My Not So Perfect Life(36)

If you saw us from the outside, you’d have no idea. You’d think we were a father and daughter reuniting happily on Christmas Eve. You’d never sense the waves of hurt and guilt bouncing invisibly between us.

The internship in Birmingham never caused a problem. Dad understood that it was all I could get; he knew I didn’t want to settle in Birmingham; he didn’t worry. The internship in London, he rationalized as well. I was “just starting out” and no wonder I had to get some experience.



But then I took the job at Cooper Clemmow, and something froze. I remember breaking the news to him and Biddy, right here. Oh, he did all the right things—hugged me and said, “Well done.” We talked about visits and weekends, and Biddy made a celebratory cake. But all the time I could see the stricken look in his face.

We haven’t really been right with each other since then. And certainly not since the last time he came up to London, almost a year ago now, with Biddy. God, it was a disaster. Something went wrong with the tube and we were late for the show I’d booked. A group of young guys jostled Dad, and I think—not that he’d ever admit it—he was scared. He told me in no uncertain terms what he thought of London. I was so tired and disappointed, I burst into tears and said…some stuff I didn’t mean.

Since then, we’ve danced warily around each other. Dad hasn’t suggested visiting again. I haven’t asked him to. We don’t talk a lot about my life in London, and when we do, I’m careful to stay upbeat. I never mention my problems. I’ve never even shown him where I live. I couldn’t let him see my flat and my tiny room and all my stuff slung in a grotty hammock. He just wouldn’t understand.

Because here’s the other thing about Dad; here’s the flip side of us being so close for so long: He feels everything on my behalf, almost too keenly. He can overreact. He can make me feel worse about a situation, not better. He rails at the world when it goes wrong for me, can’t let things go.



He never forgave that guy Sean who broke my heart in the sixth form. He still scowls if I mention the saddlery. (I did a summer job there, and I thought they underpaid me. Only by a tiny amount, but that was it as far as Dad was concerned. He’s boycotted them ever since.) And I know he reacts like that because he loves me. But sometimes it’s hard to bear his disappointment at life as well as my own.

The first time I had a run-in with a colleague at work, when I was starting out in Birmingham, I told Dad about it. Well, that did it. He mentioned it every time we spoke, for about six months. He told me to complain to HR…suggested I wasn’t standing up for myself enough….He basically wanted to hear that the colleague had been punished. Even after I’d told him again and again that it was all fixed and I wanted to move on and could we please not discuss it anymore? As I say, I know he was only showing he cared—but still, it was draining.

So the next time I had an issue, I quietly sorted it out for myself and said nothing. Easier for me, easier for Dad. It’s easier for him if he doesn’t know I’ve traded his beloved Somerset for a hard, struggling existence, if he believes I’m leading what he calls “the high life in London.” It’s easier for me if I don’t have to expose every detail of my existence to his uncomprehending, anxious gaze.

And, yes, it gives me heartache. We were so close, the Dad-and-Katie team. I never kept anything from him, not my first period, not my first kiss. Now I’m constantly careful. The only way I can rationalize it is that I will be honest with him, when I can tell him things that will make him happy. When I’m more secure, less defensive.



Just not yet.

“I was remembering Father Christmas’s Grotto,” I say, taking a crisp, trying to lighten things. “Remember the fistfight that broke out?”

“Those wretched children.” Dad shakes his head indignantly. “There was nothing wrong with those balloons.”

“There was!” I burst into laughter. “They were duds and you knew it! And as for the Christmas stockings…” I turn to Biddy. “You should have seen them. They fell apart in the children’s hands.”

Dad has the grace to look a bit shamefaced, and I can’t help laughing again. This is the territory we do best on, Dad and me. The past.

“So, has Biddy told you?” Dad spreads his arms out, as though to indicate the fields in front of us.

“Told me what?”

“No, I haven’t,” says Biddy. “I was waiting.”

“Waiting for what?” I look from one to the other. “What’s up?”

“Glamping,” says Dad with a flourish.

“Glamping? What do you mean, glamping?”

“It’s where it’s at, love. Saw it in the papers. All the celebs are at it. We’ve got the land, we’ve got the time….”

“We’re serious,” says Biddy earnestly. “We want to open a glamping site here. What do you think?”

I don’t know what I think. I mean…glamping?

“Could be a money-spinner,” says Dad, and I feel a familiar trickle of alarm. I thought Biddy had calmed him down. I thought the days of Dad’s crazy schemes were over. The last I heard, he was going to start getting odd jobs in the neighborhood and build up a handyman business to supplement the farm income. Which is a sensible idea.