‘Don’t worry, I’m sure it’ll be somewhere safe. I can ask—’
‘Could they have left it in the corridor, outside the door of your room?’
‘That’s not how the post works here.’
‘Do your old dad a favour and check anyway, would you?’
‘What, now? Seriously?’
‘Go on, please. It’ll only take you a second and you’ll be putting my mind at ease.’
This was an odd request, but since I wasn’t yet fully awake, I didn’t give it too much thought. ‘Fine,’ I said, ‘but I’m telling you it’s a waste of time. Hang on.’
I put the phone down and threw on a dressing gown, catching a glimpse of myself looking far from my best in the mirror. Shaking my head at the pointlessness of Dad’s request, I walked over to the door of my room and opened it. I expected to see nothing other than perhaps an early-bird student; to my surprise, there was a parcel around the size of a loaf of bread, wrapped in bright red paper. It had my name on the front in handwriting I recognised as my father’s, but there was no address or stamp, which struck me as odd.
Intrigued, I picked it up and went back inside, sitting down on my narrow single bed and picking up the phone again. ‘Dad?’ I said. ‘There was a parcel. You were right, although I don’t understand it, because—’
‘Ah, fantastic,’ Dad replied, cutting in. ‘Have you opened it yet?’
‘Give me a chance.’
‘Oh, hang on,’ he said. ‘Can you bear with me? I have to do something. You go ahead and open it, Rose, and I’ll call you back in a minute.’
He hung up.
Rubbing my still-sleepy eyes, I turned the parcel over in my hands, imagining Dad sitting at the kitchen table at the house, taping it together. The thought made me homesick and a little teary. ‘Come on, Rose. Pull yourself together,’ I said out loud, blinking repeatedly and wiping the corners of my eyes with one finger. ‘It’s your birthday, for goodness’ sake. Smile.’
I focused my attention on opening the parcel, only to find another layer of wrapping – pink tissue paper this time. ‘Oh, Dad,’ I said, looking at the phone and willing him to ring it again. ‘Ever the joker, aren’t you?’
He’d really gone to town. Every layer of wrapping I ripped open revealed another of a different colour. It was only when I finally reached the nineteenth layer, which was a shiny gold colour, that I realised this would be the last one, to mark my age. The size of the parcel had shrunk considerably by now; it was about as big as a large matchbox.
I didn’t actually expect it to be a matchbox, though. When that was what I found, I was confused and, dare I say, disappointed. Wait, I thought, wondering again why Dad hadn’t phoned me back yet: there must be something exciting inside.
In fact, all the matchbox contained was a small piece of plain white paper, folded in half. I removed it, opened it up and found a short message written in black biro. It read: Knock knock. There’s somebody at the door.
‘What?’ I stared at the note, confused, until my mind started to whirr, calculating possibilities. I jumped to my feet, scattering wrapping paper all over the floor, and ran to the door. Opening it, I was serenaded with another rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ by Dad – yes, he was there in person, smiling ear to ear – accompanied, bizarrely, by one of the security staff, also singing and playing an acoustic guitar.
CHAPTER 10
Dad’s never shied away from grand gestures. It’s kind of his thing, especially when it comes to me. I think there’s little, if anything, he enjoys more than making his only daughter feel special. Subconsciously, it’s probably a case of him over-compensating for the fact I’ve no mother or siblings, although I’d never say that to him.
It’s a very different side to his character from the reclusive one. He’s really good with people when he wants or needs to be. However, he turns this charisma on and off like a tap, depending on the situation.
Not everyone would have been able to persuade that security guard to let them into my accommodation block unannounced to surprise me on my birthday. Dad went one step further, managing to convince the guy to join in on the fun, like they were best pals. Up until that moment, I hadn’t thought of that particular chap as being very friendly. And yet from my birthday onwards, we always had a smile for each other.
I’ve seen Dad in recorded TV interviews from when his book was released. He comes across well, like a friendly, easy-going, gregarious type. That’s also how he is with me and other people with whom he’s comfortable spending time. And yet it’s rarely the persona he portrays publicly. Introduce him without warning to someone new and you’ll often struggle to get two words out of him. Even at my school parents’ evenings or when he took me to look around universities, he made all the right noises, but that was it. There was little or no small talk with other mums and dads. There were even times when he was downright rude, asking people to stop dawdling and move out of his way in a narrow corridor, for instance, or ignoring what he considered to be a ridiculous question. He was out of his comfort zone, I guess. Perhaps such occasions were painful because they reminded him of what our family might have looked like if my mum hadn’t died.
I think the main reason Dad withdrew from the public eye originally was probably grief. He and my mother might not have been together for long, but I’m sure he adored her. It’s the way his eyes glaze over when he finds the strength to talk about her. Had she lived, I have a feeling he’d have kept on writing, with her as his muse. The way he talks about her, it sounds so powerful what they found in each other: that click, spark, chemistry, whatever you want to call it. I’m probably guilty of over-romanticising things again. But, in my head at least, they were soulmates, and losing her when he did – the way he did – shot down his creativity.
I’ve read that the human brain is capable of adapting itself following a traumatic injury. Patients can sometimes recover lost functions, at least to a degree, through the formation of new connections and pathways, as the brain reorganises to try to compensate for damage. This reminds me of what Dad achieved by getting into his furniture building. He’s an imaginative, artistic type – always has been, according to Nana – but he lost his original outlet for that when he stopped wanting or being able to write. Instead, he discovered an alternative way of expressing himself creatively and thus found new purpose in life. Dave the furniture maker is undoubtedly a very different person to Dave the successful young author. He’s older and wiser, bearing the scars of the journey that changed him. And yet the creative essence at his core probably remains much the same as it was at the start.
Dad has never, to my knowledge, had a romantic relationship with anyone since my mother. It’s not because he’s ugly or anything. The physical nature of his work keeps him in good shape. He has a full head of dark brown hair, which he keeps short and relatively tidy. He definitely doesn’t shave every day, so he often has stubble, but I suppose that gives him a ruggedly handsome look. It’s hard to consider your father in that way, but I know other women find him attractive, in spite of his tendency to clam up or even be ill-mannered in social situations he finds awkward.
One of my English teachers at school used to virtually swoon whenever she met him, although it’s possible a lot of that was down to his novel, which I know she adored.
He’s had several admirers over the years, from mothers of my schoolfriends – some divorced, some bored – to women he’s made furniture for. And they’re only the ones I know about. I recall one customer in particular who wouldn’t leave him alone: Madge. A wealthy, glamorous widow with a vivid mane of burgundy hair and too much time on her hands, she was maybe five or six years older than Dad. She originally commissioned him, based on a personal recommendation, to make her a fancy garden bench. But after meeting him in person, she wouldn’t leave him alone. There was a period of six months or so when he seemed to be constantly making things for Madge, and she was forever coming around or phoning up.
‘You know she has
a thing for you, Dad,’ I remember telling him at the dinner table one evening. I must have been sixteen or seventeen.
‘I think she’s just lonely,’ he replied. ‘She’s nice enough. A little demanding of my time and attention, perhaps.’
‘That’s because she’s hot for you.’
‘Rose!’
‘What? She is. Anyone can see that. And you can’t say she’s not attractive. She has one heck of a good figure for her age. You’re not bad-looking either, you know, for an old man.’
‘Old? Don’t be so cheeky. I’m younger than a lot of your friends’ parents.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ I said with a cheeky grin. ‘Anyway, the question is: what will you do when Madge asks you out on a date or throws herself at you? Because that is what’s going to happen, Dad.’
He was having none of it until, a few days later, she made her move. He came to me with his tail between his legs.
‘You were right,’ he said. ‘What do I do now?’
‘Would you like to go on a date with her? It would probably do you good to get out there again after all these years. And in case you’re wondering, I’d be fine with it.’
He pulled a face. ‘No, thanks. Madge isn’t my type. She’s very full-on. She, um … This is embarrassing—’
‘Don’t you dare stop now. What did she do?’
‘Promise you won’t tell anyone? I mean it.’
‘Who would I tell, Dad?’
‘Well now, let me see. How about Nana, Cara, Ryan, perhaps?’
‘Fine, I won’t tell them, or anyone else. So?’
‘She turned up unannounced at my workshop this lunchtime, while you were still at school.’
‘And?’ I rotated my hands in front of me, gesturing for him to continue with his story and get to the point.
‘She was wearing this small summer dress. One minute we were chatting about an idea she’d had for a coffee table to give her sister as a birthday present and the next … she slipped the straps off and the dress was on the floor.’
‘No! Seriously? Wow, she’s not backward in coming forward! What did she have on underneath?’
Dad had gone bright red by this point and was covering his face with one hand. ‘Um, she was just in her sandals.’
Now this might sound like a strange conversation for a father to be having with his teenage daughter, but remember that he and I have always been incredibly close. I’d confided in him about so many embarrassing, personal things, it didn’t feel weird or uncomfortable at all to hear this. Plus, had anything actually happened between him and Madge, or if he was remotely interested in her, he would never have shared such details with me. But this was a very different situation; my jaw was on the floor at what I was hearing.
‘She was starkers?’
‘Basically.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘Stepped away and asked her politely to put her dress on again. I was really taken aback.’
‘You should listen to me next time. I did warn you.’
‘I know, Dimples. I probably wouldn’t be telling you this otherwise. Anyway, what do I do?’
‘What happened next? How did you leave it? I assume she put the dress back on eventually. Was she upset? Offended?’
‘She didn’t seem to be. She brazenly stood there, in her birthday suit, and said: “I’ll put it back on if you agree to take me out to dinner – now you know what’s on offer.” She’s certainly confident, I’ll give her that.’
I chuckled. ‘Let me guess, Dad: you agreed to go on the date?’
‘I had to do something to get her dressed again.’
We chatted the situation over and eventually decided the best thing for him to do was to take her out somewhere busy, so as to avoid any more potential nakedness; to have a nice meal and let her down gently. Apparently, she didn’t get the message, though, and tried to pounce on him when he drove her home in the car afterwards.
‘I had to give her a reality check,’ he told me over a cuppa when he got back.
‘Oh, no. You didn’t let Rude Dave out of the cage, did you?’ I asked, already wincing.
Dad bared his teeth and growled. ‘Sometimes I have to set him free.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Don’t worry, I’m exaggerating. It was nothing too awful. I was quite blunt, though. I told her: “Madge, you’re a lovely person and I enjoyed our meal together, but I don’t find you attractive. You’re not my type. Please don’t pursue this, because you’ll only embarrass yourself. Invest your time elsewhere. I’m sure there are plenty of men out there who’d jump at the chance to be with you – but I’m not one of them. Sorry.” That was it, pretty much.’
It definitely could have been worse, although I did feel a tad sorry for Madge. Not that I could ever have imagined her and Dad as a couple, but rejection is never nice. She got the message. Her frequent furniture orders stopped and I don’t ever recall seeing her at the house again.
As for what is Dad’s type, who knows? I’d like to see him find someone, especially now I’m about to get married. I worry about him being by himself in that big house. I mean, it’s nothing new. He’s lived there alone, on and off, since I went to uni. But then, at least, I was always coming home for the holidays. And after uni, I moved back on a more permanent basis. I still nominally live there now, although I spend a lot of time at Ryan’s place. He has a flat in Clitheroe, which is only a short drive away. The plan is that I’ll move in there full-time after the wedding and we’ll look for somewhere bigger together.
I love where I grew up and I’m sure I’ll still visit the house regularly, but it’ll have to be different once I’m married. For that reason, I’ve been spending more rather than less time alone there with Dad recently. I’ve told Ryan this is to make it feel more special when we shift to being permanently together after tying the knot – and that is partly true. If I’m totally honest, though, it’s more about enjoying ‘the old days’ for a little longer while I still can; being a daughter rather than a wife.
I’m looking forward to the wedding, of course. I’ve thought about little else for months now. And yet a part of me is also afraid, because once it’s over, I know reality will start to kick in. And that means serious things like finding a job and a house, which I’ve been putting off to focus on this one big event for ages now. House hunting should be fun, in theory, but it likely won’t happen until I’ve got my career on track. And I don’t want to get stuck in Ryan’s flat for too long. Clitheroe is great. It’s a lively market town, which even has a castle, like Malahide does. But where he lives is little more than a bachelor pad. I’ll always think of it as his rather than ours. There’s only the one bedroom and a small lounge/kitchen that doesn’t even have room for a dining table, so meals have to be eaten on laps.
I could ask for Dad’s help to get set up somewhere else, but he’s already done so much in terms of our wedding. I want the two of us to try to get to the next stage of our lives by ourselves. That’s important to me.
We have a honeymoon planned first, thank goodness: two luxurious weeks on the luscious island of St Lucia in the Caribbean. That’s Nana’s wedding present to us, which is so lovely of her. It should be absolute bliss. We’re due to jet off a few days after the ceremony and I can’t wait. At that point, I’ll do my utmost to close my mind off to future concerns, and focus on enjoying myself in the lap of luxury with my new husband.
CHAPTER 11
Ryan doesn’t stay over at The Old Vicarage very often. He and my dad don’t really get along. Fingers crossed that will change one day. It’s not a great state of affairs, but it’s something I’ve had to learn to accept.
It wasn’t always this way. They’ve known each other a long time already, considering Ryan and I first got together when we were only thirteen. Initially there was a little tension between them: typical father–boyfriend issues, I suppose. That soon eased, though, and for several years they got on fine. But the tension returned, for reasons I�
��ll explain soon, and things never improved beyond where they are now, which is kind of a stand-off; an enforced peace treaty, brokered by me, which both parties warily observe. Most of the time.
That must sound awful, considering our imminent nuptials; not least the fact that Dad will be hosting the reception in a marquee in the grounds of The Old Vicarage, following a civil ceremony at a pretty village hall a short drive away. However it’s really not as bad as all that. They’re polite to each other, when they have to be, but any conversation they have will be superficial – most likely about sport, TV or movies. The sad truth is that neither is genuinely bothered about the other, apart from their interactions with me, who they both care about. Hopefully one day that will spread to children/grandchildren, which might be the best chance we have of a thaw in relations. A shared love of little ones could have a bonding effect, I reckon. I know Dad would be brilliant with grandkids, based on how he was with me. I also think Ryan would make a fabulous father. I wouldn’t be marrying him otherwise.
So what went wrong between Dad and Ryan? Well, as I already indicated, they didn’t get off to a great start when they first met.
To begin with, I didn’t tell Dad that I had a boyfriend. I’m not entirely sure why, considering I told him most other things. I suppose I feared he wouldn’t like the idea of his little girl growing up in that way, or that he wouldn’t approve of Ryan. I kept our relationship secret for about a month and then, out of the blue, Dad asked me over breakfast one morning: ‘So who’s this Ryan chap?’
‘Sorry, what?’ I asked, confused, having never mentioned him to Dad. I’d not told Nana or anyone else that might have let it slip either. Cara knew, but there was no way she’d have told him behind my back. So where on earth had he got the name from? I worried that I might have called it out in my sleep. Since I usually left my bedroom door ajar at night, that was an embarrassing possibility. I prayed for it not to be the case.
‘Ryan?’ Dad repeated.
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