Kiss My Name

by Calvin Wade

  Joey was the same age as my Dad, thirty eight, but he could easily have passed for thirty, whilst my Dad could have easily passed for fifty. Joey looked after himself. He was always heading off to the posh David Lloyd gym down past Botany Bay. Dad, on the other hand, said his days of keeping fit were long gone and his routine involved stopping off at The Talbot for a quick pint on his way home from window cleaning and then nipping across to Spar for a four pack and a slab of Dairy Milk. Joey was thirteen stone of pure muscle. Dad was sixteen stone of pure fat. Dad was balding. Joey had a full head of dark hair. Dad was a great bloke, Joey was a twat.

  “On your own, mate?” Joey asked, as if he was my mate, which he was not.

  “I’m with Laura, my girlfriend, she went to the loo, ten minutes back, must have spotted someone in there that she knows.”

  “Got a spare one?” Joey asked pointing at my opened packet of Silk Cut, with eight fags peering out expectantly.

  “You don’t smoke, Joey.”

  “I did back in the day.”

  “Help yourself.”

  Joey reached across and drew a cigarette out the packet slowly, like you would draw a straw when hoping not to get the short one. He tapped it on the table a couple of times, then grabbed my Zippo that had been abandoned next to the packet and lit up awkwardly. Joey put the fag in his mouth and began to smoke like an actor in a 1950’s black and white movie, not someone cool like James Dean though, more like an aristocratic English gentleman, David Niven say.

  “Looking forward to your Dad’s Stag Do this weekend?” Joey asked after his first exhale.

  “I’m not sure,” I replied honestly.

  I wasn’t sure what to expect from a Stag Do, or quite frankly who to expect. Dad was a family man, a quiet guy, a caring guy, but not a particularly sociable guy. Even when he went for his swift pint at The Talbot, he would just find an isolated corner to enjoy it. If a coach load of men were heading to Blackpool, I wasn’t sure if it was going to be my type of thing, or more importantly, Dad’s type of thing.

  “Not sure? Will, you should be sure! It’s going to be the best weekend of your life, matey and that comes with a Joey Neill cast iron guarantee.”

  I could mentally picture one of those knobs that kids used to draw on the white board at school before the teacher came into class. A knob with big, hairy balls. Joey Neill, it had underneath it. Prick. Knobhead. Cast iron guarantee.

  Laura came out from the Ladies, looking stunning as always. When she had her big, chunky metal brace and all the other lads were taking the piss and calling her ‘Jaws’, I knew she was going to turn out fit. I spotted her potential. I always smiled, always held the door open for her at college and always said “hello” and man was I enjoying the fruits of my labour now. Blonde, blue eyed, perfect smile, Laura was stunning, like a compact Maria Sharapova without the grunts and she did not want to know a single lad except me. Result.

  “Wow!” Joey Neill almost fell off his seat in shock, “Bloody hell, Will! How did an ugly mug like you manage to snare a fine creature like this? Underlay, nail, shag, my boy! Underlay, nail, shag!”

  Laura gave me a look. A look that spelt out ‘tosser’ in each of her beguiling eyes. I looked back with my ‘agreed’ look.

  “Well aren’t you going to formally introduce me to this charming lady, Will?” Joey prompted. I had no choice.

  “Laura, this is Joey. He grew up with my Dad.”

  “I’m his Dad’s other best man,” Joey added, taking Laura’s right hand in his and stroking the top her hand, underneath her fingers, like some weird pervert.

  “Pleased to meet you!” Laura said, smiling like she meant it. I knew she could see through him though. Some girls can fall for the cheesy lines and all that creepy bullshit, but not Laura.

  “I guess you’ve been put in charge of organising the Stag Do then?” she added.

  “I have indeed. And that my dear, is the very reason I came over to speak to young Willy, here. I need him to do me a very big favour.

  I was running out of penis-like words to compare this man to. The W.Anchor one kept bouncing around my head like a hot rubber ball in a squash court. How old did he think I was? Seven?

  “What favour, Joey?” I asked stoically.

  “Look, Willyboy, I cannot reveal the full extent of my ‘Top Secret’ plan for your father, other thank to say it is beyond hilarious. Stage One, however, will only work with your assistance. I need to smuggle a very important piece of cargo on to the coach next Friday and it is essential your father does not see, ‘Said Cargo’.

  All the lads are getting to The Talbot for twelve thirty. I need you to make sure that your Dad does not get there until one.”

  “Will he know that everyone’s getting there for 12.30, Joey? If he does, there’s no way I will be able to hold him back until one.”

  Ignoring me, Joey looked directly at Laura.

  “He gets ever so flustered, your boyfriend, doesn’t he? Is he always like this?”

  “He just wants things to be right,” Laura responded. Good answer.

  “Fear not, Willy boy,” Joey continued, now turning to me, “your father will think it’s a one o’clock meet. Just make sure he’s not early. You know what he’s like with his punctuality. Just hold him back. If he arrives before any of the lads he could ruin everything.”

  “Don’t do anything stupid to him, Joey.”

  Warning Joey Neill not to do something stupid was like warning a footballer, pre-interview, not to say “Erm”.

  “Trust me, young man, it’s nothing short of amazing. You will piss your Mickey Mouse pants!”

  I knew there and then that whatever Joey Neill had planned for my Dad was not going to be funny. Not in the slightest bit funny. My Dad had already told me that he had made the two biggest mistakes of his life and I had a horrible, sinking feeling that lining Joey Neill up as a ‘Best Man’, could well become massive mistake number three.

  NICKY – MAY 2012

  I didn’t share Simon’s conviction that my Dad would have just agreed, without protest, to go on his Stag Do. Once Joey had confirmed to Simon that they were heading on an overnight trip to Blackpool, that very weekend, I thought I had best pay Dad a visit. Throughout our relationship, Simon had always strived to win my Dad over. I don’t think Simon wanted to be his best friend, I just think he wanted to be given the impression that Dad respected him. Despite potentially saving Dad’s life, after he passed out at the allotment, my Dad was still curt and unpleasant towards Simon. I knew that Simon wanted my Dad to go to Blackpool, but I also knew my Dad would be very unlikely to go, without me exerting my influence on him.

  It was a miserable, damp, drizzly day and I ran through the puddles on Dad’s front drive to his door. Dad opened and shut the door quickly, as though he had a cat that he was trying to prevent escaping. As always, Dad looked happy to see me, but he also looked trim, healthy and a good colour. Since he had been diagnosed with atrial fibrillation, he had looked after himself better and it was a relief to enter his house knowing that it would not reek of pipe smoke.

  “Come in love, out of the rain. Shall I put the kettle on?”

  “That would be lovely, Dad.”

  We headed through to the kitchen.

  “The weather’s lousy, isn’t it?” Dad commented, “If it stays like this, these bloody Olympics are just going to be one big wash out. Stupid idea having them in London, that Usain Bolt won’t know what’s hit him. He’ll be running the 100 metres in a plastic Mac and wooly mittens.”

  “It’s still a couple of months off yet, Dad, it might brighten up.”

  “This is England, love, it will never brighten up!”

  Dad began preparing to make the tea, putting teabags into his pot and taking his two best china cups out of the cupboard. I only graduated beyond the chipped, tea stained mugs after I left home!

  “Anyway,” I said, putting my plan into action, “I’m just hoping it’s dry this weekend.”

  “Wh
y, what’s happening this weekend, love?” Dad asked.

  “It’s Simon’s Stag Do, Dad.”

  “I thought Stag Do’s were supposed to be the night before the wedding,” Dad said oblivious to the hint. He continued to busy himself with the tea preparation.

  “Not any more, Dad. Life has moved on.”

  “I don’t suppose it’s tuppence a pint, either,” Dad said, chuckling to himself.

  “Afraid not.”

  “Where are the boys off to then?” he asked seeming genuinely interested.

  “Blackpool.”

  “I’ve had a few great holidays in Blackpool in my time. When I was a boy, we would regularly have a week up in Blackpool in the summer. I’d spend hours on the beach with my bucket and spade. That was the allotment of my childhood, I suppose. Tell Will to have a look if my sandcastles are still there, I used to write my name on them. They will be easy to identify, I don’t suppose there are too many children called Arthur these days.”

  Subtle approach having failed, I now went for the blindingly obvious.

  “You could always check for those sandcastles yourself, Dad!”

  “What do you mean, love?”

  “Well, according to Simon you agreed to go on his Stag Do.”

  Dad moved his head around in meerkat like jerks. I think this was his attempt to portray confusion.

  “I did nothing of the sort! Why on earth would I agree to go on his Stag Do? I’m an old man with a dicky heart.”

  Dad used the dicky heart excuse to get him out of things that he did not want to do. It didn’t sop him going to his allotment.

  “Simon said he asked you the day he asked your permission to marry me.”

  Dad went to get some milk from the fridge. He did seem like he was genuinely trying to recall what happened the day Simon came to ask for his permission for my hand in marriage.

  “Let me think, he came here, made a bit of a fool of himself by getting down on one knee, then asked if I wanted to go for a pint, which I didn’t and then I threw him out as I wanted to go to the allotment. No, he didn’t mention a Stag Do to me, Nicky.”

  “Are you sure, Dad? Simon may not be your favourite person in the world, Dad, but even you know he doesn’t lie about things.”

  “Well, I can’t be 100% certain. I was just wanting him out so I could get down to the allotment, love! If he had asked me to go camel trekking in the Sahara with him, I would probably just have said ‘Yes’, just to get him out of the house.”

  “Dad, you paint such a beautiful picture of my future husband! Why can’t you just try to be nice to him?”

  “Because I save all my love for you, my darling.”

  I smiled sarcastically back at him. Ironically, Simon had suggested something similar.

  “So, Dad, on the basis you may possibly have promised to go, when you weren’t listening, are you going to be a man of your word?”

  “Well, if I agreed when I wasn’t listening, I’ll have to go, won’t I?”

  “Seriously?” I said with genuine excitement in my voice.

  “No, of course not, Nicky! I either never agreed to go or only agreed when I wasn’t listening. That doesn’t count.”

  “Dad! It counts as far as Simon is concerned. He doesn’t know that you weren’t listening to what he was saying.”

  “Tough, I’m not going.”

  Dad acted like a stubborn young child at times.

  “Will’s going.”

  “I’m very pleased about that. Will and Simon get along very well, so I assume they will have a wonderful time without an old man cramping their style. Well, cramping Will’s style anyway. Simon has never been known for his sense of style.”

  “Have you seen Will recently, Dad?”

  Dad thought about Will with his rock T-shirts and long hair.

  “OK, granted it was a poor choice of words. They will have a great time without having to drag an old man with a dicky heart around with them. I have plans for the allotment this weekend anyway.”

  Dad poured the tea from the pot and passed me a cup. There was no way I was ever going to get Dad to go to Blackpool unless I used my trump card, blackmail! I looked at him with big, begging eyes.

  “Dad, for my sake, can you not just go on this Stag Do? It would mean a great deal to Simon and he’s the man I love so by making him happy, you’re making me happy.”

  “Nicky, I don’t think it’s very fair of you to ask. I would hate it.”

  “You wouldn’t hate it, Dad. Will’s going, Simon’s Dad, Frank, is going. Just make an effort, come on Dad, please.”

  “You can try and sweet talk me as much as you like, love, but I’m not going.”

  I knew I would have to use blackmail. I was only warming up with the ‘Daddy’s little girl’ routine.

  “What if I were to say that I will get someone else to walk down the aisle with me, if you don’t go on this Stag Do?”

  Dad took a sip of his tea whilst composing a response. I felt awkward, but it needed to be said.

  “If you did say that, Nicky, which I’m sure you wouldn’t, I would say, in return, that you are a vindictive young woman and I am ashamed that you would stoop to such preposterous tactics. I also know we’ve been through too much for you to threaten that. You would be cheating yourself, as well as me.”

  “Ok, Dad. Forget it, I’m going home. If you aren’t going on this Stag Do though, you can ring up and tell Simon. I’m not prepared to tell him on your behalf. Everyone says you’re a stubborn old sod and I’ve always stuck up for you, but I’m beginning to wonder whether they are right.”

  Having said my piece I left. I didn’t kiss him goodbye or give him my usual hug, I just left. I didn’t like doing it, I worried that he may drop dead and I would have to live forever with the guilt, but thankfully it didn’t work out that way. About ninety minutes after I left Dad’s house, our phone rang.

  “Hello.”

  “It’s your Dad,” my father said in a tone of displeasure mixed with conciliation, “I’ve had a think. Now, I’m only doing this for you and Will, but if I have to, I’ll go on this bloody Stag Do! Tell Will to phone me and let me know what the arrangements are. Tell Simon if I have to share a room, I will need to share with Frank. If there’s more than two in a room or Frank is sharing with someone else, then I’m sorry but I am not going. That’s as good an offer as you are going to get from me, love.”

  “Dad, that’s great. Thank you. Simon will be delighted.”

  “As long as you are delighted, that’s all I care about.”

  “Well, I am delighted too. Thanks Dad.”

  “That’s OK. I can’t have you walking down the aisle huffing and puffing at me. I want you to be as proud of me as I am of you, Nicky.”

  “I will be, Dad. I will be.”

  SIMON – May 2012

  “Who’s texting you now?” I asked.

  It was less than a ten minute walk from our house to The Talbot car park, where the coach was leaving from, but by the time Will and I were halfway there, Will’s phone must have beeped about twenty times.

  “Laura,” Will explained.

  “Again?”

  Laura was Will’s girlfriend. He was nineteen. Laura was sixteen. I was uncomfortable with the intensity of their relationship, mainly because of what happened to Will’s mother when she was Laura’s age! Lightning does not just strike twice when it comes to teenage pregnancies, it strikes over and over again.

  “She’s worried, Dad.”

  “About what?”

  “About me going away for the weekend with the lads!”

  “Did you not tell her that both your Grandad’s are both going? That might put her mind at rest. Text her back, tell her not to worry and then switch your phone off and don’t switch it back on until we are on our way back on Sunday!”

  Will could text at about one hundred words a minute, even whilst walking and carrying his weekend bag.

  “Right, sent.”

  “Switch it
off now then.”

  “I’m not switching it off, Dad. Laura will worry if I’m not accessible!”

  “Will, you don’t need to be at her beck and call.”

  Will wasn’t really listening to me. This was not unusual. I sensed something was distracting him.

  “Are you listening to me?” I asked irritably.

  “Hang on…my Blackberry’s vibrating!”

  Will stopped walking and took out another device from inside his jacket pocket. It was too hot a day for a jacket, but it was easier to wear than to carry. We stopped for a minute whilst Will clicked and scrolled and I stamped my feet a little like a spoilt three year old. Will started to laugh.

  “What’s funny?”

  “Laura’s e-mailed me. It was too many characters for a text, so she’s e-mailed instead.”

  “Bloody hell, Will! Do you two actually ever speak to each other, or do you just text, e-mail, poke and twit?”

  “Tweet,” Will corrected me, “anyway, Dad, we do speak to each other. You’re probably too old to remember but when you’re in love, you want to keep in touch in every way that you can.”

  “Too old!” I scoffed, as we began walking again, “may I remind you whose Stag Do this is!”

  Will ran his hand through his long mane. His Mum and I were always telling him to cut it, but he was always deaf to our advice. He was always complaining that seedy blokes would come up behind him and slip their arm around him in The Bay Horse or squeeze his bum anticipating a female face. In my opinion, if he didn’t want that sort of attention, he shouldn’t encourage it! I was intending on persuading him to have it cut before the wedding.