Perfectly Ordinary People(10)

So in my head, I apologised to her for having been absent, and in my head, she replied that it was fine, and that it wasn’t in any way my fault.

And then she surprised me by asking if I fancied another doughnut, because it had looked rather good, and I couldn’t tell where the thought had come from – whether it was a memory or a random phrase generated by my own hunger, or if she really was momentarily there with me.

I told her that I was fine for now, but that if she fancied one herself, she should have one. And that’s when I started to cry.

That evening, Dad phoned me.

It was late and I was in my pyjamas, in the process of brushing my teeth before bed.

‘I just wanted to check you’re OK,’ he said. ‘I didn’t see you leave.’

I swished the toothpaste from my mouth and took the phone through to the bedroom. ‘Actually, you did,’ I said, perching on the edge of the bed. ‘I pecked you on the cheek as I was leaving but you were telling some story about a plumber.’

‘Was I?’ Dad said.

Because his voice sounded unusually vague, wistful almost, I asked if he was OK.

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I’m fine. It’s not as if we were close.’

But there was a sadness in his voice that gave the lie either to the fact that he was ‘fine’, or the fact that they weren’t close. Or maybe it was a sadness because it was true they weren’t close, and that was something he regretted.

‘Will you tell me why that was?’ I asked. ‘Not today, obviously. But sometime in the future, can we chat about it all? About your childhood and Grandma Genny and Grandpa Chris?’

‘There’s really not much to tell,’ Dad said.

‘Maybe not. But Grandma Genny’s . . . um . . . passing . . . has made me think,’ I told him. ‘About all the things I don’t know about them, and you, and your childhood.’

Dad cleared his throat, a sure-fire sign that I was making him uncomfortable, and I was aware that it was not the best of days to be doing so. ‘Grandpa Chris seemed on fine form,’ I said, to relieve the tension. ‘Telling all the same old stories.’

‘Yes,’ Dad said. ‘It’s what we do.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘Oh, nothing much. It’s just . . . you know . . . a family trait.’

‘Telling stories?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he tell you all those same tales when you were growing up, too? Jake and I recognised some of the ones you used to tell us, albeit with subtle changes.’

‘Yes,’ Dad said. ‘Yes, he did.’

‘That must have been nice. I know how much we enjoyed them when we were little. Especially the scary ones like the wolf story.’

There was a silence then. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence as such, but it was unexpected.

‘Dad?’ I prompted.

After a further few seconds he said, ‘Yep. Still here, my lovely.’

I waited for him to continue and eventually he did. ‘I was just thinking about what you were saying. About the stories. They’re a sort of displacement activity, really.’

‘A displacement activity?’

‘Yes,’ Dad said. ‘To avoid having to talk about anything real.’

‘That did cross my mind,’ I said.

‘We all do it, you know. It’s a Solomas thing.’

‘I don’t think I do,’ I said.

Dad laughed gently. ‘Oh, you do,’ he said. ‘Jake does too. But you’re right. I did enjoy them when I was little. All those stories by the fireside . . . But then later they started to frustrate me.’

‘Because he used them as a wall?’

‘That’s exactly it,’ Dad said. ‘I never thought about it that way before, but yes. He used them like a wall. They both did.’

‘You mean Grandma Genny too? I don’t remember her telling stories.’

‘No, she didn’t so much. But she’d urge your grandfather to tell one. “Tell them the one about so-and-so,” she’d say. It was the way she turned attention from herself. She liked to remain unnoticed, in the corners. It suited her that he was constantly holding forth.’

‘Right,’ I said. ‘I see.’

‘Anyway,’ Dad said.

‘You do sound sad, Dad,’ I commented. ‘Not that it’s in any way unexpected. But you do. Are you sure you’re OK?’

At the end of the phone I could hear that his breathing was becoming ragged. ‘I’m all right,’ he said, unconvincingly. ‘I just need a good night’s kip. Your mother’s already gone up.’

‘Me too,’ I replied. ‘Goodnight then.’

‘I do worry about you, on your own,’ Dad said. ‘No one to snuggle up to.’

‘Don’t,’ I told him. ‘I’ve got Buggles.’

‘You shouldn’t sleep with a cat,’ Dad said. ‘They give you worms. They crawl out of their arses and into yours.’

‘Dad!’ I said in a mock-plaintive voice. He’d told me this a hundred times, but I’d never believed it to be true. ‘Anyway, he hasn’t given me worms yet, and I’ve had him for almost five years.’