by Matt Dunn
My dad puts a consoling hand on my shoulder. ‘There’s no rush, son.’
‘Yes, there is,’ I say, a little too loudly. ‘I mean, I’ll be thirty this year. And you were already married to Mum, and had me, when you were my age.’
My mum glances across to where my dad’s sitting. ‘Ben, we—’
‘Feel for you, son,’ interrupts my dad. ‘What can we do to help?’
‘Nothing, Dad,’ I sigh. ‘It’s just what with Ash getting married, I . . .’
My mum stops what she’s doing. ‘Ash is getting married?’
‘Yup,’ I say, miserably, realizing I’ve accidentally opened another can of worms.
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘And have they set a date yet?’
I shrug. ‘I don’t know. I only found out they were engaged yesterday.’
‘But it’ll be before you?’ asks my mum, getting some plates out of the cupboard.
I try to ignore the disappointment in her voice. ‘Obviously, Mum. Unless some miracle happens.’
My dad walks over to the fridge, and removes a carton of milk. ‘Look on the bright side,’ he says, pouring some into each of the mugs. ‘If Ash can find a girl who’ll marry him, then there’s hope for you yet.’
‘Well, that’s reassuring,’ I say sarcastically, while trying to work out whether my dad’s observation is more insulting to me or Ash. ‘But then again, he had a little help.’
‘Help?’ My mum sits down next to me. ‘What sort of help?’
‘It’s an arranged marriage, Mum. His parents sorted out the whole thing for him.’
My dad frowns. ‘How do you mean?’
I shrug. ‘They found a suitable girl, sounded out her parents, introduced the two of them, and now they’re getting married.’
‘Well, that sounds like a wonderful idea,’ says my dad.
I pick up a sausage roll from the tray my mum’s just put on the table, then drop it again, blowing on my fingers at the unexpected heat. ‘It’s very common in the Indian community, apparently.’
‘No,’ continues my dad. ‘A wonderful idea for you.’
I let out a short laugh. ‘I hardly think that Ash’s parents would be interested in finding me someone to marry.’
‘Ben,’ says my mum. ‘Your dad means that we’ll do the same thing. For you.’
‘What?’
‘Why not? It’s the Easter holidays. I don’t have anything else planned,’ says my dad, warming to the idea. ‘So just say the word, son, and your mum and I will find you a bride.’
Just say the word? Plenty of words leap to mind, but not one that I can say in front of the two of them. ‘But . . .’
‘No buts, son.’ My dad smiles reassuringly at me. ‘In fact, no time like the present.’
I frown up at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘This evening. Let’s go out on the town. Just you and me.’
‘What? On the pull?’ I say half-jokingly.
‘Exactly. I’ll show you how it’s done. See if we can’t find you the future Mrs Grant.’
I know he probably feels he’s doing me a favour, but I can’t think of anything worse. ‘Dad, with all due respect . . .’
‘What?’ He looks suddenly affronted. ‘I managed to pull your mother, didn’t I?’
For some reason, I can’t come up with a single suitable response to that statement. I look desperately across at my mum for help, but she seems to be nodding in agreement. ‘Well, I . . .’
‘You’ve got nothing else planned, have you?’
I think for a moment or two. ‘Well, I was going to watch Match of the Day ...’
‘So, tape it.’
‘But . . . Tomorrow’s Sunday.’
‘And you’ve got to get up early to go to church?’
‘Well, no, but . . .’
‘Great,’ he says, grabbing himself a sausage roll. ‘It’s a date, then.’
And as I stare into the steaming mug of tea my mum’s just placed in front of me, I realize something about being in Boots yesterday, when I thought my life couldn’t get any more embarrassing.
I was wrong.
Chapter 7
It’s nearly nine o’clock when my dad finally appears downstairs. He’s looking a little uncomfortable, although whether that’s down to him having second thoughts about this evening, or the fact that he’s wearing a pair of trousers that appear to be at least two sizes too small, it’s hard to say.
As my mum and I try hard not to laugh, he looks at each of us in turn. ‘What?’
‘Dad, it’s . . .’ I don’t quite know what to say. The wide-lapel pastel-blue suit he’s wearing might have been the height of fashion thirty years ago, but nowadays, he’s more likely to trip over his flares than cut a dash with them.
‘Something wrong with my get-up?’ says my dad, admiring his reflection in the hall mirror.
I walk over and stand next to him. ‘Well, the fact that you refer to it as a “get up”, for a start.’
He looks a little hurt. ‘This is my best suit. The one I met your mother in, in fact.’
‘And it would be fine if we were going to a seventies revival night, but we’re not.’
‘No,’ says my dad. ‘But we are going to a “Ben’s Love Life” revival evening. So it doesn’t really matter what I wear, does it?’
‘The way those trousers are restricting your breathing, you’ll be the one in need of revival before the end of the evening,’ I say. ‘Besides, it’s the twenty-first century. And you have to dress a bit more, well, appropriately.’
My dad looks me up and down. ‘What, like you?’ he says, indicating my jeans. ‘In my day, we dressed up to meet women. Not down. And we certainly didn’t wear plimsolls. It’s no wonder you’re having women trouble.’
‘Dad, they’re called “trainers” now. And everyone wears them. All the time. They’re quite “the thing”, in fact,’ I say, trying to talk in language he’ll understand.
‘For PE, maybe,’ he says, folding his arms, which causes the stitching on the back of his jacket to rip slightly.
‘PE? Plimsolls? Please don’t talk like that. It’s embarrassing enough that you look like my dad, without sounding like him as well. And what’s that round your neck?’
‘It’s called a tie, son. Although your generation seems to have forgotten all about them.’
‘With good reason. You look like you’re going to a parents’ evening, so please take it off. Don’t you have any jeans?’
My dad thinks for a moment. ‘Well, there’s the ones I use for gardening, but I don’t think they’re very clean. And, anyway, I thought you said we were going to a night club?’
‘We are.’
‘Because in my day, those kind of places were strictly no jeans allowed.’
‘Well, as you’ll find out later, it’s not your day any more,’ I say, although I’m beginning to wonder whether, actually, it’s not mine either.
Much to my mum’s amusement, I send him back upstairs, with strict instructions to change into his best shirt and newest pair of trousers. When eventually, he reappears, at least he’s looking a bit more neutral, although I do have to untuck his shirt, but that’s less because it’s ‘with-it’ and more because it’ll hide where he can’t quite do up the top button on what he keeps referring to as his ‘slacks’. And while he doesn’t quite look trendy, he doesn’t look embarrassing either. Which is something, I suppose, seeing as I’ve realized that I’m going to have to go through with this evening, as I haven’t managed to come up with a better reason to reject their offer than either ‘it’s embarrassing’, ‘it’s demeaning’, or the more obvious ‘it’ll never work’. Besides, it’ll be far more effective to let them have a stab at it, then realize that themselves. If I can only prevent him talking, or dancing, and as long as I don’t see anyone I know, then I might just survive the night without having to move towns. Or countries, perhaps.
‘This is fun, isn’t it?’ he says, after my mum has insisted on taking a ph
oto of the two of us by the door.
‘What is?’
‘Father and son,’ he says, making for the front gate. ‘Out together. On a Saturday night.’
I follow him down the garden path, trying to think of a suitable response, and I’m just about to answer, when I stop in my tracks. My dad is walking with what I suddenly realize is the same kind of swagger that John Travolta adopted in Saturday Night Fever.
‘Are your trousers too tight?’
‘What? Why?’ My dad stops bouncing on his toes, and turns to face me. ‘I haven’t ripped them, have I?’ he asks anxiously, wheeling round and sticking out his backside, trying to see it in the reflection of my car window.
‘Dad, please. No, I was talking about the way you were walking.’
‘Walking?’
‘Yes. Is it your bad knee?’ My dad’s got a dodgy cartilage – an old football injury, according to his version of events, although my mum told me he did it leaping out of his chair in excitement while watching the cup final.
He looks down at his leg. ‘My knee?’
I sigh, realizing that this is going to be one long evening. ‘Never mind.’
We get into the car, and drive off down the street in silence, my dad checking his hair in the passenger mirror. As we reach the corner, he clears his throat. ‘So. A night club, eh?’
‘Well, no one calls them night clubs any more. We’re going to do what’s known nowadays as “clubbing”.’
‘Ah,’ says my dad. ‘Clubbing. Right.’
As I pull out onto the main road, I can hear him whispering the word ‘clubbing’ to himself several times, as if he’s practising a new language. ‘And what’s the name of this “club”?’
‘It’s called “Tramps”.’
‘Tramps?’ My dad snorts. ‘That’s not a very auspicious name for somewhere to meet a young lady.’
‘Yes, well, most of them aren’t ladies. Or that young, come to think of it. As you’ll find out.’
My dad doesn’t say anything for the rest of the journey, obviously mulling over my last observation, and starts whistling to himself as I drive, so tunelessly that it’s a relief when I find a parking space just across from our destination. We get out of the car and head over towards a large white building on the pavement opposite, my dad thankfully walking a little more normally now – although that could be because his knee is actually playing up due to his exaggerated striding earlier – and stop under a large neon sign that displays the word ‘Tramps’ in vivid blue letters. It’s still early, so there’s no real queue, but when we go to walk in past the bouncer, my dad is halted by a big meaty hand on his shoulder, and a loud ‘Oy!’
Before I can react, my dad turns round. ‘Yes?’
‘It’s Mister Grant, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right,’ he says politely. ‘And who might you be?’
As the bouncer removes his hand, I swallow hard. He’s twice my size, and by the looks of the tattoos on his neck, about a hundred times as hard.
‘I’m Martin Walters. You used to teach me.’
‘Martin. Yes. Of course. Nice to see you again,’ says my dad, clearly not recognizing Martin at all. It’s his standard response, as he must have taught thousands of kids over the years, and therefore finds it impossible to remember all of them. ‘So,’ he says, looking at Martin’s tight-fitting sweatshirt, which has the word ‘Security’ printed across it in large yellow letters. ‘You’re working here now?’
Martin nods. ‘Yeah. My parole officer reckoned it’d be a good outlet for my violent tendencies.’
‘Well, good for you,’ says my dad. ‘Everyone should play to their strengths. What was yours again?’
‘Fighting,’ says Martin. ‘You used to put me in detention for it. Every week. I’ve never forgotten that.’
‘Come on, Dad,’ I say, anxious to get him out of range of Martin’s not inconsiderable reach. ‘Let’s go on in.’
‘Oh yeah,’ continues Martin. ‘Every day I spent in prison, I thought to myself, this is just like being in Mister Grant’s detention class.’
‘Ah, yes, well. I’m sure you deserved it,’ says my dad, blissfully unaware of either the potential violent revenge that Martin might be planning to take, or the murmuring queue that’s starting to build up behind us. I grab his arm and try once more to lead him through the doorway, but Martin doesn’t seem to be getting out of the way. ‘Detention, I mean. Though thinking about it, probably the prison sentence, too.’
I cringe, and brace myself for fight or flight, and although flight seems the better option, given my dad’s bad knee I might be in for a pasting. But instead, Martin breaks into a grin.
‘I did. I was a right little bastard.’
‘Martin. Language please,’ scolds my dad.
‘Sorry, Mister Grant.’ Martin suddenly seems to have reverted ten years in less than a second. ‘And I reckon it did me the power of good. If I hadn’t had your detentions, I never would have got through prison. So thanks,’ he says, holding out one enormous palm.
‘Quite,’ says my dad, briefly inspecting Martin’s tattooed knuckles, before shaking his hand firmly. ‘And you’re welcome.’
Martin steps to one side, so I breathe a sigh of relief, and start to walk over to the front desk to pay, but before I can get my money out of my pocket, he puts his massive arms around our shoulders, and escorts us straight inside. ‘Have a nice night,’ he says. ‘Oh, and Mister Grant?’
My dad looks up at him. ‘Yes?’
Martin flashes him a gap-toothed grin. ‘Don’t start anything.’
As we walk in past the coat check booth, my dad turns to me. ‘Did we just get in for free?’
‘So it seems,’ I say, a little stunned, and in need of a drink. ‘Let’s hope you used to teach some of the bar staff too.’
We make our way down the dimly lit corridor, and into the main dance area. There’s a poster on the door advertising tomorrow night’s ‘Eighties Evening’, but by the looks of the women on the dance floor, that’s a pretty good description of some of tonight’s clientele.
My dad makes a face at the noise. ‘How on earth do you chat someone up in here?’ he shouts.
‘You don’t,’ I yell back, while leading him towards the bar. ‘It’s all about body language. Imperceptible signs. Letting them know you’re interested. And hoping that they’re drunk enough to respond.’
He looks at me as if I’m mad, although his expression could also be because his ears are hurting. As I get us a couple of drinks, he peers anxiously around the gloomy interior, perhaps hoping to find a seat marked ‘please give up for elderly people’.
‘So come on, then, son,’ he says, taking the pint I’ve bought him gratefully. ‘Tell me exactly how this works. What should I do?’
‘Well, you can start by calling me Ben.’
‘Okay, son. I mean, Ben.’
‘Well, what I’d do normally is look around and see if there’s anyone I, you know, fancied,’ I say, indicating the various groups of women on the dance floor, or in the booths around the outside of the room. ‘And then try to make eye contact. And assuming they didn’t look away in disgust, go over and offer to buy them a drink.’
‘Just like that?’
I nod. ‘Yup.’
‘But . . . That isn’t the way to meet women. What about the art of conversation?’
I shrug. ‘As you say, that’s a little difficult in here. Besides, it’s just how it is in these kind of places.’
He sighs. ‘Well, it’s no wonder that the divorce rate is so high nowadays, if this is how most relationships start. I mean, it’s all based on looks, rather than personality.’
‘Or, more importantly, level of alcohol consumption. On both sides, sometimes.’
My dad makes a face, and then, embarrassingly, takes his glasses out of his pocket, puts them on, and starts scanning the room. ‘So,’ he says. ‘What about her?’
‘Please don’t point.’ I knock his hand down, then p
ick up my pint and take a sip so I can peer over the top of the glass towards where he’s just unsubtly indicated a group of girls. ‘Which one?’
‘That one,’ he says, pointing again. ‘In the boob tube.’
‘Boob tube?’ I follow the line of my dad’s index finger to where a group of girls are standing next to the fire exit. I’m guessing he means the one nearest to us, because she’s wearing a strapless dress – although that’s quite possibly because the straps haven’t been invented that are up to the job. ‘What about her?’
‘She looks like she’s got a nice, er, personality,’ says my dad. ‘Why don’t you go and talk to her? Tell her you’re an artist. Girls like sensitive men.’
‘Dad, the last time I told a girl I was an artist, she thought I meant “recording”. Besides, like I said, that’s not how it works.’
‘Rubbish.’
‘Dad, please.’
By now the girls have noticed my dad staring, and I’m wondering if it’s too late for us to duck behind the nearby pillar, but instead, and to my horror, he puts his beer down on the table, slips his glasses back into his pocket, and starts to walk over to where they’re standing.
‘Come on,’ he says, beckoning me to follow him. ‘I’ll show you how it’s done.’
‘What? No!’ For a second, I’m frozen on the spot, horrified by the prospect of him demonstrating the chatup techniques he used on my mum, and my first reaction is to grab him, but I’m too slow. After a quick gulp of beer, I hurry after him, catching him up just before he reaches the group.
‘Ladies,’ I say, while surreptitiously trying to usher my dad away from them.
‘Go on then, Ben,’ he says, ignoring my attempts to move him on. ‘Make the introductions.’
As the girls look at us curiously, I realize that I’ve got no choice. ‘Hi,’ I say, suddenly feeling five years old. ‘As you’ve heard, I’m Ben.’
My dad clears his throat, and I’m just about to introduce him when I realize I don’t have a clue how to. I can’t say that he’s my father, of course, and I’ve never introduced him as ‘Alan’ in all my life – it just doesn’t seem, well, right. But just as I’m wrestling with what to say, one of the girls beats me to it.