Perfectly Ordinary People(114)

It was two years after that, the 7th of July 2005 – the day of the London bombings. It’s the kind of date that, if you were anywhere near, you simply don’t forget a thing.

I’d been watching Sky News going round in circles all morning, filling airtime with very little content. Simultaneously, I’d been trying to phone my parents, but the line had been continuously busy, so by the time I finally did get through it was five past eleven and I was in tears.

‘God, you’re alive!’ Mum said. ‘I’ve been trying to call you!’

‘And I’ve been trying to call you!’ I replied. ‘Why didn’t you just leave a message?’

‘Because I didn’t want to leave a message,’ Mum said. ‘I wanted to know if you were OK!’

Once Mum had confirmed that everyone else in the family was alive and well, she put my father on the line.

‘Why aren’t you at work?’ I asked. ‘Is it because of the bombings?’

‘Yes, the Underground’s closed, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘I can’t get in to pick up the van. But I’ve nothing that urgent on anyway. Horrible business, though. Awful. Actually, they’re bloody bastards is what they are.’

‘It is,’ I said. ‘And you’re right. They are.’

‘But now I’ve got you on the phone . . . Well, I’ve been thinking about things. And I think it’s time.’

‘Time,’ I repeated. ‘Time for what, Dad?’

‘I need to see you. I need to talk to you and Jake. Together. So do you think that you can arrange it?’

‘Oh!’ I said. My mind was so monopolised by the horror of the bombings I was struggling to even think about the curveball he’d unexpectedly thrown my way.

‘Oh?’ Dad repeated. ‘Is that it?’

‘It’s just, with Jake?’ I said, doubtfully. Though Dad had seen Nathan when Abby had dropped him off with Mum a few times, Jake hadn’t spoken to Dad one-on-one since before the turn of the century.

‘Not this week, obviously,’ Dad said. ‘Let this all calm down a bit first, eh?’

‘Assuming it does.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I just mean assuming it does all calm down.’

‘Oh, sure,’ Dad said. ‘Of course. It doesn’t need to be right away. But soon. Can you do that for me?’

‘Getting Jake to come might be a bit of an ask,’ I said.

‘Yes, I know. Which is why I need you to organise it. Maybe do it at yours and don’t tell him I’m coming or something?’

‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘What’s it about?’

‘You know what it’s about,’ Dad said.



On reflection, I couldn’t bring myself to trick my brother into the meeting. It felt like that would be a breach of trust that our already fragile relationship might not survive. What’s more, I didn’t think it would work anyway. I could perfectly imagine Jake storming out the second he laid eyes on our father.

Instead, I told him the truth and simply begged him to come. And he surprised me by saying, ‘Sure, yes. Of course.’ I suspect the bombings had concentrated everybody’s minds on what was important in life and what wasn’t.

After much discussion with Dan about the pros and cons of a private versus public meeting place, I booked us a booth in a pub that did great food. It seemed to provide a perfect combination of enough privacy for us to talk freely, while being public enough to head off any actual shouting.

It was a warm summer evening and would have felt pleasant if there hadn’t been troops with machine guns everywhere.

Once I’d been thoroughly frisked by a security guard, I went inside to find Dad already seated in our booth.

‘You’re early,’ he said, leaning over the table to peck me on the cheek.

‘You’re earlier,’ I replied.

‘No Lauren?’

I shook my head. ‘She’s with Dan. She’s fine. Enjoying a night with Daddy. I thought it was better this way.’

‘Yes,’ Dad said. ‘Of course.’

While we were waiting, we ordered a bottle of wine and chatted about Lauren and Dan, and then the attacks and the soldiers, and by the time Jake arrived at half past seven the wine had cushioned me suitably for whatever was coming next.

I’d seen far less of Jake over the previous few years and I remember being shocked at how much weight he’d put on. He’d always been one of those pointy, foxy-looking men, all angles and jawline and stubble, but here he was, a forty-four-year-old, rounded-looking daddy. I thought the extra weight suited him, and I said so. It seemed to make him look kinder, or less harsh, a thought I kept to myself.

Once he’d sat down and removed his suit jacket, he stretched his fingers and cleared his throat before looking across the table at Dad. It was only then I realised he’d managed to cross the entire pub and sit down without looking our father in the eye.

‘So, Dad,’ he said. He cleared his throat again. ‘Long time no see.’

‘Yes,’ Dad said. ‘Yes, it’s been too long. It’s been much too long.’

Dad asked after Abby and Nathan, and then Jake inquired about Mum and Dan and Lauren. Everyone was being so polite that it was making my teeth hurt, so I felt relieved when Jake finally interrupted the chit-chat by asking Dad why we were actually there.