“Yeah? Like so not. You had chicken nuggets only last week and I saw you eating fish fingers yesterday.”
“Fish doesn’t count. And nor does nuggets.”
* * *
Who the hell is Jamie? I’m not asking Rosie. Bet I can get her to tell me though.
“Well, if you and Dad and Ella and Jamie are all going to be there, doesn’t sound like there’s a whole lot of room for anyone else. I mean, this Jamie—“
Rosie stops bicycling and stands up.
“You’re being horrible again. You said you’d come and see the painting on my bedroom wall and now you’re trying to sneak out of it, but I don’t care and I’m going to eat your share of the pizza as well as mine.”
She stomps across the room to the door.
“Oi, Rozza!”
“What?”
“You just fell down the Grand Canyon.”
Scott
There goes my mobile again. It’s been non-stop today.
“Yup?”
“Scotty?” It’s Harry.
“Hello, mate. Not ready for your deathbed yet then?”
“Still struggling on. They’ll have to knock me over the head with a mallet if they want to get rid of me. Thought you’d forgotten me. Been busy, has it?”
“Yeah, well, you know. That lot couldn’t tie their own shoelaces if I wasn’t there keeping an eye on them.”
“Maureen said you were probably up to your eyes, and that’s why you hadn’t been round.”
“Hang on a sec. That’s not it. I’ve phoned at least three times, but Maureen said you were having a nap or were out on your allotment. And I didn’t come to see you ‘cause Chris said you’d been ordered not even to think about work and you could do without the stress.”
“I see.”
“This sell-off, Harry? It is your idea, right?”
“Come off it. You know me—if it was up to me, they’d have to prise my cutter out my hand when I’m laying in my coffin.”
“Yeah, true—but your box will wait, you don’t have to rush.”
I knew it wasn’t his idea. Now what?
“Still, it’s probably best, eh? You don’t need the agg. of all that.” Why am I trying to talk him into it? Shut up, Scott. Just shut the fuck up. “And you’ve got your bowls to stop you getting up to mischief. And your allotment.”
“Scott. Do me a favour, will you?”
“Course. Anything. Name it.”
“Come and see me. Not at home. At the allotment.”
I’ve not been since last summer. Then Harry was falling over tomatoes—great fat ones that tasted of, well, tomato—which is something of a rarity nowadays. And courgettes. I took some home for Gail to cook. And runner beans, hundreds of them it looked like, hanging off these bamboo wigwams like dangly green earrings. Early potatoes, damp and sticky with soil. Lettuces with frilly leaves like the can-can petticoats in that awful show I saw in Margate one time. That was last summer, before my life became this thrilling rollercoaster ride, up and down, my stomach lurching into my mouth one minute, then down into my boots the next.
We fix on tomorrow morning. Harry’s to keep active, the consultant says. Easy on the stress but no becoming a couch potato. He’s been put on a diet and he’s to take exercise. Gardening gets the thumbs-up.
It is a fresh day, sunny but cold, with snapping gusts of wind from the east. I clang the metal gate closed and make my way in a succession of right angles across to where I see Harry stooping in among his beds. He is wearing a pair of old black gumboots and a brown jumper with holes in the elbows.
“Ooh-arr,” I do my daftest country accent. “'Ow goes it, ‘arry-lad?” He smiles and claps me on the back.
“Weeds and slugs. My two great enemies. Whatever I do, they just keep coming.”
“Need a hand?” Course, what I know about gardening could be written on the point of a toothpick. Can’t tell a weed from a prize cabbage.
“You could get the barrow from the shed. It’s open.” He points to a small shed at the far end of his patch. “And my other shovel. The old one.”
We begin moving a mound of soil from one corner of the allotment to another bed near the middle for some reason. It is the kind of pointless thing gardeners seem to like doing.
“Will you move it all back tomorrow?”
“Cheeky so-and-so.” He taps the side of his head. “It’s all in here, my son, all part of the plan.”
And, although it’s true I can barely tell one end of a rake from the other and I’m certainly not as fit as I once was, it’s kind of fun, pottering about on the allotment with old Harry. Like making mud pies or messing around in the woods or on the gravel heaps when I was a kid—getting grubby and being out in the fresh air and not feeling like you’re supposed to be somewhere else. I am supposed to be somewhere else, of course, but Lee and Martin and Gary and Denise are all in today and if they can’t handle most things by now between them then God help them when they come to be working for the new lot. They won’t know what’s hit them. A big company’s not going to be as easygoing as me and Harry, that’s for sure. Besides, it’s not my problem any more.
“I’m glad you came,” says Harry. “I wanted to have a word here—not at home, you know.”
He means away from Chris, away from Maureen even, but he won’t say it.
“Course.” I plunge the spade deep into the soil. “'bout time I did some real work for a change anyhow.”
He stands astride one of the narrow beds and bends down to pull up some carrots, one by one. I’m not sure exactly what he wants to say, but whatever it is, he’s finding it tricky. He’s as bad as I am. Worse even. I feel a sudden rush of—what?—something like, no, it sounds bloody daft. Well, don’t tell anyone, but sort of affection, as if, just for a second, our positions were reversed and he’s my son, standing there struggling, not knowing what to say. It’s so rare for me to be the one who’s not at a loss for words that I figure I should help him out a bit.
“Harry. About the business. It is OK, you know. Chris told me I’ll not be needed. I’ll manage. I can turn my hand to anything.” I’m not half as confident as I sound. I can’t just do anything—I need to earn decent dosh. Most of what I take home goes straight to Gail, aside from enough for rent and bills and to take Rosie out. It’s tight enough as it is. I want to take Ella on holiday—she says there’s a place in Ireland where you can even swim with a dolphin—or at least out to a fancy restaurant for dinner once in a blue moon, give her a chance to dress up a bit. She could do with a treat.
“If I’d had a whiff of that condition at the beginning, I’d never have let him go ahead with it.”
“It’s no sweat. Honestly. I should have been moving on anyhow. I can’t be a sad old bugger like you, stuck in the same firm for forty years, can I?” He laughs and looks down at the carrots in his hand, rubs the soil off with his finger and thumb.
“I’ve come to a decision,” he says. “About the money.”
“It’s OK. Chris told me. Three months’ pay. It’s all right.”
“Shut up a minute. It is not all right and it’s not up to him. He should never have said that, it was totally out of order!” He’s practically shouting now.
“Keep calm. Watch your blood pressure. Come on, sit down for a sec.”
He lowers himself onto one of the grass paths at the edge. I’m in my not-so-crap trousers because I’ve got customer calls to do later, so I squat next to him.
“If none of this had happened,” he strikes his chest, “I’d have gradually taken a back seat anyway and made you a proper partner in the business.”
“Harry, I—”
“No, hang on. I should have done it years ago. Let’s face it, you’ve been running the place for years. Yes, you have—I know you like to make out I’m still in charge but any fool could see through that in two minutes.”
“But I never—”
“Will you shut up?”
“Yes, Boss.”
“And then when I died—”
“Who’s talking about dying all of a sudden? The doctor said—”
“I’m saying when I went, you’d have got the business—with a share in the profits for Maureen, of course, and a bit to go to Chris too. But it would have been yours.”
There is a silence. I don’t know what to say. I never knew all this. I want to say thank you, thank you for thinking of it for even a second, even though it won’t happen now. I want to say these things but I can’t speak.
“But, because of this—” He strikes his chest again. It makes me think of King Kong in that old film, beating his chest, towering over the jungle. But this is Harry, a man old before his time, sitting on a grass path beside his patch, his beloved allotment with its funny little beds of fruit and vegetables. He’s still trying to be strong, though, proud—on his own territory now, in charge again. “Because of this, my family …” He pauses and I know he wishes he’d chosen different words, not the f-word, the one that excludes me. “Maureen and Chris have made me see I’ve got to have a decent nest egg for my retirement.”
“They’re right. You have.”
“Still, I may be old and getting feeble, but I’ll not be bullied. You’re to have a share of the money from the sale.”
“I don’t want it. You may need it. What if you get sick or something?”
“There’ll be enough. I’m not arguing with you, so save your breath. I’ve made up my mind.”
Rosie
My dad says he’s going to be a company director. What he’s going to do is sell his car and have a van instead and it’s going to have his name painted on the side and he’ll be the boss. Only there won’t be anyone else for him to be the boss of because it’s just him, but he’ll still be the boss and that’s what matters. He says it was all Ella’s idea and if it doesn’t work out she’s going to be in big trouble and he’ll have to tickle her to death.
What it is is he’s going to do people’s painting for them and put up their wallpaper and their tiles in the bathroom, like he did in the flat. Ella says he’s really, really good at it and he shouldn’t be so modest. Actually, I think Ella is better than him because she can paint proper pictures and things on the walls, animals and butterflies or whatever you like, but Dad can only do plain.
Nat’s coming to Dad’s on Saturday. We’re going to get pizza, proper take-out ones, not just the sort you get in the freezer. Ella’s not going to be there though. Dad said she was seeing a friend. But Nat’s coming and he’s going to see my room and Dad said maybe we can both go with him to help him choose a van in a couple of weeks. I think he should have a blue one. I’ve gone off mauve.
Scott
OK, I did accept the money from Harry, but only once he showed me he’d have enough put by for himself. It’ll help me get set up with a van and ladders and all the gear I need and tide me over for a while until I’m up and running. I told Harry any time he’s bored and fancies a spot of work, he can come in with me because I’ll still take on the odd glazing job alongside the decorating.
When Ella first suggested it, I laughed. Me, run my own business?
“Why not? You’ve got the skills, the trade contacts, you’re used to managing things. You’re not afraid of hard work, you’re good with people, trustworthy …”
“Carry on, don’t stop now you’re getting up a head of steam.”
“… and you’re also getting big-headed—but with good reason because you’re lovely and sexy and funny and you’ve got this really gorgeous bit right here—” She lifts up my shirt and lays her cool hand on my back, just above my bum.
“It’s no good me being gorgeous where no-one can see it. What about the rest of me?”
She gets these little curves at the corners of her mouth when she smiles. Not dimples, curves—like mini-smiles laying on their sides.
“Oh, the rest of you is just about bearable, I guess.”
Nat’s coming over on Saturday night. I had to tell Ella, ask her, you know, if she’d mind … She was great about it.
“Don’t force him to meet me when it’s probably taking him all his courage to come at all. We’ll take it slowly. I don’t mind. Let him go at his own pace.”
I take her hand and rub it gently between my own.
“Yeah, you’re right. Thank you.”
She pulls me down to kiss her.
“Good luck.”
I’m going to need it.
Nat
He thought he’d make me come round. Like he used to when I was just a kid. When I was really small—littler than Rosie even—if I was being naughty or cross with him, Dad would pick me up and turn me upside-down, then he’d tickle me or make like he was about to chuck me across the room until I started laughing and then he’d laugh as well and Mum’d come in and say, “What are you two up to? It’s like running a zoo, this house. Come on, it’s feeding time for the animals. Chicken and chips!”
He must still think I’m only about four and he can just tease me out of it. But there’s nothing he can do this time. I don’t want to see him again. Not ever. Never, ever, ever. That’s what we used to say. Like if he was trying to get me to eat vegetables at dinner, he’d say, “Eat up your greens or you’ll never be big and strong” and I’d say, “What, never?” Then he’d go, “Never ever” and I’d go, “Never, ever, ever?” until Mum would say, “Oh, for goodness’ sake, give it a rest you two—you’re driving me crazy.” It was always “you two” then, like we were both her kids. Rosie was only little and she was never naughty all that much so she didn’t get told off even half as much as me. Then I’d say, “But I’ll never like greens. Never.” And Dad would say, “What, never ever?” And we’d be off again, laughing and making slurping noises with our drinks and playing tabletop football with our peas, flicking them between the knives and forks as goalposts when Mum wasn’t looking.
OK, what happened was this. First of all, you need to know that it’s not like I’d made up with him or anything because I hadn’t. You got that? But I kind of said I’d take a look at his flat, just a look right, mainly because Rosie was giving me earache going on and on about it, and Cassie said she was going to take a look, and Mum was nagging me, so I thought if I went maybe everyone would stop hassling me about it. Anyway, I said I’d go round, just to look. No big deal. For an hour or so. See Rosie’s room and that. Maybe have some pizza. And Dad said OK and she wouldn’t be there.
It’s not all that far and it wasn’t raining for once, so I roller-bladed round there. He’s got this flat on the first floor. I rang the bell and he buzzed me in and I went up the stairs still in my blades. It’s OK if you turn your feet sideways. I couldn’t be arsed to take them off ‘cause I wasn’t going to be there long and the laces take for ever to do, but I had my trainers in my bag, anyway.
Course, at home Mum never lets me keep my blades on indoors because she says it crucifies the carpets and she keeps saying I’m going to crash into things and knock them over—which I don’t. Anyway, I’m at the door and he opens it but he just stands there not saying anything and looking at me like he’s never seen me before. Then I clock that we’re looking at each other almost on a level, eye to eye, ‘cause with my blades on I’m like nearly as tall as he is. He gives me this funny smile, with his mouth all weird and pressed together like he’s scared to smile normally, then he goes,
“Hey!”
And I go,
“So, am I coming in or what?”
I’m waiting for him to tell me to take off my blades or something, but he doesn’t. He just opens the door wide as it’ll go, right back so it bangs against the wall. The hall’s like really minuscule and it’s got this funny matting stuff on the floor, not proper carpet. It’s really rough and hard and if you kneel down on it for more than about a minute it makes all patterns on your knees, even through your trousers. I know ‘cause this boy I used to hang out with, Ian, they had it all over the whole house. Point is, it’s not the best stuff if you’re wearing blades an
d what with that and trying to get round the door into the kitchen and round him all at the same time I kind of lose my balance and Dad grabs my arm. I don’t need his help. Jeez, you’d think I was an old lady trying to cross the road or something the way he holds onto me. Then he squeezes my arm and makes like he’s about to say something. So I give him a look, sideways on so’s he can’t really see and I’m not kidding, he looks just like Rosie does when she’s trying not to cry. ‘Cept this is my dad here, right? When Rosie does it, her eyes look all wet and she bites her lip on the inside. Mostly it works but you can see she’s doing it. So this freaks me out like only a major amount and I kind of push past him and stagger into the kitchen, which has a vinyl floor. Excellent. So I’m gliding round that smooth as you like, pushing off from one wall to the other, even though it’s only small. Dad gives me a Coke straight from the fridge and gets me a beer glass and puts about fifteen ice cubes in it, like you’d have in a restaurant. I love it like that, so cold it makes your teeth hurt.
Rosie shows me her room and I say, “Yeah, very nice.” She’s got loads of stuff there. She must be leaving things there each weekend. There’s a couple of posters and her scruffy old bear she’s had since she was about two years old and there’s a board up with pictures of her friends on it, bit like her room at home really, and there’s a picture of Mum and—Rosie!—a stupid one of me she took last year. It’s not even properly in focus. There’s an inflatable chair in the corner and she shows me some stickers she bought with her pocket money, little penguins and polar bears, and says how she’s going to put them on cards and do speech bubbles so they’re saying things and have I got any good jokes about the Arctic for her to use. Then she drags me over to the painting on the wall by whatserface. Actually, it’s not that bad. It’s got birds flying around and the clouds really look like clouds. The castle’s dark but there’s this one window lit up in one of the turrets and it really glows like there’s an actual light on in there.
Lessons for a Sunday Father Page 35
