“I’m sorry,” I said, squeezing his shoulder.
He nodded, wiped his face on his sleeve. I tore him off some kitchen roll. “Mops up all household spills,” I said.
He laughed and blew his nose.
“Wash your face here if you like.” I gestured at the sink. Neither of us wanted Rosie to see he’d been crying. I passed him a hand towel.
“Sorry,” he said. “Don’t know what came over me.”
“It’s all right. You don’t have to be strong every minute of the day, you know. Makes me feel better about things somehow.”
“Mmn. Me too, I guess.” Then he fished out a key ring with two keys on it and dropped them into my palm. “It really was to have been the last time. Honestly, I mean it.” He smoothed his hair. “Now, how do I look? Passable?”
“Good. You look fine. Like how a dad should look.”
“Oh, go on.” He shoved his hands deep down into his pockets, the way Nat does, then he smiled at me. “Do I really?”
Scott
OK, as far as I can see, here are my options. I can (a) spend the rest of my life mooning around, wishing I’d done it all differently, (b) go and hole up in a cave in Morocco or somewhere and get into religion or smoking opium or something or (c) get my act together and start having something that might remotely resemble a life.
But the simple fact is I’m forty-one years old. I can’t be going out on the pull in bars and clubs or trying to snog some girl in the back of the cinema, can I? I’d feel ridiculous. I know what I want though. I can see it in my mind. I’m laying stretched out on a couch, a nice long one where I don’t have to scrunch up my legs. And my head is resting in this woman’s lap. She’s stroking my hair, her fingers sort of kneading my scalp, and it feels so good and relaxing, I feel like I’m floating. She smells nice, too, it’s like a fresh smell, like really, really clean air, like you smell when you’re walking in a wood and you’ve stayed out too long and it’s dusk, not like perfume at all. Then, when I open my eyes to look at her, she smiles but her face goes all misty in front of me and the whole picture starts to dissolve. It’s really frustrating.
That’s it. That’s my entire fantasy. I know, it’s deeply sad. What happened to all my old favourites, you know, the ones you have in the shower—the taking-her-up-against-a-wall one and the doing-it-in-a-lift-stuck-between-two-floors one and the diving-between-her-thighs-beneath-a-long-tablecloth-in-a-restaurant one. Yes, of course I still have those. I’m not dead yet. I’m just saying, I think I’m going soppy in my old age, that’s all.
I suppose I should give Jeff a call. Or Roger. Ask them if they fancy a lads’ night out. To be honest, I’m not feeling keen as mustard on the idea myself. I’m not sure I want to get totally smashed out my head and wake up not knowing how the hell I made it home to bed. I should have asked out that Ella, the sandwich girl. Woman, sorry. I like her. But it’s after five now. Where does she go the rest of the day, I wonder? I mean, if she does sandwiches for offices and stuff, she must be free after lunchtime. I could give her a ring, say I wanted to order an extra muffin or something. I’m sure she gave me her card. I had it here somewhere. I could have asked her this morning if I’d been at work. That’s the trouble, she’ll forget my face soon. If I’d spent less time being a dipstick and creeping about my old house, I could have been chatting her up. I go through my pockets. You never know. No luck.
It’s gone five now and I can hear the lads getting ready to go. Denise finishes tapping away at the keyboard and shuts down the computer.
“I’m off home then.”
“Not out tonight?”
“No.” She blushes like a schoolgirl. “Ray’s coming over. I’m cooking him a dinner.”
“Good. Hope it goes well. I’m pleased for you, Denise.” I don’t know why I’m talking like that, as if I’m her father or something, but I am pleased for her. Denise deserves a life. But so do I. I can’t spend every single evening painting the flat and making it perfect. I am good at decorating and all that, and—even worse—I enjoy it, but I still need a social life. Suddenly all my friends depress me. None of them ever do anything new. I’d love it if just once Colin or Jeff or Roger would ring me up and say, “I’ve jacked in my job and I’m going to the airport tomorrow and see what’s available. Wanna come?” Colin’s hated his job for at least the last ten years, far as I know, but does he leave? No. Course not. Because it’s steady. It pays the mortgage. And what else could he do? And look at me, who am I to talk, still here after sixteen years? It’s not the same though—I don’t hate my job for a start.
Right. I am now going to go back to the flat and cook myself a proper meal like a real grown-up. I’m not going to phone for a pizza or stop off to pick up fish and chips on the way home. I shall go via Tesco’s and get something to cook. A chicken maybe. And some potatoes and some of those green things you’re supposed to have. Vegetables. Then I’m going to go through every pair of trousers I own with a fine-tooth comb until I find that card with whatserface’s number on it. Ella. What if she doesn’t remember who I am and I have to attempt to describe myself? What if she lives with someone and he answers the phone? I can’t really say I’m ringing to order an extra muffin. Maybe I could order a whole platter of sandwiches, say I’m having a party or something. Yes, terrific idea, Scott, you’re a genius. That’s all you need to make your life complete—thirty-two rounds of assorted ham, cheese, salad, beef, salmon and what have you and a small forest of cress. All just to ask her out for a drink. Give me a break, I haven’t been on a date for over fifteen years, you can’t blame me if I’m a bit out of practice.
By the time I’d been round the supermarket, got back to the flat and unloaded the shopping, I’d forgotten about looking for Ella’s number. I couldn’t believe how much stuff I’d bought when I was shopping. I only went in for a chicken and some potatoes and stuff. I got a trolley because it’s easier and I didn’t want to look like a sad, lonely bastard with a basket—I always feel sorry for people who are shopping for one. You can see in their basket and they’ve got like a ready meal that says Cottage Pie for One in enormous letters. Then they’ve got maybe one onion, a small tin of sweetcorn, and a couple of bananas, plus a tin of cat food if they’re really sad—oh yeah, and a packet of those mini chocolate swiss rolls. And you can just see their whole life there. That they’ve worked out exactly what they’re going to have for their evening meal and then they think, “Ooh, I’ll be naughty and have a treat” and they get this packet of cakes, mini-rolls or whatever. I mean, it’s all right if you’re a student or whatever, but you don’t want to be letting other people see you with a Cottage Pie for One when you’re my age. But the problem with having a trolley is it looks so empty and pathetic if you’ve only got a few things, and I thought I could do with some extra bits and pieces anyway, for when Rosie comes round. So I got some ice-pops to freeze and some biscuits with marshmallow in them. Then I thought about Gail saying I’m not to feed her rubbish the whole time, and I went back to the bit where the fruit and veg are and I got some apples and a big net of oranges.
It soon mounts up though, doesn’t it? It cost a lot more than I thought. Still, at least it looked like I was a proper person buying for a whole family. I should’ve waited till Sunday and brought Rosie with me. She always knows what are the best buys and she’s always putting things back and saying, “No, Dad, not that one, you should get this one.” She cracks me up, she really does.
Anyway, I put all the things away back at the flat, then get the chicken and potatoes and vegetables out again so I could cook them. I tell you, that kitchen’s got practically nothing in it. All I could find’s this one enormous roasting tin, big enough to take a huge turkey. I put my chicken in there and it looks a poor little thing, sort of marooned and tiny and in need of its mother. So I shove some onions and potatoes around it to make it look less pathetic and whack it in the oven before it starts making me feel sad.
While it’s cooking, I give the hall another coat
of paint. It’s all coming along now, this flat, beginning to feel like a proper place of my own. I’d like to make Rosie’s room a bit special though, not just somewhere for her to doss down. It’s a bit boring at the moment.
After supper, I wash up, then lay on the settee to watch the news. Must’ve fallen asleep because suddenly it’s after midnight. And that’s when I remember that I’d meant to phone Whatserface. Ella. I’m about to start going through all my trouser pockets when I realize I couldn’t really phone her after twelve in any case. It’s taken me weeks to get round to it, but now that I have it in my mind, I’m impatient to get on with it. I could chat to her tomorrow, when she comes round to the estate. No, I can’t because tomorrow is Saturday and she doesn’t do Saturdays. I wonder why not—we don’t stop wanting sandwiches just ‘cause it’s the weekend. I suppose most of her customers don’t work Saturdays either, so it’s hardly worth getting her van out if it’s just a couple of glaziers. Monday it is then. That’s if I survive Sunday. I suggested to Rosie we go roller-blading and I’ve not done it for ages. I used to go with Nat a lot and he’s ace at it. Anyway, Rosie’s fed up of him always being better than her at that kind of stuff so I said we’d have a practice somewhere quiet.
OK, I also thought that maybe if he heard that’s what we were doing, he might want to come too. It’s not so bad now, not as bad as it was at the beginning. Then, every time I went to pick up Rosie and walked back down the front path again without him, I felt this pain. A physical pain, like someone had sewn a rock into my chest. I kept thinking the front door would suddenly open again and I’d hear him call, “Dad! Wait for me!” his footsteps running to catch up. Then, after a while, the weeks go by, and you tell yourself it’s not so bad, you can handle it. You tell yourself that because you haven’t got a choice, your son doesn’t want to see you and you’ve only yourself to blame—so what else can you do but handle it? Roller-blading on Sunday. Maybe he’ll come.
Sunday. Rosie carries her roller-blades in a clear bag so everyone can see them. Hers are girlie ones—pink, and they only just still fit her. If she has fun today, we’ll have to see about getting her some in a bigger size.
“Don’t suppose Nat wants to come?” I make my voice casual, with a shrug in it. “We’re blading down at the old airstrip.”
Gail raises her eyebrows and says she’ll ask him, he’s here for once, why don’t I come in a minute, she’ll just pop upstairs.
Rosie and I stand in the hall, whispering for some reason like we’re in a library, and making silly faces at each other. Rosie says we must talk in alien language, so the earthlings can’t understand us.
“Spreditski-nurdle?” I say.
“Wuddok. Krattle-boff-tik,” she says.
“Zeshkrit fagen-sprodnik!”
“Scott?” Hm? Sounds too familiar. Gail, coming downstairs. “Rosie, love, get a couple of drinks from the fridge for later. There aren’t any shops down there, are there?”
As soon as Rosie goes into the kitchen, Gail drops her voice.
“I think he really wants to come, but he doesn’t want to lose face and look like he’s caved in, you know what he’s like.”
I nod, but I’ve not talked to him for so long, I’m not sure I do know any more.
“He says he’ll consider coming, but there are conditions …”
“What is this—hostage negotiations?”
Gail tilts her head on one side, waiting to carry on, being patient with me.
“He says you’re not to try to talk to him and he won’t come for the whole day and he doesn’t have to speak to you.”
“Should be a fun day.”
“Scott, come on. What do you think? He has to be round at Steve’s by one in any case. They’re expecting him for lunch.”
It’ll be tough, I know that. Still, it’s Natty. Natty, who I’ve barely seen for months, no more than glimpses through doorways or the sight of his back as he skates away from me on a Sunday morning, speeding down the street to some other lucky house.
“OK. It’s a deal. Tell him.” I’ll bring him back, then take Rosie for lunch.
“At least I’m getting fit,” says Gail, running up the stairs again.
Nat’s roller-blades are black with red markings on the sides and silver-grey wheels. They are the only footwear Nat owns that ever get to see a lick of polish. Nat skates like he swims—free, easy, like he was born to move this way. Funny when he looks almost awkward when he’s just walking along.
He comes crashing down the stairs like a one-boy rhinoceros stampede, jumping the last four steps and totally avoiding my eyes.
“Take your jacket, Nat,” Gail says.
“Don’t need one.”
“Take one anyway.”
He unhooks his black one from the coat pegs and swings it over his shoulder, his skates tucked under his arm, heads out to the car.
Gail and I attend to business, the handover of funds for the week, and she says, can I remember to bring back Rosie’s swimming towel next time, it could probably do with a wash, and I say, no need, it’s sorted, I’ve already washed it. I can tell she’s surprised, and I feel ridiculously pleased with myself.
In the car, Nat is in the front passenger seat and Rosie is whining.
“Dad, I always sit in the front. Tell Nat it’s my seat.” She kicks the back of his chair with some force. “Nat, you can’t just grab it the first time you come with us. It’s not fair.”
“Hey, Rozza, no kicking! But if you’ve had it every week up till now, it must be my go, right?”
“Da-ad?”
“Come on, Rosie. You have it on the way back, eh? Or we’ll never get going.”
A small pause, while she considers how much mileage she can get out of this.
“Can I have a lolly then?”
What is it with kids? You spend your whole life trying to bribe them or barter with them or threaten them every step of the way. Before you have kids of your own, you’re so smug and superior, aren’t you? You tell yourself you’re not going to spoil them the way you see other parents doing, you’ll know just how to handle it if they throw a wobbly in the supermarket. And then you have them and next thing you know they’re wailing fit to bust in the biscuit aisle and you’re shoving a chocolate bar in their face fast as you can and begging them to behave themselves. And you may be six feet tall and they only come up to your knees—but look who’s won?
“Yes, you can have a lolly, but only after your lunch.” This is so both of us can maintain the pretence that I’m still the one in charge. Fortunately, Rosie understands this, so she accepts that I have to be allowed to get my own way sometimes.
The airstrip is the biz for blading, I must say. It’s smooth as a rink but with great tufts of grass that have busted their way through the asphalt, which you can use as small jumps or to slalom round. There are two other people further down, also roller-blading and, beyond that, a man and a boy with a remote-controlled toy aeroplane, buzzing above the strip like an outsize bug. The strip is perfect for Rosie but too easy for Nat. He needs proper jumps and ramps really. I watch him whiz by at speed, a dark shape against the clear sky like some great black crow. I skate along more slowly, so Rosie can keep up, then Nat says he’ll show her how to do flashy turns and I have a sit-down in the grass and weeds by the side and watch them both for a while. Nat takes both her hands and skates backwards, towing her in front of him. Rosie squeals, “Too fast! Slow down!” but she’s loving it, you can see. Even backwards, he glides—glancing behind him now and then to watch for the tufts of grass. Then he looks across at me and, just for a moment, I think I see him smile. But I’m not sure because the sun is in my eyes. I tell myself it’s a smile, of course it is. But it’s only a moment and when I raise my hand to shield my eyes, he’s looking at Rosie again and the smile, if it was ever there, is gone.
Lesson Four
Rosie
I am
IO
Gail
Somehow we all survived the scho
ol summer holidays, though I must confess I spent the last two weeks praying for the start of the new term so I could have my precious little bundles off my hands again and return to sanity. Scott pitched in more than he ever used to at least, though it wasn’t that much help with Nat who’s still taking things slowly as far as his dad’s concerned. Nat went out on a few trips with Scott and Rosie, but only if it was swimming or seeing a film, still I suppose it’s a start. We’ll all just have to be patient. Scott even took Rosie up to Scotland to stay with his sister while Nat was away in Cornwall with Jason, and they had a great time. Rosie loves Sheila and they all made a fuss of her and she came back with what feels like hundreds of tartan knick-knacks for her room including some horrible furry little gonk thing clutching miniature bagpipes.
Also, it was Rosie’s birthday—10 at last! It feels like she’s been looking forward to it for ever. Anyway, we had a party at home for her and Scott and I agreed that Rosie would love it if he came as well. He managed to behave himself fairly well (for him) and had the kids playing silly games and shrieking with laughter and they all got very excited and thought he was wonderful and he was grinning from ear to ear like a big kid himself. Then we turned up the music and we adults had drinks in the kitchen while the kids held a mini-disco in the lounge—have you seen the way they dance these days? All wriggling their hips and sticking out their flat chests, desperate to be sexy—except they’re only ten years old. It’s truly hideous. Then they practised the dance routines they’ve seen on the telly being done by those awful bands they all go mad for, and I spent most of the next day trying to scrape up bits of ground-in cake from the carpet. Scott wanted to join in the dancing, but I thought it would embarrass Rosie (have you seen Scott dance?) and talked him out of it.
Lessons for a Sunday Father Page 29
