Sweet Sorrow(103)

On the blaring TV downstairs, the hymns came to an end and the hunt for antiques began. This week they were in Staffordshire, and so were hoping to find some lovely examples of the famous local pottery, but I stayed squeezed between the bath and the door, keeping watch. Dad’s boxer shorts had billowed up and floated on the surface, a Portuguese man-of-war in tartan. There was a tight, high, swollen belly, his chest thin and pale, and I felt that old repulsion, and so took in his face, digging for some old feeling. I saw the folds and creases deep enough to stand a pencil in, the sticky mouth, half open, the stubble peppered with white and as coarse as the bristles on a broom, the thinning hair slicked back with sweat, skin blue and papery beneath his eyes. He was thirty-eight years old.

I tried to find the traces of the younger man who’d played on the rug through those childhood afternoons. I couldn’t see it, but I felt I ought to try. Of all the resolutions I’d made that summer morning, this one promise remained: to find a way to live together. I would not hide from him again.

After half an hour, it seemed safe to leave the bathroom. It would require some suppleness to drown in such a tiny bath and so I left him soaking and tidied his bedroom, changed the sheets, laid out clean pyjamas, cleared bottles and glasses and put the pills out of sight in a drawer. I went downstairs, washed up and opened all the windows and all this time, without acknowledging the fact, I was looking for a note. Its absence heartened me, and there had been pills left in the bottles too, and surely if he’d meant to … never mind. I held tight to the idea that it was some solitary party that had got out of hand, a misjudgement, nothing that we would have to name or talk about, nothing to do with things I’d said or done. Returning to the bathroom, I found him in the same spot, the water cold now, and I cleaned and disinfected the toilet and floor while he lay there.

‘Okay, time to get out,’ I said, holding out his dressing gown, a butler and his elderly charge. He stood and carefully stepped over the rim then, wrapped in the gown, stepped out of his sodden boxer shorts and walked towards the bedroom. I took his elbow; ‘No – you’ve got to stay awake a little longer’ and we walked slowly down the stairs. On the sofa, I constructed a nest of cushions to keep him upright, and fed him tea and toast and slices of orange. ‘Like a professional footballer,’ he said, sucking on the peel, his first clear words since I’d returned. We sank into the comfy sadism of the Sunday-night detective shows, and now and then I glanced at him, asking questions about the plot when I saw his eyelids grow heavy. D’you think the policeman did it? Do you think it was the wife? Eventually, when I felt that it was safe, I walked him upstairs, opened the window and put him to bed.

I changed my clothes and tossed the wretched tracksuit in the bin. In the mirror I saw myself, filthy and exhausted. If I felt any pride, then the ragged dressings on my back reminded me of my wrongs. I would need someone to help me change them but that would have to wait. For the moment, I lay down next to Dad. I’d stay awake and keep an eye on him. But sleep overpowered me. I closed my eyes and was gone.





Results


It was unnerving to wake up with my father’s head on the same pillow, but at least some colour had returned to his face in the night. I decided that this was the right kind of sleep and so sat and stretched and felt the sting of the scabs on my back, and it all came back. Fran’s awkwardness, the impending prosecution, abandoning the show, the publication of exam results: a medley of disasters that I’d struggle to place in order.

The best thing I could do, I decided, was hide. The exam results would already be on display – the crowds of kids gathered round, the book-token set punching the air, others red-eyed and confused. I knew the scene already from TV news reports and felt no need to join in. Instead I’d focus all my attention on getting Dad back on his feet, but the day brought a parade of phone calls and visitors, each more urgent than the last.

‘Where are you, Charlie?’ It was Ivor on the phone. ‘We need you here now!’

‘I’m sorry, Ivor. I can’t do it.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Charlie. We open on Thursday.’

‘I know, I’m sorry.’

‘Okay. Okay. Look, I’ve talked to Fran, I’ve talked to Polly. I know there was … an incident—’

‘It’s not that—’

‘We’re putting it behind us. While you’re here, you’re a member of the company, a very valued member. No judgement here.’

‘But it’s not that. Not just that.’

‘What is it then?’

I put my mouth close to the receiver. ‘It’s a family matter.’

‘Christ, Charlie. This is hard, this is very, very hard.’

‘I know. I’m sorry.’ There was silence on the line. ‘I had a good time.’

‘So, come back!’

‘I can’t.’ More silence. ‘Look, what would you do if I’d been hit by a bus?’

‘We’d … cancel the show?’

‘No, but if you had to do the show without me.’

‘I don’t know, we’d double one of the roles.’

‘I don’t have any scenes with Paris. George could do it.’

Ivor thought for a moment. ‘It’s not ideal.’

‘I know.’ I saw a shadow pass the window. I didn’t want Dad to wake just yet. ‘Good luck, Ivor. And thank you.’ I hung up and leapt for the front door.