Daddy Dearest

by Paul Southern

  My daughter hadn’t yet learned to take the stairs one step at a time. She put one foot down and then the other before attempting the next. I was tempted to carry her, and kept tugging her, but the cold stone frightened her and she wouldn’t let me go any faster. I dreaded any sound, any movement, any voice. I dreaded her voice.

  ‘Daddy, hold on. I can’t run.’

  ‘You’ll have to.’

  ‘I’m going to fall.’

  ‘You’re not going to fall. Just hurry up.’

  It was one of those ridiculous conversations I have with her. I know she’s not capable of doing what I want - she’s not as dextrous, fast, or strong as me - but I tell her anyway: I have to get somewhere fast. If I could just have slowed down, bringing her up would have been a whole lot easier. I could have gone at her pace and maybe learned a thing or two about the world in the process. Life was not the rush it was when you were a teenager - that was a false dawn; nor was it the thrill of the first pay cheque, or the first house you bought; that was another transitory shot in the arm; life was the sober realisation that the whole thing would continue without you and that the only thing that mattered - if anything mattered - was what you left behind. That sounds really traditional and uninspiring and very far from the person I thought I was and would be. I thought I’d be a rebel and live on the edge. I didn’t think I’d be a part of anything. But you change and start deriding the person you were, the way you once detested the kind of person you were going to be. For most people, the most important thing they leave behind is their family, and I was no exception.

  I’ve heard it said that people live through their children, and others live for their children. Some people even appear to live in spite of their children. I belong to the middle group, though if I’d been successful, maybe I’d have belonged to the last. I’d like to have impressed my little girl with success the way I wanted to impress my parents. I sometimes wonder what they thought when they brought me into the world. Were their expectations as high; was their disappointment as great? Their world seemed very different. When I dragged my daughter down those steps, I felt the same difference between us. My world was slipping away as hers was coming into being.

  There was a smell of piss coming from the bottom. I couldn’t help but think of the seven circles of hell and how we were getting closer to it. The smell got stronger and I saw needles and broken bottles and ruptured condoms on the floor. My little girl pointed to them and thought they were balloons. She wanted to blow one up. How could I explain to her what it really was? How could I explain to her that drink was bad, drugs were bad, and sex was dirty unless it was a part of a loving and committed relationship, when I’d spent a lifetime practising the opposite? She’d find out soon enough but I didn’t want that to be then. I really didn’t want it to be ever, but I knew you had to give her some independence. Men are naturally more protective over their daughters. It’s such a hypocrisy. We spend a lifetime wanting women to be dirty whores - or is that just me? - then hope they’ll exhibit the restraint of Mary. I can remember lying awake at night dreaming of popping every girl in my class, bent over the science lab table. What the hell was I thinking? Maybe we get so hot under the collar because we remember how bad we were.

  We came to the fire doors at the bottom. I put my ear to them and listened. I could hear the hum of the generator and the sound of distant traffic. I pulled my little girl’s coat about her and held her hand. She looked up at me in a slightly bemused way.

  ‘Is this real, Daddy?’

  It was odd she said that. I was thinking the same thing myself.

  ‘Yes, darling.’

  ‘I keep thinking it’s a dream.’

  I pushed open the doors and felt the cool night air touch my face. Once we were out, there was no going back. My fingers held on for as long as they could, then they slipped from my grasp and the latch fell back into place.

  I looked about me. The car park was deserted. I glanced up at the CCTV camera on the back of the building and tried to keep out of sight. I’d no idea if they’d fixed it after my wilful vandalism but I wasn’t about to take the chance. I didn’t need to. My daughter was doing it for me.

  ‘Dad, I think I need a poo.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I have a tummy ache.’

  I looked down at her despairingly. How many times had she done that to me - at the denouement of a film, or in the middle of a shop with my hands full of shopping, or at the beach with the nearest toilet a half mile away? It’s always a poo, never a wee. Why couldn’t she just hold it in? ‘You’ll have to wait.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You should have gone when you were in the flat.’

  ‘I need one now.’

  I got down on my knees. My voice was breaking with the stress and it was all I could do not to scream at her.

  ‘I don’t care. We’ve got to get away from here and we’ve got to go now. You can do your poo later.’

  I dragged her along, trying to keep as much to the shadow of the building, but she couldn’t keep up and started to whinge, saying it was going to come out. I whispered to her to shut up, but even that echoed upwards. Anyone could hear it. I took her to the part of the building where the rubbish was collected. There was a small wall there which she could hide behind.

  I’m afraid I was quite rough with her. I picked her up and dropped her on to the tarmac so that she winced. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it at all. ‘There. Hurry up.’

  She looked around at the rubbish and water and piss and didn’t fancy it. To be honest, I couldn’t blame her. Squatting over that, you’d need smelling salts.

  ‘I want to go to the flat.’

  ‘You can’t. You have to do it here.’

  ‘I can’t. It’s dirty.’

  ‘You’ll be okay. Just hurry up.’

  I loathe the chavs who piss against my building. I loathe the drunken ladettes who throw up and squat there at two in the morning. There’s just no excuse for it. Their actions are a by-product of their general loathsomeness. If Stilettos or Rashelle or even my daughter were to piss against the building, I’d not be as condescending or truculent. Indeed, if Stilettos were to take a piss against the wall, I may even take a picture or video of it. How bad is that? The call of nature is universal. I look down on those who don’t measure up. I’ve known actors and actresses who took more smack than a council estate junkie yet I’ve never judged them the same way. I’ve been to swish, society parties where men and women shed their clothes with Caligulan excess and never judged them the way I do the sixteen-year-old chavs fondling each other outside nightclubs. I suppose it was the manner in which they did it - their lack of sobriety, education, intelligence - which really made me choke. I often feel there are less of us than them. By us, I mean people of intelligence and refinement - old-fashioned in the way my parents and their parents were: polite, understated, politic, gentlemanly. Didn’t we have that reputation once? Isn’t it grand to think we did? Maybe our arrogant aristocracy still have it? You know they’re all up to no good, but there’s the pretence and façade to maintain, and I think Edward and Victoria and even Elizabeth saw the importance of that.

  I am no Orwell, thank God, and I am no Marx, though I have read their work, but I understand where they come from. Even I am piqued by the excess of the upper classes and the terrible division of labour, and the lack of opportunity for the working man. I want to man the barricades, carry the placards, cut off heads, bring fire and insurrection to the country. It’s just I don’t believe in the working man. The romantic ideal of the working class was an invention of the educated elite. I remember reading that once. When I think of where my parents came from, and the values they brought to the table, I can see a glimmer, but it’s fast disappearing. Everyone’s gone soft on state handouts and easy living. You don’t need to work any more. The chavs don’t work. They have more than their parents or their grandparents had, yet they have no sense of society or value as far as I can see.
/>
  You wonder why I’m telling you this? You wonder what it’s got to do with anything? I’m telling you it has everything. You see, it is what I am and it is what my daughter will be.

  ‘I can’t, Dad.’

  I helped her pull her knickers up. With her coat on, she had them all in a tangle. Just as I did, the street was lit up with headlights. One of those mini street sweepers was making its way towards us. She got excited and wanted to go and see but I kept hold of her. I tried to keep her behind the wall. Then I thought maybe I could hide her behind me - perhaps the guy driving the thing would think I was just taking a piss there? She struggled in my arms. Why was everything so difficult with her? The noise was deafening. The headlights shot across the road as it swerved from pavement to pavement. Soon it would be on us. I didn’t think I had a choice really. I ran with her to the side of the building where the bins were left out. There was a little ramp there that led down to the basement. We were very exposed now. Anyone passing across the car park would see us. My daughter seemed to weigh heavier with each stride and I could feel her slipping from my grasp. I came to the doors and dropped her to the ground again. The street sweeper passed the wall where we were and was heading towards us. I could see people on the other side of the car park.

  We were trapped. It was then I realised what she really meant. It’s not going to work. Of course it wasn’t. I got my phone out and called her. She was all I had left.

  She picked up immediately. She knew what was going to happen.

  ‘I need you to open the basement doors.’

  ‘I don’t know where they are.’

  ‘Where the bins are. There are some double doors on the other side of the room.’

  ‘I’m not getting involved.’

  ‘If you don’t, I’m going to lose her.’

  My daughter started to cry. I was starting to cry. We were both terrified. Rashelle hung up. I tried again but she didn’t answer. I swore and hit my hand on the door.

  The people I saw were crossing the car park. They looked over in our direction but they didn’t stop. Maybe they didn’t recognise us? The street sweeper passed. I turned my back, tried to keep my daughter from view. That didn’t stop, either. I was mentally calculating how long it would take her. Ten seconds to the end of the corridor, a few more to call the lift, twelve seconds down, then maybe a minute to find the doors. She could be here in two.

  ‘Dad, I still need a poo.’

  It was almost funny. The whole world was collapsing and all she thought about was her bowels. She’d already farted a few times. The smell cut sharply through the night air. I told her off for that like I told her off for most things that created a bad impression, but now was not the time for squeamishness.

  ‘Auntie’s going to get us. Wait till we get to the flat.’

  ‘I thought we were going to see Mummy.’

  ‘We are, but you wanted to have a poo.’

  She paused a moment.

  ‘Maybe I can wait.’

  I could have killed her. I know she didn’t realise the impact of what she was saying, and I understand it was more about seeing her mum than the shit, but right then it was the wrong thing to say.

  ‘Well, you’re stupid, then.’

  She looked at me, heartbroken and tired. To be honest, I was more concerned about getting back into the building. Three minutes had passed and Rashelle still hadn’t turned up, and the cold was gnawing into my confidence. When she hung up, it didn’t enter my head she wouldn’t come - I mean, she’d come back before and saved us - but now I wasn’t so sure. She had every right not to. I clung to my daughter desperately, trying not to show her how scared I was, but I knew she felt it too because she’d gone quiet. Hope seemed to have run out for both of us.

  It was just then we heard the door.

  I hate being surprised. I hate the look on people’s faces when they’ve surprised you, and I hate the admission on mine. At that moment, I wasn’t sure who felt it most. You see, I was really expecting Rashelle to be on her own. I didn’t think she’d bring anyone with her - I didn’t think she could be that stupid - but I suppose, from the very beginning, that’s all I’ve been, too.

  34

  We sat in the cleaner’s room in the basement. He was still scratching his head. He kept saying man and shit, then looking at me over his drink. My little girl had gone. Rashelle had taken her back to the flat. I knew it was the end of the line and that I wouldn’t get to see her again.

  He was already down there. She had no choice but to pass him. She said it was her own little girl, and that I was helping her, but it was all so far-fetched; when he saw her, it was pretty clear who she was. The strip lights may have been flickering but his eyes weren’t. Our only hope was the drink on him. He staggered around and lost his footing several times. We were both implicated and she knew that, I think. She was distraught about it, but not nearly as much as I was.

  ‘You dug yourself a mighty big hole, man.’

  ‘I’ve been doing that all my life.’

  ‘Well, I’ll drink to that.’

  ‘Why are you down here?’

  He paused to take a drag on a reefer. ‘Why you askin’, man?’

  ‘I don’t know. Just curious. It seems odd the cleaner we employ is drinking on the premises in the small hours. These glasses aren’t all yours, are they?’

  There were about six or seven lying around and butt-ends and the smell of smack. I think he knew what I was getting at.

  ‘Just me and a couple of friends, man. We wasn’ doin’ any harm.’

  ‘No. You weren’t doing anyone any harm.’

  He looked at me through the smoke, his eyes bleary and bloodshot like a dog’s. ‘You wondering if I’m gonna say somethin’?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What you did was wrong. She’s a little kid.’

  ‘She’s my little kid.’

  ‘We was all worried.’

  ‘I realise that.’

  ‘We was lookin’ out for her. Everyone was lookin’ out for her.’

  ‘Well, you can stop now.’

  He nodded.

  I looked at his glass. ‘So, are you?’

  ‘I have to, man.’

  ‘What about hear nothing, see nothing, say nothing?’

  ‘Dis is a big nothin’, man.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘It’s nothin’ personal.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘I don’t understand why you did it.’

  I paused. ‘Because I had nothing.’

  He chuckled. ‘You people make me laugh, man. You wanna know what nothin’ is, go to where I come from. Live like they do.’

  It amuses me when they throw that at you. It’s their get out of jail card. The brothers have suffered more than anyone and that gives them a reason to complain. ‘I’m sure it’s very bad.’

  He took another drag and blew smoke rings across the table. I watched them float upwards like clouds, till they became stagnant cirrus lines against the ceiling. A deadly calmness came across me. Before, I was on the defensive: I was scared of what he would say and more scared of what he would do. Now, that had dissipated. Maybe it was the smack in the air which made me feel that way.

  ‘You’d see what life is really like.’

  ‘You think I don’t know it already?’

  ‘I tink you see more when you’re at da bottom.’

  ‘Well, maybe if they worked harder.’

  ‘And maybe if dey had da work.’

  ‘They don’t want to work.’

  ‘We want to work, man. And we want respect.’

  I wondered how long it would be before I heard the word. I hear young people say it all the time. It has become the byword of a generation with none. You don’t have to be a sociologist to work out where it went. My parent’s parents had it, my parents had it. ‘You’re not going to get respect by hanging round in gangs and shooting each other. Or by taking it out on white people. How long are you going to keep
doing that?’

  ‘As long as you keep tryin’ to put us in our place, man.’

  He blew another smoke ring into the air, picked up his glass, and stood up. I had nothing against the guy - he was stoned, wasn’t he? - but the more he spoke, the more I took exception to him. He reminded me of the girls who used to live above me. They all look at the world differently. They’d never see it my way.

  ‘So I can’t change your mind?’

  He swayed in the smoky air before me. ‘I’m gonna tell dem, man.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I’m gonna tell dem I found your little girl.’

  ‘And what about her?’

  ‘I hope someone does da decent thing and looks after her right.’

  I’ve never been an aggressive person; I’ve never lit up with anger when someone insults or slights or wounds me. I’ve always walked away. Some have called that noble - my mother included - but I call it cowardice. I’ve let people run roughshod over me and humiliate me all my life. When the cleaner said that, it was as if the forty-two-year carapace of kow-towing and poltroonery finally cracked, and in its place came the rage and frustration and anger of a normal human being. ‘I looked after her right. That’s why she was with me.’

  He staggered between the boxes and tried to pick the glasses up. One dropped on the floor and smashed.

  ‘You want some help?’

  ‘I’m not changin’ my mind, man.’

  ‘I know.’

  I stood up and contemplated him. I’ve never measured myself physically against anyone. It was a surprise to see we were of a similar height although he was broader and heavier set than me.

  He bent down to pick up a shard of glass and I saw the black crown of his head. I heard him wheeze and curse under his breath. A streak of black blood ran down his finger.

  ‘Shall I get a brush?’