by Jemma Forte
Gary doesn’t answer. He probably doesn’t understand what I’ve said.
‘Be nice to have a chip off the old block,’ he says ‘Though I don’t care really.’
‘That’s good of you.’
‘Tell you what I will be pleased about, is getting some action again. Hayley won’t let me go near her at the moment. Says she’s worried about “hurting the baby”.’
‘Right,’ I mutter, not convinced this is any of my business.
‘Still, when you’re as well equipped in that department as I am I suppose it could be a problem.’
Stunned, I look up from the fashion pages and stare at him aghast. Did he just say what I think he did? To my horror I realise he probably did because he’s staring in the general direction of his horrid crotch, which he’s kind of thrusting. Disgusting.
‘Gary, please don’t be gross. I’ll be sick.’
‘Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it babes,’ he says, at which point I decide it’s time to go. Hayley will just have to wait a bit longer to find out about our dad having returned. I simply cannot cope with Gary and his revolting ways while I’ve got so much on my mind.
‘I’m off,’ I say, making a swift exit, which is hindered by the laborious process of getting my stupid boots back on, while Gary stands and watches again, smirking at my obvious discomfort. I’m totally against adult Crocs, unless you’re a nurse or medic of any kind, but find myself considering investing in a pair I could use when coming round here, to facilitate swift exits.
‘Tell Hayley I called round,’ I instruct Gary, who has seriously crossed the line today as far as I’m concerned. Honestly, just because he’s gone without for a few weeks. I shudder with revulsion.
‘I’ll tell her babe,’ he says, cretinous face leering at me.
Back in the car I wonder what to do. I feel anchorless. I can’t think of anything but what’s happened and the thought of going into work tomorrow and acting like everything’s normal – which I’m going to have to do – fills me with dread.
Right, there’s probably only one thing to do and there’s no point delaying it further, given that I’ve been waiting my whole life for it. I scrabble around in the pocket of my skirt and produce from it the, by now, very crumpled receipt.
After a few more moments of agonising, I take a deep breath and force Gary and his inappropriate comments out of my head, knowing that what I’m about to do will alter the course of my life for ever. It’s time. Time to take control of things, time to make my own decisions. I dial the number.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Just off Romford High Street, on a narrow side road, there’s a small café called ‘Ron’s’ where cab drivers tend to congregate, waiting for jobs to be radioed in. This is the designated spot where I am to meet my dad.
When I got back from Hayley’s, Mum was deeply suspicious when I said I was going out again and interrogated me for ages, so in order to get her off my back, I told her I was off out to meet Jason. I know I’ll have to come clean about what’s going on eventually but, today, I just wanted to leave the house with as little fuss as possible.
I’ve made a bit of an effort with my appearance. I’m wearing a floral tea dress and a little jacket. I’ve also plastered on the make-up. In many ways I hate Ray for everything he’s done and yet I still want his approval and for him to see me looking nice. This is too confusing to analyse at any great length, plus if I stop to think about everything for too long, my head’s probably in danger of exploding.
As I sit on the bus – Mum needs Tina tonight – I try to read a newspaper that someone’s left on the seat next to me but can’t concentrate on the words. I’m nervous, really nervous, about seeing Ray, but also strangely excited. It’s weird. Despite what he’s put us through, I don’t think I could contemplate not trying to get to know him. Of course, the fact he’s so ill has acted as a pretty strong catalyst for me, in terms of making my mind up. It’s not like I have the choice of making him sweat for a few months before agreeing to see him. Though, with regard to that, I’m starting to wonder whether maybe he’s exaggerated his illness a bit, in order to get my sympathy. It would be rather a sick thing to do but given that I’m on my way to meet him now, effective too. My doubts stem from the fact that he looks like such a big strong man. Not one who’ll be going anywhere any time soon.
After a fifteen-minute bus journey and a short walk along the high road, I shove open the door to the café, which was his suggestion for our designated meeting spot. It’s very full.
I’m the first to arrive and manage to nab the only free table left. I feel a bit like a rose among thorns. Grizzled cabbies surround me chatting away, drinking their tea and eating fried food. Still, it’s as good a place as any for our meeting, plus nobody I know is in any danger of popping in. I sit for ten minutes, but don’t mind. I’m early and on the dot of quarter to eight, which is the time we’d arranged to meet, Ray appears.
I smile nervously and half get out of my seat, hovering as I wave in his direction. Once he’s spotted me I sit back down again, awkward and clunky, unsure of how to be.
‘Hi,’ I say shyly as he approaches.
‘All right,’ he says, looking relieved to see me and just as nervous. ‘Do you want a cup of coffee or something?’
I nod even though I don’t really want a coffee. I hate coffee.
The café’s lighting is stark to say the least. It’s perfect for this situation though because I’m fully intent on sussing Ray out as much as possible. As he places two cups of coffee on the table I scrutinise his face.
‘You trying to see whether I’m really ill?’ he asks gently.
I’m startled. Had I been that obvious?
‘It’s all right, I do it myself,’ he says. ‘But just so you know, I am. That ill I mean, and shit as it may be, that ain’t gonna change.’
‘Right,’ I say weakly, desperate for more information but not wanting to ask, in case he can’t face talking about it. However, Ray seems to pick up on my need to know more about his illness because although at first he looks reluctant about doing so, he starts to tell me.
‘Three years ago I was feeling really knackered all the time and then I noticed a bit of blood when I … well, when I went to the toilet and that.’
I nod in order to demonstrate that I know what he’s getting at.
‘Anyway, long story short, they found out I had cancer of the colon, so I had an operation to remove half of it. After that they blasted me with chemo and radiotherapy and for a long time I was good as gold. Until a couple of weeks ago when during one of my check-ups they discovered it was back, only this time it’s spread,’ he says plainly, conveying the facts precisely as they are, so there can be no confusion on my part. ‘It’s on my liver and in my lymph and there ain’t much they can do about it. There are things they can do to help but they can’t cure it no more,’ he says, needing me to get it, needing me to be very clear on the subject. He was going to die.
It’s so horrendous and I wish more than anything that he’d got in touch years ago. Not at this stage, when death’s hanging over everything. So much wasted time, and sad that it took something this drastic to galvanise him into action.
‘You’ve still got your hair,’ I remark cautiously.
‘Well, chemo was a while ago now but also not all types of chemo make your hair fall out anyway. It depends on the drugs they give you, which are all tailored to the individual. I got lucky,’ he adds wryly.
‘I’m sorry, I suppose it’s just that you seem … all right,’ I whisper apologetically, because as much as I know he needs me to accept what he’s just told me, I’m having real trouble digesting it as fact.
‘I am all right,’ he says, nodding in agreement. ‘I really am at the moment. In fact, ever since I got my head round the fact that there weren’t no more they could do, I’ve felt positively good. I get a bit tired and that, sometimes have trouble sleeping, but you know …’ he trailed off.
I can’t be
ar it. It must be so frightening knowing what pain lies in wait. I can feel terror advancing on me like an army just thinking about it. The certainty of the end is something surely we’re not really programmed to deal with.
‘What about America? They probably have more advanced medicine over there don’t they?’ I say, clutching at straws.
‘A bit,’ he agrees, smiling ruefully. ‘But they don’t perform miracles, which is what I’d need.’
We both concentrate on our coffees for a while until he says gruffly, ‘Nice that you seem to care a bit though.’
I shrug, not sure what I feel really. I mean, if anyone told me they were dying I’d feel sad. It is sad. Tragic in fact. The fact he’s my father makes it even more poignant than if he were some stranger of course, and yet that’s still kind of what he is to me. What do I really know about him after all?
I decide to swerve this potentially thorny subject and instead ask something I’m curious about more than anything. ‘So, while you’ve been going through all of this, who’ve you been with? Are you married? Do you have kids?’ My tone is deliberately light but I can’t look at him as I ask this. It’s something I’ve been fretting about all day, knowing that the answer could change my life all over again.
‘No. I never re-married. I was in prison such a long time and I guess … I don’t know really. I guess it wasn’t something I went looking for again.’
‘What about friends?’ I ask, allowing myself to breathe. I’m relieved there aren’t lots of relatives in the background if I’m honest. But at the same time don’t like the idea that he’s been through all of this on his own. It seems too horrific.
‘Yeah, I’ve got “friends”,’ he says, seemingly mildly amused by my line of questioning. ‘I’ve got some good old mates and the people at the hospital have been amazing too. I’ve had a lot of support and of course there’s my key worker who’s been there every step of the way.’
I must look non-plussed because he goes on to explain.
‘You get assigned a key worker when you find out you’ve got cancer. They’re basically a nurse who makes sure you’re dealing with everything all right, keeps an eye on you. Mine’s called Matt. He’s a top bloke as it goes.’
I don’t know why I’m surprised his key worker’s a man. I’m pleased he’s got someone looking out for him though. Equally I feel saddened and angry because if only he’d thought to find us years ago maybe some of that support could have come from me, his own flesh and blood.
‘Anyway, I didn’t come here to talk about all of that,’ says Ray, determinedly upbeat all of a sudden. ‘I want to know about you Marianne. Tell me everything. What you like, what you don’t like. Have you got a boyfriend?’
I shake my head and stare fixedly into my coffee, which I still haven’t touched.
‘I’m surprised, you’re a pretty girl.’
I blush flame red at this.
‘You should see Hayley. She’s the pretty one out of the two of us,’ I mutter.
Ray suddenly looks a bit sheepish and I guess then that he probably has seen her. I don’t ask. It’s all quite unnerving.
‘So how come you’re still living with your mother then? I would have thought you’d have wanted your own place by now. What are you now? Thirty-one?’
I nod. ‘Let’s just say it’s not really out of choice.’
‘Oh. Right.’
There’s a long silence, which I’m probably expected to fill, but don’t. Eventually he says, ‘So, you’re single, living with your mum, anything else? What do you do? What makes you, you?’
I shrug. I know I’m being very wooden but in reality I don’t know whether I’m ready to have such a personal chat yet. I’m here for answers, not for a heart to heart.
‘Are you gonna help me out a bit here or what?’ jokes Ray nervously.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to tell you about myself, it’s just … there’s not really a huge amount to say.’ I sigh heavily before eventually giving in. ‘I’m a hairdresser, I live at home because I can’t afford to move out and I’m sort of seeing someone but it’s extremely early days. That’s about it really,’ I mumble, uncomfortable in this odd, interview-like scenario. Doubts over my ability to cope with the situation are creeping in. There’s just so much to absorb and it’s all so … strange.
‘So you are seeing someone then?’ says Ray, leaping on this titbit of information, eager to engage in more of a two-way conversation and displaying over-the-top levels of interest as a result.
‘Well, sort of. I met an Australian guy in Thailand and hopefully he’s coming to London soon.’
‘An Aussie, eh,’ he says in a tone that irritates me. It’s ever so slightly mocking. ‘And Thailand, when did you go there then?’
‘Last year. That’s kind of what I do. I travel. Then, when I’ve run out of money, I come home, work again … at the salon, then I save up until I have enough to go off again.’
‘Right,’ says Ray, still nodding, only I can’t help but notice, he looks a bit bemused.
‘What?’ I say, feeling defensive.
‘No nothing. It’s just … you know, I’ve never really heard of anyone describing “going on holiday” as what they do.’
There’s so much I could say back to this. I have to sort of wrinkle my entire face in an effort not to reply back too forcibly, though what I say still packs a bit of a punch. ‘Well, it’s probably more worthwhile than spending half your life in prison.’
‘Fair point,’ Ray agrees, fists planted squarely on the table. He’s wearing the same black leather coat he was wearing the other day and his shoulders are so broad in it, he’s practically the same width as the table. He’s slim though. Despite his big build he certainly couldn’t be described as a fat bloke. He’s just very tall. He’s wearing a gold cygnet ring on the little finger of his right hand and everything about his presence is big, in a way that could be reassuring or menacing, depending on how you viewed him I suppose.
Another silence follows, one that definitely couldn’t be described as comfortable. Feeling deflated I start fiddling with the packets of sugar that are on the table in an aluminium pot. I realise in that moment that I want so much from this man, want him to be so much, the reality can’t possibly measure up. Then he says, ‘You like your music then?’
I nod, feeling immediately defensive and inexplicably like I might be about to cry. This is so much harder than I thought it would be. I swallow hard and stare at the table.
‘You play beautiful. When I was outside your house that night and I heard you playing, I couldn’t believe it. That’s why I was surprised when you said what you did. With that talent I thought you must be a music teacher or something. In fact I don’t know why you don’t use it. You must be professional orchestra standard.’
Still feeling borderline tearful, I give him a watery smile and reply quietly, ‘Nowhere near.’
‘Blimey,’ he says, in a way that suggests he doesn’t get how much better I could be.
‘What would you know anyway?’ I ask lightly, determined not to let my emotions get the better of me. ‘I don’t remember you and Mum exactly being into classical music. In fact the only thing I can vaguely remember is you and her singing that Lionel Richie tune all the time. Was it Dancing on The Ceiling?’
‘You remember that?’
‘Sort of. Dunno. Maybe Hayley told me. But whatever. It reminds me of you when I hear it.’
He laughs and the atmosphere lightens. ‘Wow, I can’t believe you remember that. And you’re right, your Mum was obsessed with that song. Funny,’ he says looking wistful. ‘I’d forgotten about that. Anyway I get what you’re saying Marianne, not that there’s anything wrong with that tune mind, gotta love a bit of Lionel, but I learnt about a few things in prison as it goes. Educated myself a bit. You’ve got to make the time pass somehow.’
‘Was it awful?’
‘It weren’t no picnic,’ he says frankly. ‘There are some nasty ch
aracters in there and if you want to survive you have to keep your head down, making sure at the same time that people know not to mess with you. That’s something you have to make very clear from the very beginning, or you’re stuffed.’
I’m not going to ask how he achieved this but clearly he did.
‘Anyway, I figured I might as well try and learn a bit while I was in there, you know? I’d never taken much notice of anything they taught me at school and that didn’t get me very far so I figured seeing as I was going to be there so long I might as well not waste the time completely. So I read books about things and looked at things, like religion and that.’
I’m impressed. And surprised.
‘I also got quite into that sort of music, if you must know. I don’t think I’d ever really heard classical music before I went to prison but I love it as it goes. I’m a Bach man myself. I mean him and Mozart obviously but then who don’t like Mozart?’
I shrug, hardly able to believe what I’m hearing. It’s quite moving. This is the first time anyone I’m related to has professed even the slightest bit of interest in the thing I love more than anything in the world. In ten minutes of knowing him, I already feel like I might have more in common with him than my mum. This thought is so disloyal it almost hurts to think it, but it’s true. My dad likes classical music. Furthermore, he’s someone who seems open to discovering and discussing more than just the same old things, the same old routine stuff. I look at Ray and there’s so much I want to say to him in that instance but can’t even begin to find the words.
‘So what level you at then?’ he asks. ‘With the violin?’
‘Well I passed grade ten when I was sixteen and have continued studying it ever since. I also took Music at A level and got an A. I play the piano a bit, too.’
He nods, looking genuinely impressed. ‘Good for you girl. That’s … you know … that’s really special.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, not used to discussing my music or in anyone showing any interest. The whole paternal pride thing’s a bit of a novelty too. I know he means well but it feels a bit unnatural. Makes me feel self-conscious more than anything else really. I’m just not sure he has the right.