He goes, “What can you have to talk to him about? Any normal person would be dead bored of him by now after having to put up with him all day every Sunday.”
“I don’t have to. I like Sundays. You’re just jealous because you keep missing everything and we do lots of things, and make up games and quizzes, and we have a completely brilliant time the whole day, much, much better than we would if you were there because you always spoil everything.”
And anyhow, it’s true. When Dad was at home, he was always talking to Nat and if I tried to say anything, Nat used to talk all over the top of me really loudly and Dad wouldn’t listen to me any more. Nat said he didn’t spoil things, that I was a little liar and he was going to get me. So I ran downstairs to Mum in the kitchen and she said, “What are you two tearing about like mad things for?” and Nat went back upstairs again and made a rude sign at me over the banister.
He is very cross with Dad and when I said I was seeing him on Sunday the first time he wouldn’t even speak to me. He did after a bit, but only ‘cause he forgot that he’d said he wasn’t going to speak to me any more. I told Dad that Nat couldn’t be cross with him for long, because even when he promises to hate you for ever and never talk to you ever, ever again, he always forgets after a while and then he is just Nat again and it is all right. And Dad said, yeah, he guessed so, then he patted me on the head as if I was only little, but I never said anything.
Gail
It was suppertime, so I knocked on Nat’s door.
“Hey—www-dot-Nathan, it’s mother-dot-com here. Any chance of seeing your adorable little face some time this century? I’m beginning to forget what you look like.”
“Mn.”
“Chicken stir-fry with noodles.”
“Mn.”
“Now, please. While it’s hot.”
It’s so nice, I feel, that now my son is starting to grow up we can really communicate with each other. I’m thinking of buying another computer so at least I can e-mail him. It’s the only language these people understand.
Only the other day I asked Rosie to call Nat down for their tea but when I came out to the hall, she was on the phone. She was phoning him on his mobile—in his bedroom, rather than go upstairs and call him.
“But you said you don’t like us shouting in the house,” she said, when I asked her what on earth she thought she was doing. As if this was a satisfactory explanation.
“And have you lost the use of your little legs?”
“This way is faster.”
“No, it isn’t, Rosie. It’s lazy and it’s a waste of money. Please don’t do it again.”
Eventually, Nat came shambling down the stairs, half folded over the stair-rail for some reason. It would be great if just once he could walk normally. He always seems to be moving in a peculiar way, like some action toy you’d test out to see how many poses you could put it in.
“Ah. You look kind of familiar,” I said, ushering him to the table. “Nat, isn’t it?”
He jerked his head up. Never try to be humorous with your children; it only gives them another reason to regard you with contempt.
“Anyone ever told you you’d make a great comedian? Really, I’m like totally laughing my socks off here.”
I sighed, an all-too-familiar sigh which seems to have become a part of me. I am a woman who sighs. Most worrying. I never used to sigh. It’s probably an age thing, which is even more worrying. I doled out the food—wrestling the noodles into three portions and roughly tipping the chicken and vegetables on top. It felt like I was filling a cattle trough, just providing fodder for hungry mouths, with no thought for pleasure or presentation. But cows probably have better table manners than Nat. Sorry, that was mean of me, he’s not that bad. Actually, he is that bad. You should see how he eats spaghetti. I just make sure I’m not sitting directly opposite him so I don’t have to have a full frontal view. I’ve given up trying to get him to eat normally. Maybe he’ll grow into it in time.
“It’s just I think it’s important for us to sit down and eat together as a family …” There was a pause. I think I could have phrased that better. “It’s good to eat together and talk, swap news and so on, hmm? I s’pose if it was up to you, Nat, no-one would ever have a real live conversation face-to-face; we’d sit in three different rooms and only communicate using a chat room on the Net, hmm?”
No response.
“You like us all eating together, don’t you, Rosie?” Come on, can’t I have someone on my side? Call for back-up, as Nat would say.
Rosie swung her legs and took a sip of her lemon squash.
“It’s OK.”
Massive enthusiasm all round, then.
“We’re not becoming one of those families who eat on trays in front of the TV every night.”
Nat stabbed at a piece of chicken as if he were trying to kill it. I fought a strong urge to rest my head gently on the pillow of noodles in front of me.
“Why ask then?” Nat picked up a single strand of noodle and lowered it from a height into his mouth. “You make out you’re asking us what we think, but it’s just some act so you can pretend you care. If me and Rosie wanted to eat nothing but chips and stay in our rooms the whole time, you wouldn’t let us. You go on and on and on about having family meals, but we’re not a family anyhow, so what difference does it make?”
Then he scraped his chair back from the table and walked out.
Well done, Gail, I thought. You handled that really well. I’d best give him a while to cool off. Still, it’s more than he’s said in days.
“Is this free-range?” Rosie said, poking at the chicken with her fork as if it had some disease.
“Yes,” I lied, crossing my fingers under the table, the way I did when I was little. “Eat up now.”
“'m not really hungry. Besides, I think I’m vegetarian again.”
“Oh, Rosie. Well, just try and eat a little bit then, OK?”
“Can’t I have a choc ice instead?”
I give up. I haven’t got the energy for all this. It’s not fair that I have to do everything on my own. I vote for somebody else to be the grown-up for a while so I can lie down in a darkened room. Preferably for about ten years. Maybe when I wake up, Rosie and Nat will be delightful, civilized adults bringing me cups of tea in bed and—who knows?—even putting their own clothes in the washing-machine. True, it’s not that Scott was ever much help either, but at least I could kid myself that there was another adult at the helm. Don’t tell anyone I said this but: Roll on Sunday. Rosie’s out with Scott, Nat goes to Steve’s. I make myself some breakfast and have it on a tray and it’s back to bed for a couple of hours with a good book or the Sunday papers. Bliss. Sheer bliss.
Scott
I had a couple of jobs to do within spitting distance from home, and they took less time than I thought, so I figured I might as well pop in. Ever since I had those extra keys cut, they’ve been burning a hole in my pocket. So I parked round the corner, dodged from tree to tree up the road to give the net-twitchers something to worry about, then let myself in.
It was pretty weird, being in my own house yet feeling like a thief. The thought made me tempted to nick something, you know? So I’m looking round the living-room—the TV? Video? I think they might just notice that. Whip a couple of CDs instead. OK, so I’ve got nothing to play them on. It’s the principle that counts, right? The gesture, I mean.
Then I pad upstairs, having taken off my shoes so there’s no tell-tale size 10 impressions in the squashy landing carpet. Pleased with myself that I thought of it—I reckon I’m quite good at this. I probably could have been a private detective. You don’t have to go to college or anything for that, do you? Meanwhile, moving back to reality for a sec. Actually, Nat’s feet can’t be far off size 10s—must be all those hormones or whatever they say there is in meat. Number of burgers Nat eats, I can’t understand why there’s supposed to be a crisis for British farmers. They should stick him on the cover of the paper:
LOCAL LAD SAVES BEEF INDUSTRY SINGLE-HANDED
Go for a piss. Leave the seat up, thinking nyah-ner to you, Gail, Goddess of Nag, go out, then back in again to put it back down, reckoning she’d throw a wobbly at Nat. Into Gail’s room—sod it—our room. Perch on the edge of the bed for a minute as if sitting next to someone sick. Then I flop back and just lay there staring at the ceiling, looking at the lampshade and thinking how I didn’t like it all that much—it’s pretty horrible really, but I’d never thought about it before even though I must have looked at it—at least twice a day, say last thing at night and first thing when I wake up. We’ve been in the house bit over eight years, so what’s that make? Over 5,000 times? A lot anyway. Actually, no, it’s less than that because we redecorated in here only two years ago and got a new shade, so—oh, bollocks, who cares? The point is. I don’t know. Yes—the point is that I’m a bloody good husband—and the lampshade is proof. See, I’ve put up with this vile lampshade for over two years and never complained once. That ought to count for something. None of the things that ought to count ever do, do they? Why is it always up to the women to decide what matters? Like having one brief shag with someone else is everything—OK, two brief shags, whatever—but being nice day in, day out and putting up with the Lampshade from Hell means bugger all? Whoever said we’ve got a male-dominated society wants his head looking at. Her head probably.
I pull back the bedspread then and curl up under it, lay my head on Gail’s pillow, but she must have just changed the bed because there’s only a clean laundry kind of smell and not a Gail-smell at all. I slip my hand under the pillow and pull out a nightie of Gail’s, made of some slithery, shiny stuff. I press it to my face and there’s a trace of her on it. A definite whiff of Gail, that perfume she wears and some other smell that’s just her, her skin, her hair, whatever. I feel a bit choked up suddenly, tell myself I’m a daft bugger, rubbing the cloth against my cheek. It’s all soft and silky. I wonder if …? Sod it, why not? It’s not like I’ve got anything left to lose. I attempt to stuff the nightie inside my jacket but it just slides out again, so—I know this sounds a bit pervy but I can’t think what the hell else to do with it—I wind it round my waist, tucked into my trousers all the way round, then tuck my shirt back in over it. With my jacket on, you couldn’t see a thing. Then I carefully smooth the pillow and put the bedspread back so it’s all neat and peer at it from every angle.
I poke my head round Rosie’s door. She is so tidy. Funny kid. Take a quid out of my pocket and hide it in one of her shoes at the bottom of the wardrobe. I’m just leaving then when something catches my eye. A new poster. Before she used to have this poster of dolphins on the wall. But now I see it’s been bumped—demoted to the far end next to the window. Pride of place, where she’d see it when she woke up each morning is a pop poster, one of those bands where they all look about twelve and they’re all singers—well, allegedly anyway—and you can hear music but no-one seems to be playing any kind of instrument, you know? But she’s way too young to be into bands and stuff. Actually, maybe last Sunday she did say something about a band. But she’s only a little kid for chrissakes. Next thing she’ll be dolling herself up to the nines and rolling in at two o’clock in the morning off her head on E. I’ll ask her Sunday, about bands I mean, what she likes and that.
Still, the thought made me feel a bit weird, to be honest, like she was growing up without me—you know that playground game they used to play way back when I was alive—Grandma’s Footsteps, was it? You turn your back and the others try and slowly sneak up on you, but you turn round suddenly and try to catch them moving. Like that.
I come back home once or twice a week now, whenever I can fit it in. I come in the day of course, usually mid-morning, just to—I don’t know—have a look, I suppose. See what’s occurring. It’s not against the law or anything, is it? Couldn’t be—it’s my house after all, right? Our house. Besides, it’s not as if I’m breaking in or anything. I’m using a key—'cept for that first time and there were extenuating circumstances, i.e. I was very pissed off, so I really had no other option. Now, it’s no different than if I was a totally normal husband doing shift work, say, and coming home when the rest of the family were out. Completely normal and ordinary. The only difference is that I’m not on shift work, of course. Oh yeah—and the family have no idea that I’m even here. But it’s not as if they’d really mind. Aside from Gail, obviously.
Still. It’s good to be here. I don’t think I ever really appreciated having a nice home before. You don’t till you suddenly find yourself living out of a bin bag. Oh, you know what I mean, in someone else’s back bedroom then. Being at Harry’s is all right, and I’m not ungrateful, but it’s not the same as having your own place where you can just drop yourself onto the settee and put your feet up or wander round in your underpants. This is no palace, I grant you, we’ve not got gold taps or silk wallpaper, but it’s warm and comfy and got everything we need. Everything I need. Telly, video, music centre, all the gear. Decent power shower all tiled round by yours truly. Dishwasher. Wife. Children. Shame you can’t replace them out of a catalogue: “I seem to have lost my wife and kids, but I see you’ve a nice set there on page 72. Have you got them in stock, but with a less stroppy looking wife? Fine, I’ll take them. Deliver them on Tuesday. Thank you.”
It’s so quiet here now. Looking back, I think I was hardly ever in the house on my own, so you could always hear, well, just typical family noise really: the TV, Nat thundering up and down the stairs, music—Gail listening to the radio in the kitchen while she made the tea, Nat playing his CDs, the dishwasher humming away or the clothes washer or the ping of the microwave or the kettle coming to the boil. And Rosie, asking questions, the way she does: “Da-a-a-d, you know Mount Everest? Well, why do people keep climbing up it?” It’s a mystery to me, love, I can barely manage life down here. Mind you, Everest sounds kind of tempting after the last few weeks I’ve just had.
Just have a quick scout round, I’ve not got long today. Harry’d never say a word, bless him, but he must be wondering why my calls keep taking me so long. I go in the front room and stretch out on the settee to watch a bit of telly. God, it’s crap, daytime TV, isn’t it? No wonder people want to go out to work. I channel-hop every six seconds or so then give up on it. Tidy the cushions and shake them to plump them up again. See, I am a good husband. Admittedly, I never used to bother doing that, but I’m a changed man, really I am.
A nose round upstairs. No sign of male occupation, thank God, other than Nat’s spot cream in the bathroom. I wonder if Gail’ll start seeing someone. A boyfriend, I mean—you know, just to get back at me. It’s way too soon, of course, but she might as a sort of retaliation, revenge thing. Nah. She wouldn’t. She wants me back, I’m sure of it, it’s just she’s painted herself into a corner with all this playing the Outraged Innocent Victim crap and she doesn’t know how to get out of it.
Rosie’s room is shipshape as usual, but with hundreds of little bits and bobs everywhere—I don’t know, girlie stuff, her snow shakers, of course, and tiny glass animals and boxes with shells stuck on them and small soft toys with googly eyes and dishes filled with elastic thingies for her hair and grips or clips or whatever they are, and flowers carved out of wood and boxes with secret catches so you can’t open them and funny plastic rings with outsize jewels on them that she’s saved from Christmas crackers.
Inside the wardrobe, her clothes are all put away properly. Not like me, King of the Plastic Sacks. The dresses and skirts are neat and straight on hangers, the tops and trousers folded on the shelves. I walk my fingers along the line of hangers to find her favourite dress. It’s this one, see, with the light blue spots all over it? She loves this one, though it must be too small for her now. She wore it last summer when we went on her friend’s birthday picnic. There were three families in all and we just lazed around most of the day, having too much beer and stuffing our faces with chicken and cold meat loaf, snoozing in the sun while the kids played
some game that seemed to involve lots of running and pushing and shouts of “You cheat!” I remember this one moment—I must have just woken up from a bit of a doze—and I half sat up. And there was Rosie in her spotty dress—running, picking her feet up high because of the long grass and literally shrieking with delight. She looked like a picture. The dots on her dress were exactly the same colour as the sky behind her—bang on they were, you couldn’t have got a better match if you’d been sat there all day with a paintbox.
I felt ridiculously proud. I know, she wasn’t doing anything especially clever or amazing, but she was my daughter and she looked so pretty and happy, running like the wind, and just bursting with life that I was dead chuffed. And then, just as suddenly, I came over all sad. How much longer would she be like this, I thought, leaping through the grass and without a worry in the world. All too soon she’ll be a teenager and she’ll be skulking in her room and throwing a strop every two minutes and slamming doors and wanting to be pierced all over the place. And then she’ll be like the rest of us, struggling to earn a living, pay the mortgage, find someone to settle down with, raise a family, trying to put a bit by for a holiday or a new kitchen or a new car, worrying about her tax or the latest food scare or whether her husband’s shagging someone else. Ahem. Whatever. And there’ll be no more running through the grass, shrieking with joy, outrunning the wind.
I guess I felt sad for myself, too, sad that I’ve become a pathetic old git, wasting my life worrying and moaning and going nowhere when I should be out there rushing through the long grass, whooping at the sky. No, not necessarily literally. You know what I mean.
I plucked out the dress and swung it round, the way I used to swing Rosie when she was little, remembering her laughing and bossing me, telling me to put her down, put her down right now, but knowing from her laughter and her eyes that she’s loving it. I held the little dress close for a minute till I thought, “Hang on a tick, you’re losing it, mate. You’ll start blubbing like a baby in a minute if you don’t pull yourself together.”
Lessons for a Sunday Father Page 14