Perfectly Ordinary People(118)

I felt strangely excited to be on my way to see Igor and unexpectedly ecstatic to be going away with Dad. Though we’d had plenty of foreign holidays when we were kids, essentially in Spain and Greece, travelling with him alone felt special.

Despite having cost a mere ￡38 each, return, the plane did not fall apart and we landed in Bordeaux just after five. The temperature was a sultry thirty-six degrees – a kind of heat that whacked you in the face like the jet of air from a hairdryer the second you stepped from the plane.

As Dad had done the trip before for Grandpa’s funeral, I rather lazily let him organise the whole thing for both of us. Following him through the airport and then on to the shuttle bus, then a tram, and finally through the streets of Bordeaux to the hotel he’d booked, seemed to reinforce the child–parent nature of our relationship and, surprisingly, it felt nice. I was Dad’s little girl again for a few hours, and I let myself go with the flow.

His choice of hotel – a budget Ibis – would not have been my choice either. As this was my first and probably last holiday of 2005, not to mention my first proper overseas break since becoming a mum, a pool and a jacuzzi might have been nice. But the Ibis was cheap and central – situated right on the edge of the Botanical Gardens – and as Dad reminded me, we would be there for only one night anyway. So I did my best not to notice the lack of view (my room looked out on to a brick wall) and not to ponder whether the shower was particularly narrow or if, since giving birth, my hips had become abnormally wide.

Within an hour we’d showered and changed and were strolling along the banks of the Garonne, and I felt as if my mind hadn’t caught up with my body. I was struggling to believe that I was really there.

We ate in the area behind Saint-Pierre church. There were four small restaurants including ours, one on each side of a lovely little square, their tables mingling beneath the plane trees.

Once the waiter had brought us our aperitifs, drinks Dad had ordered in what sounded to my inexperienced ear like perfect French, I asked him if being in France felt relaxing, like coming ‘home’.

‘Home?’ Dad said. ‘Relaxing? No, it feels like a stressful trip to see my father’s secret . . . boyfriend? I suppose that’s the right word.’

We both laughed, and I felt relieved that Dad had managed to joke about the situation. He’d been particularly monosyllabic during the journey, and I’d been worrying he’d be unable to relax for the entire trip. But now he had a glass of wine in his hand, he seemed to have retrieved his sense of humour.

‘Not sure about boyfriend though,’ I said. ‘Partner’s probably the best word, considering his age. And are you stressed? Because you have met him before, after all. We both have.’

‘Sure,’ Dad said, then, ‘And I’m fine.’ I could tell that was a lie.

‘It will be fine, Dad,’ I told him. ‘He’s just a guy. He’s just an ordinary guy who loved Grandpa Chris the same way we did.’

‘Not in quite the same way,’ Dad said, smiling cheekily. ‘But yes, I know that. Of course I do.’

‘I was really talking more about all this,’ I said, gesturing at our surroundings, and Dad followed my gaze. For a few seconds we scanned all the relaxed people chatting and drinking and eating – a perfect tableau of relaxed continental life. ‘Does this feel like home to you in any way at all because of your roots? Or does it feel as foreign as it does to me?’

Dad shrugged. ‘Foreign, I suppose,’ he said.

I did my best to disguise a sigh. I was guessing that his three-word reply was all I was going to get. But he surprised me again by sipping his wine and continuing, ‘It feels a bit . . . I don’t know . . . stolen, perhaps? That’s not the right word at all, but . . . I suppose what I mean is that there’s a bit of me that feels like this was my birthright. This lifestyle, I mean. This relaxed way of living. Eating outdoors and wandering around markets in the sunshine. Instead of rushing around in the drizzle in London the way we all do. It feels like something in my genes might have enjoyed living like this, if that makes any sense.’

‘Wow,’ I said, surprised by the fact that Dad had said something so succinct and elaborate. It seemed that seeing a shrink had done wonders for his powers of self-expression. ‘That actually makes perfect sense,’ I continued. ‘For what it’s worth, I think something in everyone’s genes would prefer living this way.’

We sat for a moment, enjoying the atmosphere, and then a question popped into my head. As Dad seemed in such a relaxed mood, I decided to take the risk of asking him. ‘Did you never suspect?’

‘Suspect?’ he repeated.

‘That Grandpa was gay? Or that Genny and Ethel were, for that matter.’

‘Not really,’ Dad said, then, ‘Kind of. Maybe. Not Dad. Never Dad. But maybe Genny and Ethel. It was only once, really. But there was a moment . . . and then I just pushed it out of my mind, really.’

‘As you would,’ I said.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I just mean that seems quite a reasonable reaction.’

‘Perhaps,’ Dad said. ‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Can I ask when that happened? What happened, I mean?’

Dad sighed. ‘I suppose,’ he said. He cleared his throat. ‘Um, it was one time we dropped in unexpectedly. Genny had a thing for sunflowers, and we saw they had some in a florist’s. So we bought them – it was your mother’s idea – and went round there to give her the surprise. You and Jake must have been about three and five. We thought they’d be happy to see you.’