by Lola Jaye
“You got stuff to do?” she asked with a look of utter disbelief. As if Lois Bates would ever have anything exciting to do. She had a point.
“So what’s it like with the new pops?” she asked, her mouth stuffed with at least three items.
The white mouse and Black Jack currently being demolished in my own mouth nearly flew out as I shrieked, “He’s not my dad, Carla!”
“Sooooreeee!” she shrugged, curling her lip like they did on telly. Actually, Carla could very well be mistaken for one of those actresses or models, anything she wanted to be. She was easily the prettiest girl in Charlton—no, make that south London—and even with short hair. Tall, slim, always wore the latest fashion, fun, but an absolute whiner if she didn’t get her own way. I was relieved when she sucked on a gobstopper, leaving me to gossip about Sharlene Rockingham and whether Mrs. Codrington—our science teacher—used to be a man or not.
The hot sun shone above us, warming my insides like an electric blanket, and I could swear I felt Dad’s presence. Like he was willing me to do it; just go home and open up that grocery bag, start acting my age and not my shoe size. I was a big girl now, after all—and, I repeat, almost a teenager.
I finally left Carla in front of her television and came face-to-face with the plastic bag in my bedroom. I discarded the plastic and the relief was instant—followed by a stab of fear. Puke tents were suddenly pitching themselves in my tummy as the plastic fell to the ground, mercifully covering the pink dolly shoe I now used as a pencil holder.
And there it was again.
The “something” my dad had left me.
The ugly green book, staring back at me.
The Manual
I opened the hard cover and immediately smiled at the first caption.
This is my (Kevin Bates’s) manual to my daughter Lois. The love of my life.
I sighed heavily, dropping the book straight onto my toes, wincing as the pain shot upward. My body flopped backward onto my untidy bed, shoulders colliding with the one-eyed teddy, and a single tear poured from my eye like a waning waterfall. My chest heaved up and down with the force of a silent sob, not because it hurt (and it did) but because, after all these years, I’d finally heard from my dad.
And he’d just told me he loved me.
I made myself a cup of hot chocolate and placed it well away from The Manual and inches from Dad’s picture. I sat upright on my bed, something that would please Mom as she was always going on about my posture. My face began to drip again. I wiped my eyes frantically and swiped at the snot with my hand, sniffing a couple of times, then stopped behaving like a wuss long enough to peep into the second page.
Rules of The Manual:
You must only read each new entry on your birthday (from ages 12 to 30).
This is a private manual between you and me.
No peeping at the next entry!
You are allowed to look back at previous entries. Actually, I insist on it!
I’ve tried to be really neat, stringing sentences together in the right way, but if you spot the odd dodgy grammar or spelling mistake—just make sure you don’t copy them next time you hand in your homework, young lady!
Under each new year, you’ll see that I’ve pretended you’d actually be interested in what was happening in my world around that age.
You can look at the miscellaneous sections any time you like—if you think they’ll help. I’ve cleverly placed these at the front, so you don’t get tempted to peep at future pages!
I frantically turned to the next page, heart beating forcefully under my T-shirt.
Hello Lowey,
Hope you’re sitting comfortably.
I sat back against the headboard and shoved the one-eyed teddy onto the floor.
First off I have one thing to say.
I’m sorry.
I am so very sorry for leaving you. It was never my intention. You were only five years old at the time, remember? You probably don’t, unless you’re one of those rare and ultra genius kids, which I very much doubt considering the collaboration of the Bates/Morris genes (only kidding). One thing I totally saw, every time I looked at you, was this beeeeeautiful, vivacious, chatty, smiley little girl, who liked Cheese Doodles and running around the living room like a short-legged Olympic runner. This massive sports bag full of potential; a Motown lyric just about to be sung at an open-air concert to thousands; an unfinished portrait, waiting for that last flick of a brush to complete the artist’s beautiful vision.
I wasn’t ready to go, but I had to. And I’m sorry that by the time you read this…I won’t be around anymore.
But this is your time, your beginning. And I want to guide you as best as I can on your journey. Be a father, a dad, a pops to you even though I’m not around any more.
Question: will you let me?
My sobs returned. This time, a little deeper.
Now, let’s go back a bit.
I always thought I wanted a son first. To play soccer with, argue the mechanics of a car, play-fight and share my old toy race cars. But all that floated through the hospital window the very first time I held you as you tried to open your eyes, an hour after your beautiful mother pushed you into the world. You were so soft and you smelled so…oh, I can’t explain it…you smelled all fresh, like the bubble bath section of the supermarket…like only a baby can. Damn, I was hooked and I knew as I looked into your eyes, I was finished. No longer Kevin Bates, sometime Jack the Lad, joker of the pack. But Kevin Bates, Daddy to Lois—and nothing would ever be the same again. I was in your power forever and ever. My little girl.
I turned the page, feeling sad. Then happy. Scared. Excited. This yo-yoing of emotion felt so strange to me.
I knew we were going to call you Lois.
Because a few weeks before your birth, I’d persuaded your mom to go and see Superman, where I had to summon superhuman strength to lift her out of that cinema seat! Huge! And that night on the way home from the theater, you kicked so much I thought I’d have to pull over and deliver you myself!
And even then, I knew. Had never seen your face, never heard your voice, but even then, I knew what you, Lois, would mean to me.
I stifled a smile. At last, explanation for my horrible and weird name.
While Philomena’s kids were noisy, you were a quiet baby. Only really grizzling when you were hungry or needed a nappy change (two good reasons in my book!).
I loved looking at you. How your forehead would crinkle anytime you didn’t get your own way or as you perched on your knees in front of the television deep in thought (something you certainly never got from me). How your eyebrows arched at the thought of something really important, like “Why does Big Bird have a funny voice?”
You, my baby, were a shy little thing. But on odd occasions you’d allow your mom and me the privilege of being a part of your world—especially if you needed our help for something really important, like whether or not you could watch Button Moon—or you’d ask for my opinion on one of your many artistic creations (like that drawing you did of the three of us, with rainbow Mohican haircuts).
Our times together were great, Lowey. Kissing you on the forehead as we slouched on the settee, watching The A-Team (which, by the way, is the best show on earth). You’d giggle up at me and I’d feel this little lump in my throat as well as this surge of strength and then weakness for the cutest little girl I had ever seen. The way your eyes were so trusting as they looked to me—plain old Kevin Bates—for some type of reassurance that I’d always protect you. Be there for you. Comfort you.
Wow.
And then I’d kiss you on the forehead again, Lois, just because…just because I could never resist that smile of yours. I’d like to think you’d still let me do that if I were there—you know, kiss you on the forehead as you snuggle up to watch TV. Or would you squirm away and tell me “I’m a bit old for that, Dad”? Well, you don’t have a choice because I will be kissing your forehead every night before you go to sleep. For th
e rest of your life—whether you like it or not.
In a nutshell, I need you to know that your daddy loves you soooooo much. With stars on! And although I’m kind of gone, I will NEVER, EVER leave you. I’ll be there with you, for you and around you. Don’t ask me how, just know I will be and especially through this manual, which I hope you will keep forever and ever. And as well as your birthdays, I want you to open it up whenever you feel confused, lost, lonely or even happy! Yes, Lowey, when you are happy too.
I wiped the fresh layer of snot from my nose with the back of a trembling hand, and for a good ten minutes I didn’t move or think of anything. This was all too much to take in. So unexpected. I suddenly felt ancient—at least eighteen. And while I ached to turn the pages, devour everything my dad had ever written to me, I knew doing so would mean nothing left for later. Next week. Next month. Next year. I needed this manual. I needed my dad and nothing would tempt me into jeopardizing any of that—even if it meant reading a sentence a day for the rest of my life.
I re-read that first page around a hundred times, ignoring Mom shouting up from the kitchen, “What are you doing in there, Lois?” and “Dinner’s ready! Wash your hands first!”
I wasn’t hungry for mere food, but sat down to the meal with the same old plates, same old knives and forks, same everything. Only I had changed. Something inside wasn’t ticking the same any more. I’m not saying I was suddenly a grown-up. I just didn’t feel like a little kid any more. And I certainly didn’t feel like sitting at the table listening to the Bingo Caller and Mom talk about a load of terrible, while upstairs in a plastic bag was the bestest, most important thing I had ever read.
“The fish is lovely,” enthused the Bingo Caller, carefully tucking into Mom’s trademark snapper and rice.
“Our first meal as a family! Well, you know…since we got married,” giggled Mom, sounding like a little girl. Equally, the Bingo Caller gazed at her the way a toddler does at a lollipop.
“This is a lovely meal,” repeated the Bingo Caller. Mom smiled, squinted her eyes, then dared to question why I chose to pick at the food.
“Nothing’s wrong with it. I’m just not hungry, Mom.”
“Aren’t you feeling well?”
“I’m fine.”
“Did someone upset you? Something happen when I was away?”
“Not really…No, nothing.” I continued to pick at the food, just desperate for the sensation of my dad’s manual against the surface of my fingers once again.
“Got a boyfriend?” asked the Bingo Caller, mouth full of fish.
I quickly and angrily shook my head in response. “Of course not!”
“You don’t have to be rude, Lois. We just want to make sure you’re okay,” said Mom sternly.
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
After dinner, I finally got the chance to escape. I turned to page five of The Manual, butterflies break-dancing in my stomach. It simply read:
As you read The Manual, always remember without doubt and without question, I love you…with stars on. Dad.
I closed my eyes and grazed the top of my forehead with my index finger. An image of Dad gently kissing my forehead appeared along with this total feeling of calm replacing all the stuff I had to deal with at school, Mom remarrying…everything washing away like water down a smelly drain.
That night, just before dropping into the land of nod, I whispered:
“I love you too, Dad. Goodnight.”
And I knew he’d heard.
try not to be a wimp
Kevin Trivia: I scored a magnificent hat trick to clinch the county cup for my school.
“What you’re telling us is…” began Corey as a huge pink bubble grew out of his mouth like a balloon. Pop! “Your old man left you a book?”
I’d finally revealed The Manual’s existence outside Lanes Fish Bar.
“It’s a manual, actually.”
“So, it’s a manual that follows your life?” asked Carla.
“Yep. Every birthday from age twelve until I’m an old lady of thirty.”
“But you’re twelve already!” said Carla.
“You’re not listening. I only got it at my mom’s wedding, so I get to read that entry and then every year until I’m thirty!”
“Oh, right,” she replied with a yawn. I nodded my head as Carla scraped strands of silky hair around her perfect ear, which was decorated with a massive hoop earring.
“Bummer, Lo Bag, another book to read,” said Corey, chewing furiously on the gum.
“Can you not call me that?” I asked—although I knew it was pointless, considering he’d been referring to me as “Lo Bag” since, like, forever. As I explained about The Manual AGAIN, Corey’s index finger disappeared almost whole into his left ear as Carla stifled yet another yawn.
“He gives me advice and stuff…”
“So, what you’re saying is, your dad tells you what to do even though he’s dead?” asked Corey, eyes searching the street ahead for his friends who were meeting him in ten minutes.
“No…not really…” I replied defensively.
“Bummer,” he added again anyway as Carla shook her head in apparent agreement with her brother. I sighed inwardly, disappointed that my friends found it so difficult to understand my new situation. But then, I couldn’t really expect them to.
An offensive bang on the chip-shop window interrupted our conversation.
“Hey you kids, buzz off if you ain’t buying anything! stop loitering!”
“Charming!” I said.
“Screw you!” shouted my friends as Corey placed two middle fingers firmly against the smeared window. Feeling a little left out, I spat a weak, “No, you buzz off!” in the proprietor’s direction as I followed my friends across the road. My weak attempt at rebellion before the usual indignity of school the next day.
So the countdown begins. Bet you can’t wait to officially become a teenager. If only you knew that one day you’ll realize turning your clock back every winter is not enough. You’ll want another five, ten, twenty years back soon. But I won’t bore you with that right now, I may come back to it later. For now, it’s my hope you’ll manage to do one thing this year you’ll remember forever and ever.
Can you think of anything?
Dad will give you a clue.
When I was twelve, I remember my dad taking me kite-flying for the very first time. It was a great day. The sun was shining brightly and I had to really squint as my eyes chased the red and blue kite floating in the sky. I was exhausted by the end of it all—so much so that when I chased the ice-cream van, I found I couldn’t catch up. I was so angry, while my dad was in fits! But that was okay because I was out with my dad, being boys, being free…just me and him and away from Philomena, Ina and Mom. I’ve never forgotten that day—even now at my age—because it was one of the last times I really remember feeling like a kid.
I know we can’t have those days together, but I really hope you and your mom have taken time out to make some lovely lasting memories of your own. Even so, I want you to make one more lasting memory this year.
Promise?
I searched my brain, tackling the events of the past year: Mom getting serious with then marrying the Bingo Caller; her constantly having a go at me; being marched up to the local market and suffering the very public indignity of picking out a “training bra.” Frankly, it had been a terrible year, but I owed it to Dad to do “something to remember” before I hit thirteen.
I mentioned it to Carla that evening.
“We could go ice skating,” she offered unhelpfully. Since getting her hair cut even shorter last week she’d decided to switch identities and was now all sophisticated—and stupid. I wondered what would happen if I took the scissors to my own mass of frizz. Nevertheless, I loved being around her and the family, as without them I’d be stuck at home with Mr. and Mrs. Boring. Popping round for Sunday lunch reminded me what a normal family could be like. Her mom was not only as beautiful as any movie star, she knew
about stuff I cared about and dressed really good. Even Carla’s dad was quite good-looking—if you liked geriatrics (he was at least thirty-five). And apart from Corey disappearing to the moon minus a return ticket, Carla mostly got everything she wished for—records, clothes, shoes. And, most importantly, I’d yet to witness a spat between her parents—unlike Mom and the Bingo Caller. I also wished to be as pretty as Carla—soft, spot-free skin with the slimmest waist, just like her mom—although possibly, all I had to look forward to in that department was “The Great Auntie Elizabeth Gene,” but fingers crossed.
“How about ice skating?” she reiterated.
“We do that all the time!” I protested as Corey barged into the room for the fourth time that evening, baggy trousers hanging way below the waist and almost exposing the crack of his skinny bum, rolled up at the ankles and held in place with elastic bands. I’d seen the look on some guys down at the rec, but on Corey it just looked stoopid.
“What are you two girls talking about, then?” he asked.
“GET OUT OF MY ROOM, YOU CRETIN!” spat Carla as I took in the familiar scene of brother and sister mid-squabble. Corey was responsible for most rows, as he seemed to enjoy teasing his younger sister and behaving like the biggest idiot that ever lived. He also reeked of cigarettes.
“Lo Bag?” he said for no particular reason, flashing a dimpled smile.
“I said, get out of my room. I’m telling Mom!” said Carla, looking for something to chuck. These days, Carla and I were becoming more consumed in our own secrecy as Corey spent more time with “the boys.” And since reading The Manual, I’d felt miles older than the two of them anyway. Things were changing between us.
Carla finally found one of her old teddies and launched it toward her brother.
“Cow!” he spat, reaching for the door.