I’ve still got my blades on, so Rosie tries to tow me around the flat. There’s two bedrooms, one for Rosie and one for Dad. No prizes for guessing where his girlfriend sleeps when she stays the night. I’m not stupid. In the lounge, there’s a round table to eat at and a settee and a telly, CD player and stuff. And a couple of whacking great pot plants, big jungly ones. We never have plants indoors at home ‘cause Mum says they always die on her and she can’t be spending her whole life picking up the dead bits off the carpet all the time.
I lay down on the settee with my blades hanging over the arm at one end and Dad says,
“Course, this opens out y’know, Nat. It’s a sofa-bed. I got it specially. Case you wanted to come and stay. Some time. Any time. Whenever.” He’s looking down at the carpet which is like normal carpet, not like in the hall, and I could see all these grooves where my skates had been. I reckon he’s about to say something about it, but then he says,
“I’d really like it if you came to stay. Your mum’s cool about it too. So it’s down to you now really.”
“Mn.”
“So, what do you think then? About coming to stay?” He’s fiddling with his ear now, like he does when he’s nervous.
“What, on this? How come I don’t get my own room with a proper bed and works of art all over the walls then?”
Dad jingles his change in his pocket.
“Oh, Nat. I’m sorry. Really. But what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t shell out for a three-bedroom house when you weren’t even talking to me. But, if you want to come and stay, I’ll get somewhere bigger, course I will. This new business is going to do well, I know it is, so I’ll have a bit more coming in I reckon. Look, we’ll do your room properly—however you like—with a hard floor so you can skate in there if you want. And you can put up your posters and stuff—we could take a look at some places this weekend—”
“Yeah, yeah, all right, keep your hair on. I haven’t said I’ll stay yet.” He goes back to jingling his coins.
“But think about it, OK?”
“Mn.”
“Anyway. Pizza-time I think. Pizza, pizza, pizza. You hungry?”
I nod. Course I’m hungry. Like, when am I ever not hungry? “Pepperoni Hot or have you switched allegiance?”
“No chance. Pepperoni Hot. Can I have a big one?”
“Rosie!” he calls through. Mum says you’re not supposed to shout from room to room. She says Dad’s got no manners, but it’s a lot easier than running backwards and forwards the whole time. “What kind of pizza do you want, sweetheart?”
Rosie comes in balancing on her tiptoes, she thinks she’s a ballet dancer. She gives us a little twirl, showing off.
“Cheese and tomato, please. No bits on it.”
“Come on, Rozza.” I stretch out one of my skates and give her a shove. “What’s the point of a pizza with no bits on it? It’s like macaroni cheese without the cheese.”
“It’s like a guitar with no strings,” says Dad, taking her hand and twirling her round.
“A Ferrari with no wheels,” I say.
“A ballerina with no tutu,” Rosie joins in. Well, she’s only ten, what do you expect?
“Shepherd’s pie without the shepherds,” says Dad, getting carried away.
“But there aren’t—” starts Rosie.
“A bowling alley with no balls!” I bellow.
Rosie’s giggling away like a mad thing by now and Dad goes off, laughing, to look for the number of the pizza delivery place. Rosie starts tugging at my arm.
“Come and see Dad’s room. You haven’t seen it yet.”
We can hear him talking to himself in the kitchen. I reckon he’s going a bit bonkers, it’s his age most probably.
“I’m sure it was in this drawer. Where did I put it? I bet she’s moved it. Women—they’re always tidying things away so you can’t find anything …”
* * *
Rosie pulls me into Dad’s bedroom. Big double bed with a swirly red bedspread on it, not at all like he and Mum used to have. There’s a chest of drawers with candles on top and a vase of flowers. Real ones, not plastic. On the shelves, there’s some books. My dad hasn’t got that many but there’s others as well, ones I haven’t seen before that I reckon must be hers.
And on the shelves, in front of the books, are two framed photos—one of Rosie and one of me. They’re the crappy ones they do at school. Total rip-off. I look a complete nerd in my one ‘cause they make you brush your hair so it’s all smooth like a total dork and they keep telling you to smile so you can see my teeth. They are majorly uncool pictures. Rosie’s is OK, I guess, because she’s still a kid and sort of cute. Then on the shelf below that there’s another two photos, but not in frames. Rosie points to one of them.
“That’s Ella. See? She’s pretty, isn’t she?”
I ignore her. The other picture is of Dad. He’s carrying a little kid on his shoulders. A boy with brown curly hair, wearing a bright yellow sweatshirt.
“That’s Dad with Jamie. He’s only two and a half.”
“And who the fuck is this Jamie kid anyhow?”
“Nat! You’re not s’posed to swear—”
“You can’t tell me what to do. I guess you’ll go running off to Daddy now.”
“I wasn’t! I’m just saying—”
“Yeah, yeah. Who is he? Don’t look like that. It’s pathetic.” She’s doing her little lost kitten face, biting her lip.
“Jamie’s Ella’s little boy. I tried to tell you before, but you wouldn’t listen. He’s two and—”
“You said that already.”
“OK! He’s really clever. He knows lots of different makes of cars, just from the badges. Dad taught him. And he can—”
I give a big yawn, really exaggerating it.
“Mn. So interesting …”
Rosie stomps back off to her room. She is so easy to wind up, it’s untrue.
I pick up the picture and look at it really hard, like if I look long enough I’ll know everything in it. Dad’s laughing and the kid is laughing too and he—Jamie’s—got his hands half over Dad’s eyes but you can tell they’re only playing and joking around and Dad’s holding both his legs. I guess she took the picture.
I can see it all now. It’s so obvious I feel totally stupid that I didn’t click before. He must think we’re so dumb. I can tell Rosie doesn’t know. But I know why he left now and all that stuff about him and Mum not getting on any more and needing to spend time apart is a load of crap. Everything he’s said is lies. Mum knows. She must do, she’s not stupid. So everything she said is lies too. She could have told me. I’m old enough. I could have kept it from Rosie. She should have trusted me.
But the more I think about it, and the more I stare at the picture, the worse I feel. My insides feel weird, like I might throw up, but my ears are burning like that time I had the flu and my legs are shaking as if it’s freezing cold. I shove the photo in my pocket and stagger out to the hall again. Pick up my bag. I can hear him on the phone.
“No, that’s one large Pepperoni Hot and one—”
I open the front door, click it closed quietly behind me, then clamber best as I can back down the stairs, practically breaking my neck in the process ‘cause of my blades. I hoik my bag onto my back, then I’m out on the street and pushing off. I don’t know where I’m heading, not back home, I know that much, but I don’t care. As long as it’s not back there, not with him. Anywhere else. Anywhere else in the whole wide world. I pick up speed, getting into a rhythm now, swerving round crumblies with their shopping as if they’re obstacles on a slalom run. The wind is cold, slapping my face in sudden gusts, making my eyes water, and my hands are freezing without gloves but I swing my arms to make me go faster, faster and faster, wishing they were wings that would lift me up above all the people and the cars and the houses and then there would just be me and the air, blading through the sky. I imagine him calling me, shouting “Nat! Nat!” over and over, but the wind is loud in my e
ars and I don’t want to hear him. A woman gives me a funny look, like as if I’m crying or something, but it’s only the wind. I rub my eyes roughly with my sleeve and I skate on, on and on, gliding, wheels spinning along the pavements, taking me further and further away.
Gail
He hasn’t come home. He left Scott’s place over two and a half hours ago and he’s still not back. It’s dark now. Scott thought he’d come straight here. He’s not at Joanne’s or Steve’s or Jason’s. Steve’s ringing round his other friends just in case. Joanne’s mother said she’ll call if they hear anything. I even tried his mobile but, of course, there’s just a message saying it’s out of service. I should have given him the money. He kept asking for the money and I didn’t give it to him.
I want to rush out and look for him. I want to run through the streets calling his name until I find him. Scott brought Rosie back so he could go out looking but he says I must stay here in case Nat comes back. He’s right. Greg has gone to the hospital to check the casualty department and he’s promised to phone from there. I wanted to call the police too but Scott says he’ll drop into the station in town, and I’m not to worry. He will find Nat. He’s promised to find him. Mari offered to pick up Rosie and look after her, but I want her here with me. She’s fallen asleep on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, so Cassie and I are speaking in whispers.
“Don’t worry,” Cassie says. “Nat’s no fool. He’s sharp as a razor. He’ll be OK.”
I nod shakily and try to drink my coffee.
Neither of us are saying it. I cannot say it out loud. If I do, maybe that’ll make it true. But I know she’s thinking it and I’m thinking it: What if someone’s taken him?
I wish to God she hadn’t used the word sharp, I don’t want to think about anything sharp. I mustn’t think it. I owe it to Natty not to think it. Not even for a second. I pray inside my head, “Please, God, let him be safe. I’ll do anything you want. Don’t let anything happen to him. Take me instead. Please let him be all right, please”—over and over in my head as I walk up and down, hugging myself with my own arms.
“I could go and look as well,” offers Cassie.
I shake my head.
“Please don’t leave me.”
She gives me a long, long hug.
“I’m phoning Derek—Scott can’t do the whole town by himself.”
Scott phones and says he’s spoken to his mate in the police, given him a photo so he can keep an eye out and they’ll put the word out to the police on the beat. I give him Derek’s mobile number so they can co-ordinate.
“Don’t worry,” says Scott. “I’ll bring him back. I swear. You can rely on me.”
Scott
I head for the station first, hoping like hell he hasn’t got himself on a train to London or I’d never find him. It made me think of those programmes you see about teenagers, no more than kids really, living on the streets, getting into drugs, thieving, prostitution. Knowing Natty, he wouldn’t have had enough money for the train fare on him, but he might have snuck on, hid in the toilet from the guard. I know a bloke who works there so I track him down and show him Nat’s photo. He asks around and says no-one’s seen a boy that age on his own and they probably would have noticed one—you did if it wasn’t regular school time because you reckoned they’d be up to no good, vandalizing the toilets and what have you. I quell an urge to punch him one. Not my Natty, he’s not like that. It’s nearly half-ten now. I give him my mobile number and he promises to keep an eye out.
Then I drive round and round town, hoping I might just suddenly spot him, trying to think—where would he go? What would he do? Where would I go if I was Nat? Derek’s covering the park, the snooker hall, and the bus station. I check out the bowling alley, because I took Natty there a few times, but it’s pretty much all families. Real families, you know, out together having a good time, not like the godawful mess I’ve managed to make of mine. The sports centre is just closing up—they have some late-night coaching and stuff going on on Saturday nights. I go up to the reception desk and show his photo to the two women there. The older one says, “Sorry, love. I don’t remember him, but we get so many lads in that age. The courts and pool are closed. Only the main hall’s still open—take a look if you like.”
The other one, the young one, says, “Ooh, it’s like on the telly. Are you a cop?”
What a moron. Normally, I’d have tried to come up with a cutting remark, something clever, but I don’t care any more. I just want Natty back.
“No, not a cop. I’m a dad. He’s my son.”
The security guard comes with me to check the hall and the gents’ toilets. Nothing.
Back into town and I park illegally to nip into McDonald’s, knowing Nat can’t keep away from food for long. The manager says no, he doesn’t think he’s seen him but they have so many kids in and they all look alike now, don’t they?
“He was wearing a black padded jacket, black combat trousers and roller-blades.”
“Exactly,” he says. “They all are. Could be anybody.”
It’s not anybody, I want to shout at him, It’s my son. He’s my son, you idiot.
Still, getting angry isn’t going to get me anywhere. I go back outside, shivering from the cold. I hope wherever he is that it’s somewhere warm and safe and that he has a portion of chips to keep the chill off his hands. I could do with some myself because I’m freezing but I’m not getting any. It sounds daft but I can’t stand the idea of me being warm in the car with chips and Natty being cold and chipless and alone. But it’s the best way to keep your hands warm, holding chips, that’s what I’ve always told him, that’s the way we used to do it when he was little and we went fishing off the beach.
The—way—we—used—to. When—he—was—little. Hang on a sec. Hang on a sec. Would he? Could he have gone there? He’d have to have got the bus or hitched a ride. Dear God, don’t let him have hitched with all these nutters out on the roads. I give Derek a call on his mobile, see if he’s checked the bus station yet, and he says he’ll go there straight away. It has to be worth a try—I’m going anyway, I’m all out of other ideas. I ring Gail to check if there’s any news her end and tell her where I plan to go next.
“What do you think? Is it a long shot?”
“Go. Just go, Scott. I can’t think of anywhere else.”
“I’ll call you when I get there.” “Thanks. Please find him. Promise you’ll bring him back safe.”
“I promise.”
The phone rings a minute later and I jump, thinking maybe it’s Nat. But it’s Ella, calling from the flat, to see if there’s any news. She’d offered to come round and stay in case he went back and turned up there. It’s good to hear her voice, concerned but calm.
“Take care of yourself,” she says. “And keep warm.”
“I will. Get into bed and warm it up.”
“It’s best if I stay up. In case he comes back here. But I’ll let you put your cold feet on me. Special treat.”
“Ella?”
“Yup?”
“You know I love you, don’t you?”
I can feel her smile shimmering through the phone.
“Yes. I love you too.”
It’s been a while since I’ve driven this road in the dark—not since I last went fishing with Harry. Years ago, when Nat was not much more than a tot really, that’s when I first started taking him fishing with me, from the beach. You get a lot of blokes along this particular stretch, the occasional woman too, but mostly blokes—in ones and twos, mates or dads with their boys. Fathers and sons. I had this little wind-shelter tent and a tilley lamp and two folding stools and we’d go at night. You get there a couple of hours before high tide, stay three, four hours sometimes. There’d be a flask of coffee for me and a small one of cocoa or soup for Nat and we’d take along some sandwiches but we’d always go to the chippie as well because holding chips is the best way to keep your hands warm. And there’s nothing like the smell of chips and vinegar and warm pa
per in your nose when the wind’s biting your face off and the sea is grey and the sky is dark. And all you can see are the stars, the lights of the power station across the bay, the lamps of the men fishing and the red-hot dots of their cigarettes floating against the dark.
I park right on the front and scrunch down onto the shingle. Start asking the blokes who are fishing,
“Seen a young lad on his own?”
Showing them the photo. From one to the next I go, working my way along the beach. After about ten or twelve there’s a bloke fishing by himself, with the same kind of tent that I’ve got.
“Yes, mate. I chatted to a lad. I’m not sure if it was this one, it’s hard to see. Hair going forwards over his face like this? Dark padded jacket?”
“Yes, yes. That sounds like him.” My heart’s racing. Please let it be Nat, please let it be Nat.
“Yeah. I gave him some tea. He looked half frozen to death, mate.”
“Did you see which way he went?”
“To get chips, he said. But it must have been over an hour ago.”
I run along the beach then, stumbling on the shingle in the dark, calling out his name. The wind snatches my words and makes my eyes water, tears running down my face. “Natty! Na-a-t!” Running by the small shelter there on the promenade, I turn—and see a figure, a dark, hunched figure, almost invisible crumpled as he is right into the very corner.
I clamber up the beach, slipping and sliding, like trying to run up the down escalator, pull myself up onto the edge of the promenade. Stand up. Face him.
He looks up. Natty. I breathe out. I feel as if I’ve been holding my breath for hours.
“Oh,” he says. “It’s you.”
“Natty.”
“Why are you here? What do you want?” He looks terrible. Even in the dim light, I can see he’s pale and cold, his eyes dark and bruised looking.
“Hang on,” I say, not moving, not wanting to make him run again, though he looks defeated somehow, and weak as a half-drowned kitten. “Have a go at me in a minute. I’m ringing Mum before she has a nervous breakdown.”
Lessons for a Sunday Father Page 36
