by Rebecca Done
‘Er, no, Dad. I mean – yes, we will want to have kids at some point but, at the moment, London is home.’
He snorts. ‘You’re not a Londoner, Alex. This is your home.’
I laugh lightly, look down at our hands still loosely locked together. ‘Dad, you can live somewhere without being from there. The world’s a small place these days.’
There is a short silence, during which Dad withdraws his hand. He turns his head away from me to stare at the tiny gap between the drawn curtains, like he’s willing it to widen, shed some light on my obstinacy.
‘Do you want me to open those?’
‘Christ, no. Can’t bear the daylight.’
I decide to plough on, ask him what I’ve been planning to – that my idea is to propose to Molly at her parents’ house on Bonfire Night, and that I’d really like him and Graeme to be there too, stay with Molly and me overnight, all have lunch together the following day. ‘Anyway, look, Dad –’
‘So that’s it then? I’ve lost you to her for good?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I say. ‘You haven’t lost me.’
‘I haven’t got long, Alex. You know that.’
‘Come on, Dad. The doctor said –’
‘– that I haven’t got long.’
‘No,’ I correct him. ‘He said you need to stay off the booze and follow his advice – and if you don’t, then you haven’t got long. There’s a difference. He told you that because there’s still hope, Dad.’
‘Not in here,’ Dad says, and although he doesn’t move I know he means his mind.
‘Dad, I can’t move back to Norfolk. You know I can’t leave my job.’
‘The one you were planning to leave ten months ago?’
I swallow. ‘Well, Moll’s got the job of her dreams, and I can’t ask her to give it up.’
‘You mean you won’t.’
‘Look,’ I say, to take the focus off Molly, ‘I come up as often as I can, and I always will. And you have Graeme …’
Dad tuts. ‘That useless sod? Oh yes, he’s here when he remembers to be.’ He shakes his head. ‘So I have one son with more important priorities, and one idiotic one.’
It’s no wonder, really, that Graeme calls me Golden Boy.
‘Graeme’s not idiotic, Dad,’ I say softly, more compelled to stick up for my twin than for myself, as I so often have been over the years.
‘So what do her parents think of you, then? Die-hard Christians, aren’t they?’
‘They’re just Christian, Dad. And anyway, we don’t talk about religion. I respect their views, they respect mine. Isn’t that what you always said – respect everyone’s differences?’
‘I suppose I did when I was feeling philosophical.’ He’s speaking stiffly now, full of resentment. I feel it too, heavy in my chest – and straight away, I know that I can’t ask him to be there when I propose on Bonfire Night. I can’t risk Molly sensing even a hint of disdain from my dad. It wouldn’t be fair.
I sigh. ‘Shall I do you some lunch? When did you last eat?’
‘Oh, please don’t. I had enough of that from your brother this morning. Tried to make me eat eggs.’
‘Well, you need the protein. Keep your strength up.’
‘I always thought it would be Graeme,’ he says then.
‘What would?’
‘The one who would let me down. I never thought it would be you, Alex.’
I have to leave the room then – I can’t sit next to him any longer and contain my disappointment, my fury at him for being so cold-hearted, so self-absorbed, when I’ve just told him I want to marry the girl of my dreams. Halfway down the threadbare staircase I pause, turn my head to the wall and lean on to the banister, heart pounding, tears rising rapidly up my throat.
But I swallow them down, remind myself to stay strong. I can’t, I won’t risk losing Molly over this. Because if I do, I know I’ll end up just like my dad, lying motionless in bed, staring at a chink of light, willing it to widen.
After things go so badly wrong with Dad, I don’t have much hope for persuading Molly’s parents that I’m the right man to make their daughter happy for the rest of her life. But at the same time, I’m determined – I’ve found her, purely by chance, we’ve fallen in love and I want to do things properly. I’ll do whatever it takes to prove that.
Also playing on my mind is the idle comment Molly made about parenthood one night. We were watching one of those documentaries about women giving birth, and Molly mumbled something about being a young mum in an ideal world. ‘Not too young,’ she clarified quickly while I groped uselessly for the appropriate response. ‘Just … the right side of thirty, maybe.’
I can see how much she dotes on other people’s children and how much she wants to be a mum, and I also know that having a baby out of wedlock is probably the one thing she could do to really disappoint her parents. Plus, at twenty-six, there are a mere four more years before she turns thirty and becomes – in her mind – no longer a ‘young mum’. And it’s not as if I don’t share her dream – in my downtime at work or on the tube I often find myself picturing a close-knit little family, kids of our very own that we’ll dote on. They’ll have long hair and scruffy clothes, be fans of getting muddy and climbing trees. We’ll have crazy, hectic mealtimes and a noisy, messy home. We’ll be disorganized and ridiculous but we’ll be happy. We’ll be everything we’re meant to be.
‘Thanks for this,’ I tell Timothy and Arabella.
Arabella’s smiling nervously, Timothy’s holding her hand. They’ve made a pot of tea and there’s a slice of lemon drizzle cake on a plate in front of me.
I know they know what I’m going to say. They must do – why else would I be here alone on a midweek evening while Molly’s out with friends? I’m trying to read their faces, predict what their response will be, and their evident nervousness is throwing me off. Because you’re only nervous about stuff you hope won’t happen, right?
‘Cake,’ Arabella reminds me then encouragingly, and not wanting to offend her – she’s so gentle, like Molly – I fork off a slice and start to eat, but of course then they’re watching me eat cake and it chucks all my usual reflexes out of kilter. I don’t think it’s ever taken a man so long to swallow a single morsel of sponge as it does me that Wednesday evening.
‘Sorry,’ I say, trying to smile but feeling a light film of sweat forming across my forehead. Typical that today I opted to wear a pale blue shirt.
‘Take your time,’ Timothy tells me kindly, like he’s a priest sitting next to me in the confessional box and I’m preparing to confess to each and every one of the seven sins.
I clear my throat. ‘I wanted to … talk to you both. I know the tradition is to just talk to – well, the father, but …’
They’re both holding their breath. I mean, physically – neither of them is breathing right now, which can’t be healthy at their age. I endeavour to hurry it along.
‘I would like to ask Molly to marry me.’
Fortunately, they both exhale instantly, and Arabella bursts into tears. ‘Oh my goodness!’ she gasps.
‘My, my,’ says Timothy.
‘I know,’ I continue, determined to say everything I’d intended to, ‘that it’s quite soon, that we’ve only been going out a year –’
‘Ten months, is it?’ Arabella interjects as she’s wiping her eyes, but I assume only because she’s that sort of person. Likes all the facts, likes everything straight and in order.
‘Yes, ten months,’ I concur, ‘but I love your daughter to bits. I mean, I just love her. She means the world to me.’
‘Yes,’ Timothy says simply, ‘Molly’s a very special person.’
Too special for me?
‘You know how fond we are of you, Alex,’ Timothy says now, looking me right in the eyes across the table. ‘And we see how much Molly loves you. In fact, we’ve never seen her like this with anyone before.’
Internally, I exhale. Externally, I am rigid with anticipati
on.
‘So of course – you have our blessing. We’d be delighted to have you as our son-in-law.’
And then Arabella emits an excited squeal, and we’re all on our feet and manoeuvring around the kitchen table to hug one another and shed tears and talk excitedly about the future. We sit down and they pour me a glass of wine, and the scene is set: this Bonfire Night, I am asking Molly to marry me.
Molly’s parents have requested I agree to just two things. One, we get married in their church by their vicar and friend, Peter. Two (this was Arabella’s), to hurry up and have lots of grandchildren.
I’m happy to say these are both conditions I have absolutely no problem adhering to.
It’s perfect Guy Fawkes weather – crisp and cold enough to freeze our breath, a brilliant backdrop for cups of warm cider and sparklers in gloved hands. I have to admit, since Molly recently supplied her parents with the full facts of Dad’s addiction (on my request), I’ve been slightly wary of drinking around them. But I figure tonight is a special occasion.
Arabella has strung lights up between the trees, warmed a vat of cider, baked a parkin, organized sparklers. She’s made so much of an occasion of it, in fact, that I might have been concerned Molly would suspect had she not turned to me on the front doorstep when we arrived and said, ‘Don’t be overwhelmed – Mum always goes a bit mad on special occasions. She’s probably made toffee apples and hand-stuffed her own guy.’ When I smiled and said I didn’t mind, she dipped her chin and said, wide-eyed for emphasis, ‘You should see what she does at Christmas.’
I really don’t mind though, because even if I wasn’t planning to propose, making a fuss of special occasions is something Graeme and I always hankered after when we were children. Not that Dad didn’t try to do something nice at Christmas, or on our birthday (usually involving supermarket cake and a trip to the nearest pub), but the real effort was put in by pitying neighbours and friends. It would be a neighbour’s garden we’d stand in on Bonfire Night, a friend who would accompany us trick-or-treating, an acquaintance who might take us to the Christingle service at church, making sure we had the dolly mixture to stick on our cocktail sticks. More than once I can remember Graeme legging it from whatever event it was with moments to spare, saying he was sick of spending special occasions with people who were only taking pity on us.
While Molly helps her dad with marshmallow skewers for the barbecue, I head up to her bedroom to steady myself before our mini firework display kicks off. I stare into the mirror, face-to-face with plain old Alex Frazer, about to ask the girl of his dreams to marry him. I know I should feel so lucky right now, but in fact I’m almost paralysed by nerves.
I think sadly of my dad at home alone. He should be here – the whole situation is so frustrating. I know Timothy and Arabella would welcome him into their home, and despite everything, underneath it all, Dad’s a warm, kind person. Life’s just not been that kind to him in return.
As I work up to heading back downstairs I end up looking idly through some of Molly’s old stuff, and somehow find myself staring at my own jacket in her wardrobe. It’s sandwiched between a load of her old clothes – we’ve simply forgotten to pick it up every time we’ve been over. But now, I kind of like the fact that it’s here, nestled in between her things. It feels like a symbol of something – of being together maybe. I’m worried now that if she gives it back to me, it might be a bad omen. So I’m happy for it to stay here. I can always get another jacket, but I’ll never find another Molly.
I’m still touching it when there is a knock at the door and I turn, expecting to see Arabella, but instead my brother is standing in the doorway.
‘Hey,’ he says, then glances at the jacket in my hand. ‘Rifling through her stuff?’
‘What are you doing up here?’ I say, returning my jacket to its new home in Molly’s old wardrobe.
‘Don’t worry, Arabella knows I’m up here. I’m not sneaking around.’
I force a smile through my nerves. ‘It’s fine. No one would mind.’
‘Nice house,’ he says, sitting down on the edge of Molly’s bed. ‘Her parents must be minted.’
I frown at him. ‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘You wouldn’t know?’
‘Who cares if they are?’ I feel irritated suddenly, because in the context of tonight everything he’s saying suddenly sounds crass.
‘Hey, only joking. What’s up – nerves getting to you?’ He’s leaning back on his hands on the bed, one eyebrow raised.
‘Just thinking about Dad. He should be here. You know, I tried to tell him … that I understand. About everything that happened after …’ I hesitate.
‘Jesus, Alex – after Mum died. Learn to say it, twenty years later.’
‘Anyway, I kind of get where he was coming from. You know, with the drinking and everything. It was meeting Moll that made me realize what it feels like to love someone.’ I pause. ‘Like Dad loved Mum, I guess.’
‘Look, Alex, about Dad …’
I look over at him. ‘I almost didn’t invite you, you know. Tonight.’ I was convinced Graeme would behave cruelly like Dad, or worse, pretend he felt indifferent. But aside from a couple of ball-and-chain-style jibes, reminding me we’d only been dating a year, and checking if I was really ready, he didn’t even attempt to get me to change my mind.
He pauses. ‘You thought I’d try and talk you out of it.’
‘Maybe,’ I admit.
‘Well, what do I know, right?’ Graeme mutters bitterly. ‘Not being a paid-up member of the True Love Club like you and Dad.’
I shake my head. Asking Molly to marry me isn’t supposed to be about making other people feel bad, especially my twin brother.
‘You know, maybe we’re not so different,’ he says now, raising his head and meeting my eye. ‘Maybe I do want what you have, Alex.’
We hold one another’s gaze for just a moment. ‘And what’s that?’
‘The dream, of course! True love. What else?’
‘Okay,’ I sigh, unsure if he’s being as sarcastic as he sounds.
Graeme’s voice levels slightly. ‘Look, just because I’m excruciatingly bad at holding down a relationship doesn’t mean I don’t … you know. Think about it.’
I nod, say nothing else. My nerves are starting to abate, but that’s because I’m in here talking. I should be downstairs, asking Molly to be my wife.
‘Sorry,’ Graeme says, reading my mind like no one else can. ‘Tonight isn’t about me.’
‘So you’re happy for me?’ I prompt.
‘Yes! Of course. My brother’s getting married. Amazing, mate.’ He gets to his feet, slings an arm round my shoulders and pulls me into a man hug. I hug him back, and it feels good.
‘Alex,’ he says then, into my shoulder. ‘I should probably tell you –’
‘Later,’ I say. ‘Tell me later. I need to do this now, before I lose my nerve.’
Five minutes later, we’re all gathered in the garden, drinks in hand, fireworks prepped. I’ve got my arm round Molly, who’s laughing uproariously at some story Timothy’s telling about the vicar playing splat-the-rat at the church fayre. It seems an unlikely game for kindly Christian pensioners to indulge in, but apparently it was all for the kids.
Molly looks beautiful as ever tonight, dressed for the onset of winter in a black down jacket and dove-grey hat, scarf and gloves, long brown hair snaking out from beneath the wool. I can feel the warmth of her breath as she laughs, her intermittent glances up into my eyes a seduction. I picture the boxed engagement ring inside my coat and my heart thuds.
Now. I’m going to do it now.
‘Molly,’ I whisper, as her dad pauses for breath and I make eye contact with him.
But as she turns to face me, there is a shout from the other end of the garden, next to the house.
‘Holy shit,’ Graeme mutters, then checks himself. ‘Sorry.’
My dad is standing next to Timothy and Arabella’s patio doors. Unsteady on his f
eet, he’s shouting my name.
‘Alex, is that your dad?’ Molly gasps.
Molly’s parents have met Dad only once – we went out for Sunday lunch together in April on a rare day when he was feeling well enough to come to London. In the two hours prior to lunch, Molly said she’d never seen me that nervous before – but in the end he was charming and charismatic, and I was intensely grateful to him for not talking only about his problems, for acting to all intents and purposes like a pretty standard dad.
Now, he’s being anything but standard.
I drop Molly’s hand and make my way across the lawn, Graeme at my back. ‘Dad – what the hell are you doing here?’ I hiss.
‘Didn’t want to miss it,’ he slurs, the scent of alcohol drifting along his breath on to the wintry air. All around us, fireworks are already going off, a reminder that tonight should be about anything other than what it is now.
Instantly, I realize, and turn to face Graeme. ‘You told him.’
‘I’ll take you home, Dad,’ Graeme says straight away, ignoring me.
Dad shakes Graeme off and moves past me towards the Meadows family who, understandably, seem a little unsure as to what to do, since I bet this doesn’t very often happen at the church. Then again, maybe it does – when Molly first told them about Dad’s various issues, Arabella generously responded that they got all kinds of people dropping in at the church with a tally of addictions as long as her arm. It didn’t bother them one bit, she claimed.
Hmm. I’m afraid we’re about to put that claim to the test, Arabella.
‘Apologies for the intrusion, folks. But I couldn’t not come and raise a glass to my lovely son and his beautiful wife-to-be.’
My stomach hits the floor, and I go with it. I squat down and cover my face with both hands, and it’s like someone’s hit the pause button on the whole of South London – the sky for a moment goes silent, and nobody says anything. I stay where I am, breathing into my fingers, too afraid to look up and see Molly’s face.
‘Good one, Dad,’ I hear Graeme mutter.
And now, Molly’s voice, small and shocked. ‘Oh my God. Alex?’