had called us deprived, we wouldn’t have had a clue what they were on about. We thought everyone went round with a hollow feeling in their stomach the whole time. I used to have fantasies about food—steaks and chicken and plates piled high with chips and ham and tomatoes. I swore that when I was grown up, I’d have a fridge that was always full—and I do. We used to get pickings from the allotments, too, with one of us on lookout—raspberries nicked from under tents of green netting, corn on the cob roasted over a fire we’d make down by the back of the gravel heaps, carrots sometimes—we’d lay on our stomachs on the river bank to wash off the soil. I even ate raw rhubarb once. Never again. Gave me a tummy-ache so bad I thought I was dying.

  One winter it was so cold, my dad got me and Russ to knock down the garden fence. He wouldn’t do it himself, of course, lazy sod. Bit by bit it all went on the fire, the whole lot. Then half the neighbours sussed what we’d done and did the same. Next time the man from the council came round, we said we didn’t know what happened, honest we didn’t, some blooming thief must have come and nicked them in the night. He never believed us, of course, but they still came and put up new fences in the spring. So we all did it again the next year.

  Anyway.

  “You know Christmas?” Rosie says, walking backwards on her heels as I steer her round obstacles like litter bins and lamp-posts.

  “Thing in December. Coloured lights and presents and stuff, right? Leaving every parent in th
e land bankrupt? That thing?”

  “Da-a-a-d! Stop it!” She gives me a shove.

  “Yes, my little angel. Do I know Christmas? Yes, I do. It’s not for ages and ages yet. It’s barely summer. What about it?” But I already know what about it. Oh, shit, I’m thinking. What the hell are we going to do about the C-word. I kind of hoped, well, assumed, that I’d long since be back at home by then, and I’d be enjoying the festive spirit in the bosom of my family with carol-singing round the tree and that, you know? Oh, OK, arguing over the telly and nursing a hangover and feeling fat and saying, “No, you said you were getting the batteries"—still, you get my drift.

  “Well,” says the little voice at my side. “Nat says now you’ve got a flat of your own that means you’re never coming back, not ever, and you won’t be home for Christmas.”

  Someone has wrenched apart my ribs and ripped out my heart. I can’t swallow, can’t barely breathe. I can’t look at her, see her sweet little serious face looking up at mine. Can’t bear to see her trying to hide her disappointment, pretending she doesn’t mind.

  We’ve reached the harbour now. I could distract her, point to one of the boats and say, “Oh, look!” The air is thick and tangy with salt, the smell of decaying fish. Gulls cry above our heads, endlessly wheeling round looking for food.

  “Thing is …” I squat down, lean my back against a bollard “… I’d love to be home with you for Christmas, but I—it’s a long way off and …”

  How do you tell your nine-year-old daughter her mother won’t have you back because you had sex with another woman? I mean, where do you even start?

  “—but I don’t know if it’s going to be possible, love.”

  “You could if you really tried. You’re always telling me not to give up.”

  I take her hands and squeeze them in my own. Such small hands she’s got. How is a small person with such small hands supposed to grasp this sodding great unwieldy mess?

  “You’re right, love, you’re right. Grown-ups are great when it comes to dishing out advice and lousy at following it themselves. How can I—you see, sometimes grown-ups don’t get along—and—no, that’s not it—see, I made a, well, a mistake, see—but like a big mistake—and it upset your mum a whole lot—and that’s why it’s best if we live apart for a bit or—maybe even a long time. But you know you’ll always be my best girl and I’ll definitely see you at Christmas and bring you presents. You just try and stop me!”

  Her mouth smiles at me, but her eyes aren’t joining in the fun.

  “Look—remember that time that other girl stole your best pen?”

  “Alice. Yes. My mauve one.”

  “Yes, the mauve one. And do you remember how you were really, really cross with her, but then she gave it back and you were all friends again?”

  “No. Teacher made her give it back, then I pinched her in the playground and we don’t sit together any more.”

  “Oh,” I’m regretting I ever got started down this road. I’m not much cop at this stuff. “Maybe that’s not such a good example. The point is—your dad did something bad—for which he’s very, very sorry—but, for now, we’re … well, we’re not sitting together, your mum and me, OK?”

  “I’m not four, Dad. You don’t have to talk to me as if I’m a baby.”

  “Sorry. I was just trying to make it all clear.”

  She twists a strand of hair round and round one of her fingers and looks down at the water in the harbour.

  “Nat said that you shagged another lady and she’s your mistress.”

  I can’t do this. It’s too hard. Just when I think I’ve taken a small step forward, that I’m handling things, something happens and I’m right back to square one with my guts yanked out of me and gasping for breath like a mackerel on a sand dune. If I could only turn back the clock. If I could only. If.

  “Oi—language! Don’t say shagged, it’s not nice. And don’t believe everything your brother tells you. I do not have a mistress and I never did. That’s totally wrong. That would be a very bad thing and I certainly don’t, not at all. Now, come along and let’s have a look at these boats—see that big one at the end there. What would you call it if you owned that one, eh?”

  Gail

  On Thursday, Scott asked if he could come round to pick up his walking boots. Nat was out at swimming, of course, and Rosie was up in her room, so I said he could come into the kitchen. I had some spare kitchen things that I thought he could do with for his flat, just a couple of saucepans and utensils and so on. Then halfway through, guess what happened? Nat arrived back and came crashing into the kitchen like a rhinoceros, practically taking the door off its hinges. Impeccable timing as always, thank you, Nat.

  It was pretty awful. Scott just stood and stared at him. His face went white. Literally. I thought of what people say—"he was white as a sheet” and he really did look like that, as if all the colour had suddenly been bleached right out of his face. I sat at the table, sort of clutching myself, willing it to be all right. But Nat wouldn’t even look at him, just stood staring at the floor then started messing about in the fridge and spilling Coke everywhere and creating havoc as usual.

  I felt so tired, just being in the room with both of them. The air seemed to be thick with all these things NOT being said. Scott didn’t tell Nat he was sorry, didn’t tell Nat that he loved him. Nat didn’t say how much he was missing his dad. And I couldn’t help. I sat there, cradling my head in my hands, just waiting for it—the situation, the tension, all the not saying—to go away. Maybe I should have left, given them time to sort it out on their own. Then Nat walked out and Scott looked absolutely stricken. Like he might even cry. Scott absolutely never cries. I’ve seen him come pretty close sometimes but he never—oh yes, except when Nat was born. I can still picture him standing there, holding this miraculous precious bundle in his arms, his face bent close over Nat’s, and all these tears spilling down over his cheeks.

  I reached out and laid a hand on his arm, but he flinched and said he was fine and better be making a move, he had to get back. I handed him the bag of kitchen things, but he wouldn’t even meet my eyes, just said thanks and he’d see me Sunday. I watched him walk back down the path and his shoulders were hunched as if he was trying to keep warm against the blast of an icy wind. I wanted to call after him then, run after him, just hold him for one minute, tell him it would be all right. But I stayed where I was, watching until he reached his car, and then he was gone.

  I asked him about it once, about not crying I mean—way back when we still occasionally had what could pass for a real conversation. We’d been watching some film on television. And it was such a weepy, I cried buckets, mascara all streaked down my face. You could see Scott was moved, his eyes go all shining but his face looks sort of clouded, like you can’t see what he’s thinking and his body goes stiff. His stomach muscles were tight and rigid, as if he was held together by bands of steel. At first, he pretended not to know what I meant.

  “You’re having me on, aren’t you? Blokes can’t be crying every time they watch some soppy drivel on telly.”

  “Come on, you can’t say it didn’t affect you.”

  But he didn’t want to talk about it, just said he’d taught himself not to cry when he was a kid once he realized it couldn’t help, not ever. Crying never got you anywhere, all it ever did was make things worse and let the other person think they’d won. But if you could just hold out, they’d never know they’d got to you, there’d be some part of you they couldn’t touch, that was just you and you had to keep that bit as strong as you could and not let anyone else mess with it, not ever. And I said “It’s just a film, Scotty, there is no-one else winning now, not now.” He didn’t look at me, just sat there shaking his head very slightly from side to side, his eyes glassy and far away. No, he said, it was better that way and now it was just the way he was.

  It was because of his father. Scott doesn’t talk about it, but you’ve only to see them in the same room together to
work it out for yourself. That man is the best argument for euthanasia I’ve ever come across. People like that shouldn’t be allowed to have children, as far as I’m concerned. And his mother’s not exactly the doting type either. I don’t know why Scott ever sees them at all. God knows, it’s not as if he owes them anything, they only acknowledge his existence at all when they want something. They’re vile people, the pair of them and that’s one duty I’m not sorry to have given up. When I think about it, it’s amazing that Scott’s really not a bad dad. It’s not like he had much of an example to follow.

  Nat

  I come back from swimming and he was there. I come in the front door, dump my bag and go in the kitchen to get a drink. The door’s shut, which it never is, but it turns out it’s ‘cause he’s in there with Mum. They’re sat at the table, opposite each other like he’s interviewing her or she’s interviewing him. As I open the door, they both look up.

  “Natty!” He leaps to his feet like he’s heard the starter’s pistol and he’ll be off round the track, heading for the tape. He knocks his chair over behind him but he doesn’t even pick it up straight away. If I did that, Mum would say, “Nathan!” in her snotty schoolteacher voice. He takes a step round the table, but Mum puts her hand on his arm.

  “Nathan.” Mum’s voice is quiet. “Could you give us a minute alone please.”

  “I just came in for a drink.” Dad’s staring at me I know, but I can’t look at him. I look down at my trainers and bump the toe of my right trainer against the top of my left one. Bump, bump. Eyes glued to my shoes.

  “Get it and take it upstairs then please.” Don’t know why she’s saying please all of a sudden. Normally, it’s just “Nathan, do this!” or “Nathan, do that!” like I’m a slave or something.