I still remember, so clearly, him showing me around Paris, so handsome and strong … holding hands under the Eiffel Tower, drinking coffee by Notre-Dame … it was like something from a film, to be honest. Perhaps that’s why it didn’t last, I don’t know … but I loved him, so much. And I have to believe that he loved me – and no matter what eventually became of us, that love was such a precious thing. I might not want my girls to have the same unhappy ending, but the love? That, I very much want for them – both of them.
Lewis: Of course you do. Now, fill us in on where you lived, and how your life together looked.
Andrea: We had a little love nest in Notting Hill. It wasn’t quite as fashionable then, but it was all we could afford. To begin with it was all very boho – we hung out with an arty crowd, and there were lots of lovely soirees and nights out. It was very sociable, very lively. The Seventies were like that. I can leave the address as well, Lewis – pass it on to the girls, will you? Then if they want to, they can go and visit. Anyway, things were already changing by the time Rose was born – I don’t want you to think you caused any of it, girls. The rot had well and truly already set in.
He was out later and later, often not coming back for days on end, and when he did turn up, I was never sure which Franky I’d be getting. Sometimes, he was wonderful – he genuinely adored you girls, when he was on form, he was such a doting dad! He’d come back into our lives like a whirlwind of energy, and for days at a time, we’d have trips to the park, and breakfast in bed – all of us – and lovely walks, and it would be so nice.
The problem was that he wasn’t on form for that much of the time … he was hanging round with a wild crowd, and the drugs were considered normal. Of course they might have been for somebody else – but his personality, that moodiness I used to find so dazzling, meant that for him it was a disaster. For all of us. I tried to help him, but I couldn’t. I think even if he’d won every role he went for, won Oscars and BAFTAs, he would still have been a little bit … broken. I don’t know why. Perhaps a more mature woman could have figured him out, but I was far from mature. I still don’t think I am.
Lewis: You are perfectly mature, my darling, but only when you want to be! See, a case in point – your mother is sticking her tongue out at me, girls! Anyway. Moving on. Why did you finally decide to end things?
Andrea: Oh … oh my. This is harder than I thought it would be, you know. I’m feeling a bit tearful. This all feels like ancient history, but at the same time it’s still so vivid, it’s like it happened yesterday …
Lewis: Do you want to stop? Take a little break? You’re due some more painkillers any time now …
Andrea: No! Let’s rip the plaster off, shall we? Well, it was after my mother died. Her illness was long and drawn out and deeply unpleasant. I was an only child, so all of the pressure fell on me, and I’m afraid I felt rather sorry for myself. It’s one of the reasons, as I’ve mentioned, that I’ve chosen not to tell you about my current predicament. I have Lewis, bless him, and there’s simply nothing to be gained by dragging you into it as well.
But anyway … that’s neither here nor there. I always tried to take you both with me when I could, to sit with her and visit her, but it was very difficult at the end. A deathbed is no place for babies. So, on the day she finally passed away, I’d left you at home with your father. He’d been on his best behaviour for a while, trying to be a good soldier while I was going through my ordeal. That’s the thing about Franky – he was never a bad person, girls. Never malicious or cruel – the only person he didn’t like was himself; he didn’t really have a mean bone in his body. He was just weak. So weak that he couldn’t last that long without a little chemical assistance.
I came home, that day, utterly drained – you can imagine how I felt, I am sure, my darlings, as you’re going through something similar yourselves. Grief can be so bloody exhausting.
When I finally made it back, desperate to see you, and Franky, I found the two of you basically looking after yourselves, while he was sprawled on the couch. Rose, you were only two, but you’d tried to feed Poppy by pouring milk into her mouth! You were both covered in it, and soaking wet because no nappies had been changed all day, and screaming the place down. He was just lying there, listening to Led Zeppelin full blast, to drown it all out.
That, I’m afraid, was the last straw. I suppose I was grieving, and traumatised by Mum’s death and all the run-up to it, and I just couldn’t cope with anything more. I knew, right then, that this man was never going to change – or at least not change enough for it to be safe for us to be around him. And a few weeks later, we were gone. I can’t say that it was easy on my own, and part of me really did miss him, but … well, it had to be done.
Lewis: Were you ever in touch again, after that?
Andrea: Well, I’d hear about him, on the grapevine, you know? Mutual friends, our old set. I’d see him pop up on the telly every now and then. I used to wonder if I’d ever bump into him on the occasions I was down in London working, you two in tow – but I didn’t. From what I heard, things got a lot worse before they got better, and he ended up doing a teensy, tiny amount of jail time. Then, round about 1982, 1983, something like that, he did get in touch – passed a letter on via my agent. He said he’d moved to Paris, cleaned up his act, was doing some French theatre and rebuilding his life. That he was sorry for everything, and that he’d love to know how his girls were getting on.
Lewis: And … what did you say to that?
Andrea: Eventually, I wrote back. It took me a couple of weeks to make my mind up, but life’s too short, isn’t it, to hold grudges? It’s not like I was inviting him to move in, or sending the girls there to tour the Louvre with him – so I replied, letting him know how wonderful they were, and sent him an up-to-date photo. But … well, I never heard back. I don’t suppose he was quite as clean as he said, or maybe he never got the letter. I don’t really know. That was the last I ever heard from him.
Lewis: And why didn’t you ever tell Rose and Poppy about any of this – when they were older, at least?
Andrea: Oh Lewis! You know why! I was … I was embarrassed. And ashamed. And worried that they’d resent me, and I simply couldn’t stand that. I also … well, I’ve never been a great believer in nature over nurture, but I suppose part of me was worried that if I exposed them to the truth, to his lifestyle even, then it might damage them in some way.
Poppy, darling, forgive me for saying this, but over the years I have had my concerns about you … and Rose. Well, you had your own addictions, didn’t you? But now, I think, I have to say that I’m so proud of you both – and although you might have inherited some of his looks, and some of his traits, you’re nothing like him, really. Just like Joe is nothing like Gareth.
I’m sorry, though, you know … I’m sorry it all ended like it did. I’m sorry for you two, growing up without a father, and I’m sorry for myself, for being forced to do it all alone. And I’m sorry for him most of all – because he missed out on you two.
Lewis: I think that’s enough now, Andrea. You look exhausted.
Andrea: No, no, I’m fine … I could go on all day!
Lewis: No, you couldn’t – and I won’t let you. It’s time for a nap, and it’s no use arguing – don’t make me spank you again …
Andrea: Don’t say that, my daughters will think I’m into S&M … okay, okay … I give in … goodbye girls. I tried to love you enough for two – please forgive me if it didn’t quite work …
Chapter 55
Rose
I have no idea how I’d imagined my long-lost father would look, but it certainly wasn’t like a 50-year-old prostitute dressed as Rihanna.
Although, after listening to that heartbreaking question-and-answer session my mum did with Lewis, nothing would shock me. She’d tried to be kind about him, but you could still hear the pain in her voice as she talked about that time in her life.
I’d barely coped on my own with one baby – my mum had
two children; her mother was dying and she was dealing with a drug-addict partner. I’ve always thought of her as a strong woman, but I’d had no idea quite how strong. Leaving him had taken its toll, but she’d done it anyway – and raised us beautifully.
None of her answers had made for easy listening on the train, though, and neither Poppy nor myself is exactly full of joie de vivre as we emerge into Paris.
We have a couple of photos, and one of them is especially poignant – an old Polaroid, taken of the two of them with the Eiffel Tower in the background. Our father had written on the back of it: ‘Andrea, je t’aime!’ – and it is so easy to imagine them here, young and in love.
We cross the city in silent awe, wandering through the broad boulevards and pretty side streets and walking along the bank of the Seine to our hotel in the Marais.
It’s just as hot here as in the UK, and the place is crammed with backpacked tourists. By the time we reach the third arrondissement, we are both hot and overwhelmed.
Poppy seems to know the city well, navigating our route with ease, but it’s the first time I’ve ever been, unless you count a weekend at Disneyland when Joe was eight.
After checking into the hotel and eating lunch in a streetside café, she leads me into the noise and crush of the underground Métro system. I follow her like a lost sheep, marvelling at how well she fits in here – she even looks French, with her long dark hair and stylish clothes and big brown eyes.
We emerge again into an area that is part tourist dream, part nightmare, walking from the Abbesses Métro stop to see places I’ve only ever seen in films – Sacré-Coeur, Montmartre, the Moulin Rouge. There are cobbled streets and quaint squares and artists with easels in front of them; glorious views of the city, tiny cafés selling even tinier cups of coffee; the sound of chatter and laughter and live music.
But there are also, as we wander into the Place Pigalle, sex shops and theatres advertising nude shows and women of all ages and types loitering on corners. It’s one of those fascinating areas where you can walk for two minutes and be in a different world, leaving behind arty Bohemian splendour and entering a seedy landscape of sex and commerce.
Unsurprisingly, perhaps, the address we have written down for our father is in the latter area, and we enter a tree-lined side street that could be described as ‘shady’ in all kinds of ways.
We have to ring the buzzer for the flat several times before we finally hear footsteps thundering down the stairs inside, along with a flow of words that are annoyed in any language. I am so nervous my tongue is sticking to the roof of my mouth, and I am gripping and ungripping my fists, leaving little nail prints on my own skin.
Poppy, though, looks super cool. I’m familiar enough now with Present-Day Poppy to understand that just because she looks it, she doesn’t necessarily feel it, and I’m sure she’s just as tense as I am. I mean, it’s a big deal, meeting your father again for the first time since you used to wee in your own pants. I feel a tiny bit like I might be about to do that right now.
When the door opens, it is clearly not our father. Not unless he has undergone some radical changes, like gaining a pair of double-D boobs, losing one of his front teeth, and gaining a fright wig.
The woman on the doorstep stares at us with hostility, all kinds of fleshy bumps and lumps pouring out of the hip-hop party outfit she’s squeezed into. She lets off a volley of rapid-fire French, and I’m relieved I don’t have to translate. Poppy, she explained earlier, spent six months working here for the European division of her pet supply company, and is more equipped than me to deal with this on every level.
The two of them engage in an unintelligible exchange of information, with the woman eventually softening to something less frightening, and to something more human, more sad, to be honest, presumably as she begins to understand why we are here and who we are looking for. Every now and then, amid the flurry, I hear words that sound English – papa, detox, photo.
There is a lot of hand waving, and nodding, and she eventually disappears back up the stairs. The smell of spices and cooking vegetables drifts out of the building towards us, making me immediately hungry despite the situation.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask Poppy. ‘Is he dead?’
‘No,’ Poppy replies, shaking her head and glancing at her watch. ‘But he’s not here. He moved out about three years ago. He used to live here, with Anne-Marie and a couple of others, but left because he wanted to clean up his act.
‘She knows who we are, and says he used to talk about his daughters back in England all the time. She even knew our names. He had a photo of us – one from school, must be the one Mum sent him – that he carried everywhere with him. She’s trying to find some information right now about where we might find him.’
‘Is he still in Paris, then?’
‘No,’ says Poppy, flashing me a grin. ‘But it does have a tower. She thinks he’s in Blackpool. He used to work here doing street theatre for spare change, and says he got a pitch doing something similar back in the UK.’
Anne-Marie reappears and presses a crumpled piece of paper into Poppy’s hand. She’s effusive now, obviously glad to have been able to help us, but that doesn’t stop her accepting the 20-euro note that Poppy passes over. I suppose a girl’s got to pay them bills. I make pathetic attempts at au revoir-ing, and we leave, waving as we go.
I don’t know if I am relieved or annoyed. Part of me assumed the worst, that he’d have gone the way of addicts the world over and died an early death – and really, would that be so very terrible? Are we just reopening wounds that are best left closed, for all of us? Our mother had very good reasons for keeping us away from him, and they may all still be valid. Plus, why should we assume that after all this time, he would even want to see us?
But part of me, if I’m honest – the part of me that is perhaps still just a little girl wondering why she doesn’t have a daddy – anticipated some kind of wonderfully touching reunion. I mean, we are in the City of Light, and it all looks a bit like a movie set anyway. Perhaps I have been infected with sentimentality.
Oh well, I think, as we head back into the less scary streets of tourist Montmartre. Paris was a bust. But Blackpool will probably be just as good – if we decide to go.
Chapter 56
Poppy
We have made our decision, and it doesn’t involve a trip to Blackpool. I think this was easier for me than Rose, because my heart is definitely not 100 per cent in this whole long-lost-dad thing.
Maybe I’m just nastier than her – or maybe it’s because I’m softer, who knows? But my overwhelming feeling right now, as we crack open a bottle of wine in our hotel room, is one of relief. I am barely coping with losing my mum, and introducing a dad into the equation would feel like a step too far.
I’ve lived without a dad for so many years, he doesn’t really exist in my mindscape. Hearing our mum sound so broken-hearted about it all on the cassette tape, talking about the tough decisions she’d had to make, didn’t exactly make the whole reunion idea any more attractive.
I just wished that she was still here, so I could tell her it was all okay – that she’d made the right choice. That she’d protected us. That she’d been the best mum ever, and definitely had loved us enough for two.
There is no way that he could ever replace her and, in all honesty, I am angry that he is still alive, and she isn’t. Our mum did everything right, and is gone. He did everything wrong, and is still here. It feels wrong on so many levels, and my only real wish is that they could swap places.
We have, though, looked him up online. Anne-Marie had given us a website address, and we were able to locate Cranky Franky with relative ease. As we waited for the page to load on my phone, we had no idea what to expect – but the reality was even weirder than we could have imagined.
We are confronted by the image of a tall man wearing a clown outfit, with the tragic whited-out, teardrop-stained face of a classic picture-book Pierrot. There is a drooping plastic
rose in his clown jacket pocket, a frilly red ruffle around his neck, and he is wearing shoes in the shape of baguettes.
Wow, I think, gaping at him. Our dad is quite literally a sad clown.
‘I’d like to meet him, one day,’ says Rose, gazing at the picture with a mixture of pity and longing. ‘When all of this is done. Give him a chance, at least.’
As the A–Z is all about second chances, I can’t really object – but I’m not feeling it. I shrug, and drink, and say nothing.
I flick away from the website and into my photos. We called at the Eiffel Tower on the way back here, and recreated that picture of Mum with Franky, from all that time ago. He’s part of me, I know, just as Mum is, and my sister is. But not necessarily a part I want to connect with. Not just yet, anyway, and maybe never.
It’s hard to describe to my sister, but I feel a little like my armour is leaking. There is too much emotional rain getting in, and it’s making me soggy.
So I deal with that the only way I know how – by pretending it’s not happening.
Chapter 57
Rose
‘You don’t want to?’ I ask, topping up my own wine and studying her. Poppy has put her phone away, and is very quiet, rooting around in her suitcase.
We brought the next couple of instalments of the A–Z with us, just in case. It felt wrong taking it from its flowerstrewn cocoon in the Special Things Box – we’re on to the one with the poppies now – but that isn’t an easy thing to lug around on international travel.
I know Poppy has never been as intent on this Daddy Issues mission as me, and want to understand why. She, however, seems more interested in getting drunk, and opening the next envelope.
‘I’m … ambivalent,’ she finally says, screwing up her face as though trying to decide if that was the right word or not.
‘Okay. Well, you don’t have to come with me.’
The A-Z of Everything Page 25