by Matt Dunn
There’s the usual one from my mother, with some sickly poem and ‘for the best son in the world’ written across the front, above a montage of racing cars and sporting equipment. The next card looks like it’s been made by a pair of five-year-olds, and when I finally decipher the squiggly handwriting, I realize it has. In the same envelope–well done for saving on postage, Tom–is a more grown-up card from him and Barbara, with a picture of a screaming baby on the front, which raises the barest of smiles from me.
Still half asleep, I shuffle through into the kitchen, but nearly jump out of my skin when I find Magda lurking next to the refrigerator.
‘Morning, Magda,’ I say. ‘What are you doing here? It’s not Monday. Is it?’
‘I change day,’ says Magda.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Right.’
As I wonder why she didn’t say anything on Monday, Magda points towards the kitchen table. ‘I make coffee,’ she says. ‘And toast.’
Sure enough, there’s a steaming mug of rather anaemic coffee next to a plate which appears to hold a couple of charcoal sheets.
‘That’s fine,’ I say. ‘Help yourself.’
Magda blushes slightly. ‘No. I make for you.’
‘Oh.’ In two years, she’s not made me a single thing to eat or drink. And just as well, by the looks of things. ‘Er, thanks.’
‘Come,’ she says, pulling out a chair and wiping the seat. ‘Sit.’
I do as I’m told, although a little nervously. ‘What’s all this in aid of? My birthday?’
Magda blushes even more. ‘It is your birthday?’
As she bends down to butter my toast for me, I notice she’s wearing a glittery, rather low-cut top–rather low cut for cleaning, that is. And a skirt, which, for Magda, is a first. And if I’m not mistaken, what looks like make-up.
‘Are you off somewhere nice today, Magda? Or perhaps you’ve just been out on a late one?’
Magda stands up and smoothes down her skirt self-consciously. ‘No. This my normal clothes.’
‘For work?’
‘You not like?’
‘No, you look very nice, Magda. And thank you for my breakfast. It’s very…thoughtful of you.’
Magda smiles. ‘You are welcome.’
I take a sip of coffee, and have to work hard to swallow it, so think better of picking up the toast. I decide to open the package which, instead of a present, turns out to be a book on children’s names that I forgotten I’d ordered from Amazon. When I look up, Magda seems to be cleaning the same part of the fridge door over and over again.
‘Is everything okay, Magda?’
She puts her cloth down and pulls a copy of Wednesday’s Metro out of her bag. It’s open at the article on me.
‘I read. About you wanting baby.’
It’s my turn to be embarrassed. ‘Yes, well, you shouldn’t believe everything you read. That’s the English papers, Magda. They like to exaggerate…’
Magda looks crestfallen. ‘So it not true?’
‘Well, yes, it’s true, but…’
‘I can help,’ she beams.
‘How, exactly? Don’t tell me you know some poor desperate Polish girl who’s prepared to marry me and have my child?’
Magda nods enthusiastically. ‘I am she.’
I almost spit out my coffee for a second time, but now it’s from surprise.
‘You?’
She pulls out the chair next to me and sits down. ‘Why not? I clean. I cook too,’ she adds, pointing to the untouched pile of carcinogenic bread with its centimetre-thick coating of butter on my plate. ‘And I good at the jiggy jiggy.’
She stands up again and makes a movement with her hips that’s probably the height of seduction in Poland, but actually just makes her look like she’s giving birth to a large Mr Whippy ice cream.
‘Ah. Oh. Well, that’s very kind of you, Magda, but…’
‘It not kind. You need baby, I want to live in nice house in Richmond. It is simple. We trade. What do you think?’ Magda looks at me expectantly, as if she’s just asked for something as straightforward as a pound-an-hour pay rise.
Ah. What do I say, without hurting her feelings? The truth. ‘I don’t think so, Magda.’
Magda frowns. ‘I thought you just wanted baby?’
‘So did I.’ I pat the chair next to me, and Magda reluctantly sits back down. ‘Magda, it’s extremely…nice of you to offer your services, as it were, but I’m not looking at this as some kind of business arrangement. I’ve realized that I want a relationship out of it as well. I need someone who wants to do this for the right reasons too. Because they want a family as well. With me.’
Magda looks at me for a moment or two, and then simply shrugs. ‘Okay.’
‘Okay?’
Magda nods. ‘But, how you say, your loss,’ she says, before sashaying out of the kitchen.
While I’m considering whether that needs a response my mobile goes, and when I answer it, I’m greeted by the sound of someone strangling a cat. Or that’s what I assume it is, until I eventually realize that it’s Jack and Ellie, with their own unique version of ‘Happy Birthday’.
‘Morning, birthday boy,’ says Tom, once the ‘singing’ has finished.
‘Morning,’ I grunt down the line.
‘What are you so miserable about?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Look on the bright side,’ says Tom. ‘At least your car insurance will be cheaper now.’
Car insurance. Great. That only serves to remind me that I’m due to swap the TVR for the Toyota tomorrow, which will be the final nail in the coffin as old age finally catches up with me. I thank Tom and the twins for their birthday wishes and tell them I’ll see them tomorrow, then jump into the shower, being careful to lock the bathroom door in case Magda decides to demonstrate exactly what it is I’m losing, and, in the absence of anything better to do, head into work. I’m too depressed and embarrassed to even think about calling into Starbucks to see if Emma is there, particularly given my disastrous experience on Today’s the Day yesterday, and apart from Jen appearing at eleven o’clock with a coffee and a chocolate muffin with a candle stuck into the top, which apparently we can’t light inside the office due to health and safety reasons, my birthday passes pretty normally.
I’m just packing up to leave for the evening when Jen buzzes through from reception.
‘There’s a David Smith here to see you, Will. He doesn’t have an appointment, but he’s wondering whether you can fit him in.’
Bollocks. David Smith. It’s not Debbie’s husband, is it? I crack open my door and peer down towards reception, but, from what I can make out, the man sitting there has got his clothes on, and doesn’t appear to have an erection. He also looks about sixty, so I’m pretty sure I’m safe. I look at my watch; it’s only five-thirty, and I’m not meeting my mother until eight.
‘You’ve explained the rates to him?’
‘Yes. He says he’ll pay cash, if that’s okay?’
‘No problem, then. Just give me a moment.’
I unpack my briefcase and stroll out to reception, where a smartly dressed, grey-haired man is sitting on the sofa with his arms folded. As I walk towards him, he rises stiffly from his seat.
‘William?’ he asks, tentatively.
‘It’s Will, actually. Pleased to meet you.’
The old man takes my hand and shakes it for a long time. ‘And you, son.’
‘Son?’ I laugh. ‘I’m older than you think!’
I lead him back along the corridor and into my office, indicating the couch by the window. After staring at it for a second or two, he sits down without unbuttoning his coat.
‘So,’ I say, picking up my notepad from the desk and taking a seat opposite him. ‘How can I help?’
He peers around the office, his eyes eventually settling on the certificate on the wall, before looking back at me.
‘Nice office. Business good?’
‘I get by,’ I say. Sometime
s this is the pattern with new clients. They’d rather talk about anything–even the weather–than go straight into admitting what’s brought them here. And to tell the truth, I don’t mind. Especially not when they’re paying me by the hour. ‘How about you? What do you do?’
The old man smiles at me. ‘Oh not much nowadays. I used to work, but then I retired last year. And since then, well…’ His voice tails off, and he stares out of the window.
‘Mr Smith…’
‘Please, call me…David.’
‘David. Sure. I was just going to ask you whether you missed work?’
He smiles again. ‘It’s not work I miss.’
‘It must be good to have more time to spend with your family, though? You do have a family?’
He looks up sharply. ‘Well, that’s kind of why I’m here.’
When he doesn’t elaborate, I stop making notes and smile back at him. ‘How do you mean?’
‘I don’t have a family. Not any more. I used to, but…’
So far, this isn’t following the normal pattern. David looks like he’s keen to admit something. Confess, even. But it seems that he can’t quite get the words out.
‘Did your wife die?’
He swallows hard. ‘I did something terrible.’
‘What do you mean by that? What did you do? And did she leave you afterwards?’
I start to worry he’s murdered her. After all, you read about this in the papers. Pensioners going mad after they’ve retired, not able to deal with the futility of their post-work existence, and beating their partners to death with their Zimmer frames. I furtively look around the room to check there are no sharp implements within easy reach, while hoping Jen hasn’t left yet, just in case it gets nasty.
‘No. Quite the opposite.’
I lean forward and place a reassuring hand on his arm. ‘David, I see a lot of people who have been affected by divorce. It’s more common than you’d think. And sometimes, the biggest feeling is guilt. Let’s come back to that later. Now I want to focus on you. What are you doing here?’
David thinks for a moment. ‘I’m not sure, really. Well, I know why I came, but I’m not sure it was such a good idea.’
‘What’s important is why you’re here. Not whether it’s the correct thing to do or not. We need to clarify what your goal is in seeing me.’
‘I know what my goal is. I just don’t know if it’s…fair.’
‘Well, why don’t you let me be the judge of that?’
I place my notepad down on the desk and sit back in my chair, and David looks at me for the longest time, before taking a deep breath.
‘A few years ago–quite a few years ago–I was married. She was a lovely woman. Really lovely. And I loved her. But for some reason we weren’t–well, I wasn’t–happy. We thought starting a family might fix it, but…’
‘But?’
He looks at me earnestly. ‘But it didn’t. And we talked about it. And tried to work it through, but we couldn’t. So I did something that I’ve always regretted. Every single day.’
‘Which was?’
‘I left them. When my son was only a baby. Can you imagine what that feels like?’ he asks, his voice trembling with emotion.
Yes I can, actually. I suddenly feel my face go pale, and an icy hand squeezes my chest.
‘I’m not here to judge you, David. I can’t give you forgiveness.’
‘Yes you can, in fact.’
‘How do you mean?’
He sits up on the couch and looks deep into my eyes. ‘Happy birthday, son.’
And as the tears start to roll silently down his cheeks, I suddenly feel like I’ve been slapped round the face. Because the way he’s just pronounced that last word makes me comprehend something very, very important. He’s not just any old man. He’s my old man.
‘Wh-what?’
I want to stand up and run out of the room, but I can’t get my legs to work. It’s all I can do not to cry. And as I sit there, not knowing what to say, David reaches over and takes my hand.
‘William, I’m your father.’
For some reason I find this insanely funny, and I can’t help thinking of the scene in The Empire Strikes Back when Darth Vader utters something similar. I laugh, but there’s no mirth in the sound.
‘But…you can’t be.’ And yet, as soon as I say that, I know, of course, that he can. And is. I get up unsteadily, pushing my chair backwards with such force that it bangs against the desk and knocks the lamp over. ‘What are you doing here?’
David–my father–stands up and holds out his hands towards me. ‘I…I wanted to see you. I have done for years, in fact. And when I read about you in the paper, and how you were desperate to be a father yourself, I couldn’t help myself. So I found out where you worked, and—’
‘And tricked your way into my office. Does Mum know you’re here?’
‘I haven’t spoken to your mother in nearly thirty years, William.’
‘Stop calling me that. It’s Will. No one calls me William, except for her. And she’s the only one who’s allowed to.’
My mind is racing. I don’t know how to react. My father, who I’ve missed, hated, despised, and wondered about for most of my life, is standing in front of me, and I don’t know whether to punch him or hug him.
‘I know this must be a bit of a shock…’
‘That’s the understatement of the year. Don’t you think you might have warned me? Called, perhaps?’
‘And risk that you might not want to see me? I couldn’t take that chance. I needed to see you face to face. Talk to you. Explain.’
I’m angry, now. Angry, and upset. ‘Explain what? Why you walked out on Mum and me? What possible explanation could there be for that?’
My father opens his mouth to speak, but instead, just sits back down on the couch. ‘There’s no excuse,’ he says eventually. ‘You’re right. But there was a reason.’
‘Which was?’
My father shakes his head slowly, and utters the same words that I’ve heard Tom use with the twins a thousand times, although it’s usually when they’re asking him for something like another biscuit or an ice cream, rather than why a family was torn apart.
‘You’ll have to ask your mother.’
I’m still on my feet, and he beckons for me to sit down too, but I shake my head. ‘I’ll stand, thanks.’
My father sighs. ‘Son, I understand you’re angry with me, but I need to tell you something. This search you’re on. Are you sure it’s for the right reasons?’
‘What do you mean, the right reasons? And what business is it of yours what I’m doing?’
‘William, all I’m trying to say is this. Having a child is the most wonderful, precious thing. But having one for all the wrong reasons is the worst thing you can possibly do. Just be careful you don’t get yourself into a situation you’ll regret.’
‘Like you did?’ I spit.
‘Like I did,’ he says softly.
As I collapse back into my chair and put my head in my hands, my father stands up wearily and walks towards me, as if he wants to comfort me, but I wave him away, trying to ignore the look of hurt on his face.
I look up at him angrily. ‘Even if I am making a mistake, one thing I know. I’d never run out on my wife and child.’ I don’t add the words ‘like you’, but we both know I don’t have to.
‘Son, I…’
I ignore him, and swivel my chair round to face the window. ‘I’d like you to leave, please.’
I can feel my father staring intently at me, perhaps conscious that this might be the last time we see each other, and for a moment, just a moment, I feel sorry for him. When I catch sight of his reflection in the glass, he seems to have visibly aged from when he first came in.
‘William…Will.’
‘Now!’
He walks past me and rests a hand on my shoulder, pausing as if to say something, but then just carries on going through the door, down the corridor, out through recept
ion, and back out of my life, almost as quickly as he came in.
I jump out of my chair and slam the door shut behind him, switching the light off for some reason I can’t quite fathom, then slump down on the couch, my mind racing. My first thought is for my mother, and whether I should warn her that–and the word doesn’t seem quite right as I visualize it in my head–Dad’s back in town. I don’t know what to do, and so just sit there in the darkness.
After what seems like five minutes, but could be an hour, I hear the door open, and Jen walks in. She hasn’t seen me lying there in the gloom, and as I clear my throat, she almost jumps out of her skin.
‘Jesus!’
‘No, it’s me, Jen,’ I say.
‘You scared the life out of me. What on earth are you doing sitting here in the dark?’
For a moment, I want to tell her. But where would I start? ‘Oh, not much. Just thinking about a couple of things.’
She flicks the light on, making me squint in the sudden glare. ‘Did you manage to help Mr Smith? He seemed like a nice old man.’
‘Yes. Well. Appearances can be deceptive.’
Jen gives me a puzzled look. ‘Are you okay, Will?’
I gaze up at her from the couch, not quite knowing what to say. So instead, and completely to my surprise, I burst into tears.
Jen comes and sits down next to me, puts her arm around my shoulders, and just holds me until I’ve finished sobbing. And when I’ve regained what’s left of my dignity, I tell her the story from the beginning up until what’s just happened, and she listens sympathetically, and then I cry some more.
‘How are you feeling?’ she says, when I’ve finished.
I help myself to a tissue from the box in my desk drawer and blow my nose. ‘I’m not sure, Jen. This is just…huge. And I can’t really take any of it in at the moment. I mean, I’ve wondered about my dad all my life. What he was like. Whether I looked like him. If we walked the same. Stupid stuff, really. And now, when I’ve finally met him…’ I stop talking and shake my head slowly.
‘It’s probably quite a big deal for him as well,’ says Jen. ‘If you look at it from his point of view. Which is what you always tell other people to do.’