From Here To Paternity

by Matt Dunn

‘I suppose. But, presumably, he’s had a while to prepare for it. I didn’t exactly get much warning.’

  ‘Are you going to get in touch with him again?’

  ‘I don’t know. I mean, even if I wanted to, I’ve only gone and thrown him out, haven’t I? He’s hardly going to want to see me again after that, is he?’

  And as the reality of what’s happened hits home, I understand that I’ve probably blown my one chance to find out who he really is. And that I’ve therefore lost an opportunity to find out a little bit more about who I really am too.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ says Jen. ‘Of course he will.’

  ‘Well, that’s fairly academic, isn’t it? Because I’ve got no way of getting back in touch with him.’

  ‘Er, that’s not strictly true,’ says Jen.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I’ve got his address and telephone number out at reception. Just in case you decide you ever need them.’

  ‘What? How come?’

  ‘In my appointments book. Just like I take details down for everyone else who comes to see you.’

  As Jen and I walk out through reception a few minutes later, I turn to face her. ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘For listening.’

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ says Jen. ‘I owed you one from the other day.’

  ‘Oh yes. And how are things with Josh?’

  ‘Well, he’s treating me a lot better since I realized who was actually in control in our relationship.’

  There’s a pause, and then, ‘Which is you, right?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’m pleased,’ I say. ‘How come?’

  ‘Something I learned after our last conversation. Women can use sex to get what they want. Men can’t, as sex is what they want. Works a treat.’

  ‘You got that from me?’

  ‘Nope. I read it in Cosmo.’ Jen grins. ‘Are you going to tell your mother?’

  I look at her for a moment. ‘Well, I don’t think she’d really be interested. I mean, Cosmo’s not really her kind of magazine, and besides, she’s a bit old to have a boyf—’

  ‘No, Will,’ says Jen. ‘I meant about your dad.’

  And as we ride down in the lift, I realize that that’s a very good question.

  Chapter 25

  Still a little shell-shocked, I head out of the office, apprehensively checking the street in both directions in case my father is hanging around, then hurry along to the restaurant, knowing my mother will be waiting for me outside in the cold. Despite my repeated reassurances, she never likes to sit in a restaurant on her own, worried that she’ll look like a lonely old woman–which I do my best to ensure she isn’t. As I turn the corner and spot her standing by the window, she breaks into a huge smile, which I return gratefully, pleased to have some semblance of normality back in my life. She’s dressed in her new winter coat, purchased from M&S with the vouchers I gave her at Christmas, and straightens it self-consciously as I approach.

  ‘Happy birthday, William,’ she says, giving me a kiss as we walk in through the door together.

  ‘Mum, not so loud,’ I say, wiping her lipstick off my cheek.

  ‘What’s wrong? Are you worried they’re going to think you’re my toy boy?’

  For some reason, I can’t think of a right answer to that question. Instead, I just follow her to the table and we sit down, ordering a couple of gin and tonics from the waiter.

  ‘Now, have anything you want,’ says my mother, giving my hand a squeeze. ‘After all, it is your…’

  ‘…special day. Yes, I know.’ She says that every year, although this year it’s probably more special for her. Particularly since I’d rather just forget it.

  I pick up the menu and, having missed out on my run this evening, flick through the choice of starters trying to find something that isn’t deep fried. Even the salad comes with bacon and crispy croutons, and although the food here is always pretty good, this afternoon’s events have dulled my appetite somewhat. As we sip our drinks, my mother tells me how she’s planning to have her garden paved over, because she’s heard about how dangerous these nuclear plants are that the government keeps mentioning, and she’s worried that there might be some growing in there without her knowledge.

  And while normally I’d find this funny, and wonder whether there’s any point trying to correct her, not surprisingly I’ve got other things on my mind. Although I’d planned to wait until the end of the meal to tell her, I can’t help myself, and as soon as the waiter has read out the specials, I blurt it out.

  ‘I had a strange thing happen at work today.’

  ‘Hmm?’ says my mother, still engrossed in the menu.

  ‘Dad came to see me.’

  My mother suddenly stops reading, and her mouth tightens. She doesn’t say anything for a moment or two, then puts her menu down carefully and takes a large gulp of her gin and tonic. ‘Oh. What did he say?’

  We’re interrupted by the waiter, and I can tell it’s a relief for my mother to have a few moments to collect her thoughts. I order for both of us and, over the first course, outline this afternoon’s conversation. Although my mother hardly touches her food, the same can’t be said for her drink, and when I finish, she takes a deep breath.

  ‘William, there’s something I haven’t been quite honest about.’

  ‘What? Now you’re going to tell me I’m adopted?’ I’m joking, but when she doesn’t reply immediately, the room starts to spin.

  ‘No. Nothing like that,’ she says, a little too slowly for my liking. ‘It’s just, your father, well, he didn’t decide to leave, exactly.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  My mother grabs my hand tightly, as if she’s afraid I’ll try to get up and go.

  ‘I asked him to.’

  I drop my fork in shock, causing the waiter to rush over. He picks it up and hands it back to me, before realizing that’s probably not the most hygienic thing to do, and fetches me another from a nearby table.

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Because…’ She takes a deep breath. ‘He’d been having an affair. When I was carrying you. Well, for a long time before that, actually. And although he was prepared to come back to me because of you, for me, the prospect of being stuck in the house with someone who didn’t love me was worse than bringing you up on my own.’

  ‘But…He said he did love you.’

  My mother, who I’ve never seen cry in thirty years, dabs her eyes with her napkin, and it nearly breaks my heart.

  ‘Maybe,’ she sniffs. ‘But he loved someone else more. And I wasn’t prepared to live with him knowing that. So I asked him to leave. And he did. And even though me asking him was the hardest thing I’d ever done, I know that, for him, leaving you was even harder.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem like that to me. I mean, thirty years, and he didn’t even try and get in touch once.’

  ‘He did. Several times. And I did mean to tell you, William. When the time was right. It just never seemed to be. And the longer I put it off, the harder it became.’ She squeezes my hand. ‘Can you forgive me?’

  I sit there in stunned silence as the waiter clears our plates, and I still haven’t spoken by the time the main courses arrive. I’ve got so many questions, but don’t have a clue which one to start with. As my mother beckons to the waiter for another gin and tonic, I find my voice again.

  ‘But…Why?’

  ‘Because I was trying to protect you. And I didn’t want you to be let down, like he’d let me down. I knew what he was like–he’d left me before, you see. And as painful as it was, I knew that it was better for you that he walked out when you were six months old. Before you’d had a chance to get to know him. He’d cheated on me, which meant he’d cheated on us. And I wasn’t prepared for him to hurt you in the future in the way he’d hurt me in the past. But we did okay, didn’t we? You and me?’

  By all rights I should be angry with her. You see this kind of scene played out in films all the time, when the aggri
eved son suddenly finds out that his life’s been a tissue of lies, and everything that he’s ever been told is untrue. Maybe I should be storming out, not giving her a chance to explain any further, leaving my shame-faced mother here on her own, the waiters wondering what on earth could have been said that would make me abandon an old lady in a restaurant on a cold February night.

  And while I am angry, it’s with my dad. Fair enough, my mother might have been the one who sent him packing. But he didn’t have to go. He could have decided what was really important, and tried to make it work.

  And yet, strangely, the only thing I feel is pity. And love, I realize. And an awful lot of respect. Here’s a woman who was prepared to do a difficult thing all by herself, rather than compromise her principles and live a lie. Nowadays, divorce is more common than successful marriages but, back then, it certainly wasn’t something you took lightly. And as I look at her, I understand something else too. My mother didn’t just sacrifice her marriage for me. She sacrificed her life as well. Gave up all hope of meeting someone else, of finding happiness with someone else, just so she could concentrate on giving me the best start possible. And didn’t she just? What’s more, she did what she thought was right at the time, and after four years of telling my clients they should never blame themselves for doing exactly that, I’d be a hypocrite if I resented her for it.

  So I do something that I haven’t done for ages–reach over and give her a huge hug–and, for the first time, I notice how small and frail she’s become. And although she brushes me off in the embarrassed way that she normally does, I can tell by the squeeze she gives me back that it’s the best possible response. Even though, from where I’m sitting, it’s the only possible response.

  ‘Mum, we did more than okay.’

  My mother seems to find her appetite again, and although we’ve both got a lot to think about, we chat pleasantly through the rest of the meal. She quizzes me about where I’m up to on what she calls my ‘baby quest’. I even give her an abridged version of my recent few dates, and when she laughs it’s good to hear the sound. Eventually, the waiter comes over and clears our plates away, placing the dessert menu in front of us as he does so.

  ‘Let me tell you about the special,’ he says. ‘Raspberry Surprise.’

  ‘No thanks,’ I say, making eye contact with my mother across the table. ‘I’ve had enough surprises for the day.’

  I pay the bill and walk her back home, taking her arm as we stroll up Richmond Hill, and she seems happy to let me take the strain. When we reach the house, she beckons me inside.

  ‘Hold on, William,’ she says. ‘I’ve got something for you.’

  ‘Mum, I thought we agreed. No presents.’

  ‘Sit down for a moment,’ she tells me. ‘You might want this one. In fact, I should have given it to you a long time ago.’

  I pace around the lounge as she disappears upstairs, but when she reappears a few minutes later clutching a shoebox, my heart sinks.

  ‘You’ve bought me shoes?’

  ‘Inside the box, William.’

  I lift the lid, and survey the contents. It’s full of envelopes–and what look suspiciously like the kind of envelopes that have cards inside. They’re all addressed to me, but in a handwriting I don’t recognize. And what’s more, there seem to be nearly thirty of them.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Birthday cards. From Dav—From your father. I was going to send them back to him, but I thought you might like to have them one day. And it seems like today’s the day.’

  I wince a little, both at what these cards represent, but more at the memory of the stupid television programme.

  ‘He sent me birthday cards?’

  My mother nods. ‘Every year. Without fail. Plus quite a bit of money that he put in each one.’ Her voice falters a little. ‘Don’t you want to see them?’

  I think about this for a moment. ‘I don’t know. I’ll have the money, though.’

  She manages a smile. ‘Shall I put the kettle on?’

  ‘But I thought he didn’t…I mean, that he…’ I slump down onto the sofa. This is all becoming a little bit much to take.

  ‘William, I know this all must have come as a shock to you. But your father loved you. Really he did.’ And as I stare at the pile of envelopes, my mother comes and sits down next to me, and puts her arm around my shoulders. ‘Do you want to see him again? I wouldn’t mind, you know.’

  I shrug. ‘I’m not sure, Mum. Maybe. I don’t know the first thing about him.’

  ‘Well, perhaps it’s time you found out. And reading those might be a good place to start.’

  So this is how I spend the evening of my thirty-first birthday–reading through the cards sent to me for my previous thirty. And in a strange way, I think it might be the best birthday I’ve ever had.

  Chapter 26

  I wake up feeling surprisingly okay about being thirty-one and a day. But what’s perhaps more surprising is that I’m also kind of fine about what happened yesterday. And while there’s a part of me that feels duty bound to my mum not to contact my dad again, there’s a bigger part of me that feels I owe it to myself to get in touch. Admittedly, I haven’t quite achieved my goal of finding a woman that I can start my own family with, but for some reason that seems to be a little more in perspective too. And although Emma hasn’t responded to any of my messages or texts, which also means I’ll probably have to stop getting my coffee from Starbucks, in the overall scheme of things I’ll just have to accept this, move on, and get on with my search.

  With that in mind, I take a last, lingering look at the TVR before jumping in, and for once find myself wishing it won’t start, but take it as an omen when it does, first time. I check that I’ve got all the documents I need, along with the service history–which by now is quite a weighty document–and head down through Richmond and across the bridge, trying to ignore the appreciative looks from a couple of small boys on the pavement as I roar past.

  It’s a short drive down the A316 to Toyotas R Us, and although it occurs to me to keep on going round the roundabout and back home, I pull onto the forecourt and switch off the engine with one last throaty blip of the throttle.

  Alan, the salesman, comes out to greet me, with a cheery, ‘Heard you coming. Five minutes ago,’ and I climb out of the car. But instead of the engine note, it’s Tom’s advice–‘Only sell this when you have to’–that’s ringing in my ears.

  Alan runs a hand along the TVR’s nearside wing. ‘She’s a looker, eh?’

  I stare at the TVR as if seeing it for the first time. ‘Yup.’

  ‘Bet the women love her?’

  I nod. ‘Yup. But not as much as the blokes. If you, er, know what I mean.’

  ‘You sure you want to do this?’ he jokes, nodding towards the new silver RAV 4 parked outside the showroom that he’s ordered for me.

  I look at the large, squat vehicle. Even though it’s quite stylish for a four-by-four, it still looks like my car’s fat ugly brother. Is it me? I keep asking myself. I mean, I know it’s a car, and not me, but is it me?

  ‘Er, no, actually.’

  Alan laughs nervously. ‘Let’s not get cold feet now. I’ve got all the paperwork ready inside, if you’d just like to follow me…’

  He puts a hand on my shoulder, and tries to steer me into his office, but I just stand there, rooted to the spot, gazing at the two cars side by side.

  ‘Hold on a moment.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I…’

  It’s at that moment I realize I just can’t do it. At least, not yet, anyway. And it’s not a case of wanting the TVR more than a baby–of course it isn’t. It’s just…I love the TVR. It’s been with me through thick and thin–although mostly thin, when I think about it. But it’s a part of me. And Tom’s right. Why get rid of it until I have to? Particularly–as Alan’s just helpfully pointed out–it might even help me in my quest to meet the mother of my baby. And although it occurs to me that
while I might be able to pull her in the TVR, I could actually have sex with her in the Toyota, I realize that this isn’t quite a good enough justification.

  As Alan pleads with me to change my mind–although deep down, on some level, I’m sure he understands–I just shrug and jump back into the car. My car. The TVR. With a grin on my face I push the start button and the engine roars into life, startling an old couple coming out of the showroom with the keys to a new Yaris, then screech out onto the A316 and back towards Richmond. And even before I accelerate through the traffic, nearly forgetting to brake hard for the speed camera on the bridge, I know I’ve made the right decision.

  Five minutes later, I’m pulling up outside Tom’s house, where he and the twins are washing the Volvo. Or rather, Tom’s trying to wash the Volvo, but Jack and Ellie are more interested in throwing handfuls of soap suds at each other.

  ‘Aha!’ he says. ‘I knew you couldn’t do it.’

  ‘I will,’ I tell him, picking up a squealing Jack under one arm and a giggling Ellie under the other, and pretending to dunk them in the bucket. ‘When the time is right.’

  Barbara appears at the front door. ‘Not you again,’ she says, kissing me on the cheek. ‘Happy birthday for yesterday. Get anything nice?’

  I shrug, which is a little difficult with a five-year-old under each arm. ‘Just the usual stuff. And a bunch of cards. From my dad.’

  I put the twins down on the ground, and they immediately run back towards the bucket, where Ellie proceeds to give Jack a soap-suds hair-and-beard combination. On top of his red tracksuit, he looks like a dwarf Santa.

  Tom puts down his sponge and looks up at me in surprise. ‘From your dad?’

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ says Barbara.

  We leave the kids outside with strict instructions not to touch the hose and head into the lounge, where I recount the previous afternoon’s events over a cup of tea.

  ‘Blimey,’ says Tom, when I’ve finished. ‘Well, that kind of puts a different slant on things, doesn’t it?’

  ‘How do you mean?’