Lessons for a Sunday Father
Page 37
I phone Gail, tell her he’s safe and well and she bursts into tears. Cassie comes on the line and says to call back in a while. I sit down further along the bench. Nat’s holding a half-eaten portion of chips.
“Hands holding up OK?”
He shrugs.
“Chips have gone cold.”
I edge a bit closer.
“Fish biting tonight?”
The ghost of a smile comes to his face.
“Stupid. Haven’t got my rod, have I?”
“Natty?”
“Mn?”
“I—this is difficult—I don’t know how to—Thing is, I guess I’m not much of a dad.”
He shrugs again.
“Feel free to contradict me at any point.”
A small laugh. Then silence.
“This little boy.” He takes out a photo from his pocket, the one from my bedroom, with Jamie on my shoulders.
“What, Jamie?”
“Mn. Is he your kid?” He’s not looking at me. He’s facing dead ahead, staring out to sea.
God, is that what he thought? That all along I’d had another son hidden away?
“What? No, of course not. Where did you get that idea?”
“Thought that’s why you left. What d’you need us for when you’ve got a whole other family all along?”
I slide closer along the bench.
“Oh, Natty. Shit. I can’t bear it that you thought that. Not for a second. Listen he’s Ella’s son, that’s all. I was carrying him because he’s little and he was tired. You know what they’re like at that age. Remember Rosie, eh? ‘Lift me up, Daddy! Carry me, Daddy!'”
We laugh a bit at that.
“He’s a nice kid, Natty. But he’s not my son. You’re my son.”
“Mn.” He scrunches up what’s left of his chips and leans out to chuck them in the bin. “You going to have kids with her?”
“Nah. I’m too old and knackered.” Then I think of Ella. Her calm face close to mine, her laugh, the way she moves around the kitchen, her hand reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear, singing to herself as she cooks. “I don’t know. We’re not at that stage yet. But—Nat—even if I did, no amount of kids could ever replace you. It’s not like getting a new battery and chucking the old one away ‘cause it’s no use any more. I mean, you’re Nat. My Nat. There’ll never, ever be another Nat.”
“What, never, ever, ever, ever?” We used to say that when he was little, you know, all that parent stuff … “Eat your greens or you’ll never get to be big.” “What?” Nat would say back, “Never, ever?” “Nope. Never, ever, ever” we’d go.
“Nope,” I say now. “Never, ever, ever, ever, ever … ever.”
“Why d’you leave us then?”
I shuffle right next to him and put my arm round him. Feel him stiffen, his body tense.
“I didn’t leave you, you dipstick. Jeez. How can I tell you? Grown-up stuff, it’s so difficult, Nat. I don’t understand it half the time. Mind you, your mum would say that’s ‘cause I’m not a proper grown-up—and she’s probably right. But it was nothing to do with Ella—I hardly even knew her then. The thing is, I messed up big time and it was all my fault and then—your mum and I—well, we just couldn’t be together any more. And, if I’d stayed, we’d have ended up rowing the whole time and maybe even hating each other—and that’d have been bad for us and bad for you and Rosie, too. Believe me, you and Rosie are the best things in my life, always have been. I’d do anything for you, you must know that.”
I feel him give a little, his weight heavy against me. I give him a squeeze and pull him closer.
“You’re my son. Nothing can ever change that or take it away—not from you and not from me. I love you, you big dipstick. I love you so much. You have to know that.”
And I sit there holding him a while, the two of us looking out to the dark sky, the sea, the lights across the bay, the tilley lamps of the men and the glow of their cigarettes. We sit there, watching them, clutching their cups of tea, huddling against the wind, fathers and sons.
“C’mon then. It’s cold.” I pull him to his feet and give him a final hug. We stay like that a minute, then he pulls away.
“Leave over, Dad. You can’t have blokes hugging along here. We’ll get arrested.”
One last squeeze then I let him go.
“All right. Fancy some fresh chips?”
He nods and we walk along the front together, just the two of us, father and son. Father and son.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to everyone—adults, teenagers and children—I spoke to while researching Lessons for a Sunday Father, including those who preferred to remain anonymous, and especially the following:
Kevin Grout, Jane Ufton and pupils of Lady Joanna Thornhill Primary School in Wye, Kent
Joe Moran, Dominic Bergen and pupils of Walworth School, London
Trevor Dry, the Pied Piper of mackerel, with thanks for providing inspiration and fishing tips
Glass ‘N’ Glaze of Pluckley near Ashford, Kent, especially Jim, Thelma and Trevor Pearson
Dr Paul Barnett, Ned and Dan Brackenbury, Jordan Dry, Will Faulkner, Laurence Fegenbaum, Darren Peters, Oscar Russell, Mark Smithson, Igor Sprodnik, Ben Tansey, Honor Wilson-Fletcher
Terry Hill and Dave Watson for illuminating the mysteries of the male mind
James Barraclough, for early morning alarm calls
Jonathan Edgington, for advice on blokishness, vocabulary and swimming
My mother, Pat McNeill, for slogging through the first and second drafts and offering keen editorial insights as well as nice motherly encouragement
My late father, Mel, who knew that being a Sunday father is a full-time job
My sister, Stephanie, my one-woman cheerleader team, for her unfailing support
My agent, Jo Frank, for being so much more than an agent, and Vicky Cubitt for enthusiasm beyond the call of duty
My editor, Linda Evans, for having immense patience and a light touch with the red pen
… And Larry, a dedicated man, who really puts his heart into his work
Love is a
Four Letter Word
by Claire Calman
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Copyright
Lessons for a Sunday Father
Copyright © 2001 by Claire Calman.
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Lessons for a Sunday father / Claire Calman.
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