Perfectly Ordinary People(110)

But here we were. The story, our family story, was up to date. A line had been drawn, right from my grandfather’s youth in Alsace through my father’s improbable survival and on to my own birth here in London. And every detail felt, to my editor’s eye, utterly convincing. This was all true. This was all absolutely true, I was sure of it. And the fact that it led all the way to me, to here, to now, made me feel, for the first time, that I was a legitimate custodian of that story. I too had a right to read it and help decide what happened to it next.

Just after ten, Dan phoned me from a private party he was catering. They’d just served dessert, he said, so he had a break before they had to start packing up.

He asked me how things had gone with Jake, and once I’d told him about my brother’s surprising reaction, I went on to summarise the contents of the final cassette.

‘You sound pretty sure now,’ he commented.

I told him that I was.

‘So what happens next?’ he asked.

‘Next I have to find a way to talk to Dad.’

‘You know you don’t have to talk to him about this. I just want you to keep that option in mind.’

‘Erm, I kind of do have to,’ I said.

‘He’s lived quite well not knowing,’ Dan said. ‘I think you should remember that.’

‘You’re still assuming he doesn’t know, but—’

‘Well, if he already knows, then you definitely don’t need to tell him,’ Dan pointed out.

‘True. But if he doesn’t, then . . . well . . . we have Jake and Abby in the picture now. And Jake’s definitely going to want to talk about it.’

‘Which is why I didn’t think you should tell him.’

‘Yeah, OK. But I did. So now I have to talk to Dad.’

‘Unless you and Jake agree not to,’ Dan said.

By the time I’d hung up I felt like I’d had a half-hearted, pointless argument with him – pointless because despite what Dan might say it was unthinkable that I might try to keep this from my father.

Still, Dan had said one useful thing. He’d suggested once again that I should check the existence of Gai Pied magazine – something I’d been unable to do so far – but more importantly, he’d told me about a new search engine I could try called MSN, which, unlike Altavista, came up trumps.

These days you can find pages and pages of stuff about just about anything online, but in the days before Google, even the internet had the capacity to disappoint. And that was particularly likely if you were enquiring about anything beyond the borders of the USA. So back in 1998, the only thing MSN came up with was the following one-line entry:

Gai Pied was a French magazine aimed at homosexuals. It was published monthly, and later weekly, between 1979 and 1992.

Minimalist, admittedly, but it was more than enough for me.

To buy time, I lied and told Jake that I was still waiting for the final transcript. The question I needed to ponder wasn’t so much if I would tell Dad, but how I could tell him. Even after a full week of mulling it over, I was unable to even imagine how that conversation might go.

At work on Thursday, I got Freida to use Impressionable’s brand-new laser gizmo to produce a single bound copy for my father, and the following Sunday I slipped it into my chunkiest handbag and headed out to Walthamstow.

But the whole family was there and I realised the second I arrived that it wasn’t the right moment to have such a challenging conversation. It was one of those times when I felt annoyed with myself for even having considered such a silly idea.

So I left with my still-heavy handbag as early as I politely could and instead phoned Dad once I got home to ask him if he’d mind dropping in one night during the week.

‘Is it about knocking that door through?’ Dad asked. ‘Because I’ve told you, you need a proper builder.’

I told him that I needed his advice as a painter-decorator about where best to put the door before I could ask for quotes.



Dad took a swig of his beer as he studied the wall. He was wearing an expression that, in our family, we call ‘plumber’s face’. It involves scanning the problem being discussed while alternately chewing the inside of your cheek and sucking air through gritted teeth. ‘I don’t see where you can put it other than here,’ he finally announced, rapping the wall with his knuckles in the exact spot we’d chosen for the future door. It was, quite clearly, the only place the door could possibly be installed.

‘Great. Well, everyone agrees then,’ I said, caressing the folder I’d positioned on the arm of the sofa beside me. ‘Come and sit down for a bit.’

But Dad continued studying the wall. He’s always been more at ease with DIY problems than with conversation and I suspect he’d subconsciously detected the tension in my voice. My hand was trembling so I squashed it flat against the folder to steady it.

‘Dad,’ I said again. ‘Sit down and drink your beer.’ When he didn’t react I added, ‘I want to talk to you about something.’

Instead he walked to the window and looked out at the street below. ‘It’s a nice area, I’ll give you that,’ he said. ‘A good place to invest. You won’t lose money on this one.’

‘Dad!’ I said again, only this time there was enough urgency in my voice that he turned to look at me.