Chapter 5
FIVE
‘Um, can I open my eyes?’ I say, risking a peek between my fingers. The mystery woman has rapidly thrown on a robe, and is standing uncertainly at the foot of the bed. The bed where my poor, sick father is lying, looking like a man who has just been getting jiggy with it.
‘Well,’ he says, his rich, deep voice sounding amused, ‘this isn’t awkward at all! Ellie, uh, meet Sandra. Sandra, meet Ellie.’ He runs his fingers through his thick hair, now peppered with silver, and smiles at me.
‘Nice to meet you, Ellie,’ Sandra says, dashing out of the room. ‘I’ll leave you to it!’
I had expected my father to be in his sick bed, and would normally have walked over to give him a kiss, but frankly, I’m not sure I want to right now.
We all know as adults that our parents have sex, but being confronted with it in the flesh is a completely different matter.
I am horrified, and embarrassed, and want to wash my eyeballs in soap and scalding water.
This reunion isn’t going the way I planned at all.
‘Darling child,’ he says, seeing my bright red cheeks, ‘I’m so sorry – bit of a pickle, eh? Obviously, I wasn’t expecting you…’
‘Obviously. Would you like to, um, get dressed? Or are you not feeling well enough to get up?’
He raises an eyebrow at me, and I have to laugh. There are way too many answers to that, and he is clearly not feeling all that unwell right now.
‘Well, dear, I would probably have had a little snooze for the next hour or so… but yes, why don’t you put the kettle on, and I’ll join you in a few minutes?’
I nod and close the door behind me. I rub my hands over my face in relief at being away from the scene of the crime.
Not that having sex is a crime – but it definitely feels that way when it’s your own dad committing the deed.
I head to the kitchen, and find Sandra already in there, the kettle boiling away.
She gives me a little finger wave, and a toothy grin.
‘Sorry,’ she says, ‘I left all my clothes in there! You’re his daughter, aren’t you? ’
‘I am, yes. I thought he might need some help around the place, so I decided to come back and surprise him…’
‘Well, I’d definitely say you surprised him! And that’s nice – coming back, all the way from New York. He’d never admit it, but he could do with a hand. Coffee, tea… triple vodka?’
‘Ha! I won’t rule the vodka out, but for now, yeah, coffee would be great. So, are you my dad’s… uh, I don’t know what to say here! Girlfriend?’
As Sandra is clearly in her sixties, that seems a strange term, but I’m coming up blank. I didn’t even know she existed until five minutes ago. She laughs at my discomfort, making our drinks.
‘Girlfriend? I’m not so sure about that, Ellie. I live over in Penborne, you know it?’
I nod. It’s an even smaller place than St Tilda. At least it used to be.
‘So, not exactly a lively dating scene in this part of the world,’ she continues, ‘and I knew your dad from coming into the pub. My hubbie Bill died a couple of years ago, and Peter was single, and… well, I suppose we started keeping each other company. It’s not a big deal – neither of us is in love.
It’s more of a friends with benefits kind of thing, you know? I loved that film…’
‘Me too,’ I echo, sipping too-hot coffee and knowing that I’ll never enjoy Justin Timberlake and Mila Kunis in quite the same way ever again.
I mean, rationally I know that older people have needs, both physical and emotional.
It’s not just the young and the gorgeous who make these arrangements.
But still… I try to hide my slight shiver.
‘Bit much, I know,’ she says understandingly. ‘I have a daughter your age and she’d throw up in her mouth if she knew about this. But she lives in London, so my secret is safe!’ She lets out a loud super-villain laugh, and her whole body jiggles with merriment.
‘What’s her name? Maybe I’ll message her and rat you out!’
Her eyes widen and her curls bounce around her face as she laughs, pointing at me. ‘Oooh, you, you’re wicked, just like your dad… speak of the devil.’
Right on cue, he walks into the kitchen, dressed in his trademark cord trousers and a smart shirt.
I swear to God they are the exact same items of clothing I last saw him in.
I’m not going to ask though, because he’ll just make a speech about how quality counts, and good tailoring is worth paying the extra pennies for.
He walks over to me and immediately wraps me up in a hug.
I’m still holding my coffee, but Sandra thoughtfully takes it from me so I can hug him back.
I find myself sniffing his shirt, inhaling the sheer dad-ness of him.
I haven’t seen him for so long, and nobody has ever hugged me quite like my dad.
I realise I am crying and when he finally lets me go, I have made a damp splodge on the fabric. ‘Sorry,’ I say, gesturing towards it.
‘Nothing to be sorry about, Eleanor, it is so wonderful to see you! I’m sorry for the, ah, unexpected encounter with Sandra.’
‘No worries,’ I say, wiping my eyes and inspecting him. ‘I guess it’s my own fault for not giving you any warning. How are you? Really?’
I am assuming that as he was naked in bed with a lady friend, he wasn’t feeling too awful – but for all I know, they were simply having a cuddle or talking about the weather. While nude. I’m certainly not going to ask whether any cardiovascular effort was involved, that’s for sure.
I look at his face; he has aged since we were last together. He is still handsome, but the lines are deeper, the eyes wearier. More grey in his hair, even though it suits him. I realise that he is doing the same to me, carrying out his own inspection.
I am suddenly awkward, feeling a strange streak of tension. Sandra’s boobs were a good ice breaker, and that first Dad hug was magnificent, but now the initial rush of emotion has worn off we are both looking at each with carefully held expressions. Neither of us knows the etiquette.
‘All things considered, I’m not too bad, my sweet,’ he says.
‘I shan’t lie – it was a fairly terrifying experience, and nobody likes being in hospital do they?
But the doctors in their wisdom have told me to see it as a wake-up call and warned me I need to make some “lifestyle changes”. Sounds ghastly, doesn’t it?’
‘Yeah, Dad, it does – so no more cigars, huh?’
‘No more cigars and less stress. And, alas, a bacon ban! I find myself wondering if a life without bacon is even worth living…’
I’m guessing that he’ll also be monitored for the other fun stuff, high cholesterol and his blood pressure, but that would clearly be a depressing conversation for him right now.
Once we’ve settled into this visit, I’ll find out more and talk to Ethan about it.
He’s retired but he’ll be able to give me some guidance at least.
‘Well, I’ll go on a bacon ban with you, Dad. And I’m here to help out in any way you need, in the pub, over Christmas. I might not have technically worked behind the bar when I was a kid, but I grew up watching you do it.’
‘Yes. And from memory, you were certainly adept enough to swipe those jugs of lager for you and your friends to imbibe, weren’t you?’
I keep my face blank. ‘I have no clue what you’re talking about.’
Sandra laughs at our to-and-fro, then announces that she’s going to make herself presentable. As she leaves, she gives my dad a quick peck on the cheek, and he smacks her backside. She squeals and runs out of the room. I shake my head, and he mouths a quick ‘sorry’.
‘Why don’t you go and sit down, and I’ll make you some tea?’ I ask. ‘Do you want anything to eat? I noticed you’re not short of soup…’
‘I am partial to a nice soup. And there really is no need to be looking after me, Eleanor. I’m absolutely fine! You really shouldn’t have felt obliged to come all this way—’
‘I didn’t feel obliged,’ I reply, not entirely truthfully. ‘I wanted to come. It’s been too long. Life has done that thing life will do, and years have passed in what feels like days. Don’t be a pain in the ass, Dad, just let me help!’
‘I think you’ll find it’s “arse”, dear, not “ass” – that would be a type of donkey.’
‘You’re a type of donkey – you’re about as stubborn as one for sure. Now, will you please go and sit down?’
He holds his hands up in surrender and leaves me be.
I find his traditional Earl Grey, but notice that there is no sugar bowl full of little lumps like there used to be.
Just some sachets of sweetener. It’s either a health kick, which seems unlikely, or he’s also diabetic.
That would not surprise me, given his age and the fact that he always had a sweet tooth.
I shall have to adjust my recipes accordingly.
My father is an active man, has always walked and swum in the sea, but he never liked to deny himself anything he enjoyed.
And as I hear Sandra yell a cheery farewell, I realise that he still doesn’t.
That whole incident was embarrassing, but really, isn’t it better that he has companionship?
And that there’s still enough fight in him to be naughty?
There is no harm in it, I tell myself. We’re all adults here.
That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. And at least it was better, on the whole, than finding him lying in his sick bed wasting away.
I finish the tea and notice three miniature bottles in one of the cupboards.
A vodka, a gin and a whisky. Presumably for emergencies.
I pocket the gin just in case I have an emergency of my own later.
Huh, I think, deciding to put the vodka in my other pocket – home for ten minutes and I’m already stealing booze.
I carry the tea through, and find him sitting in his usual armchair, a big smile on his face. There is better light in here, and I can see the signs of age and illness more clearly. A paleness to his skin, puffiness beneath the eyes. A very slight tremor in his hand as he accepts the mug.
‘So,’ he says, ‘shall we start again? Darling, I’m delighted to see you. There was really no need to come all this way, but having said that, it is an absolute treat to have you here. When are you leaving?’
I raise my eyebrows at him. ‘Really?’
‘I didn’t mean it like it sounded! Obviously, you’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like. I do have a slightly complicated situation going on, but nothing that can’t be managed.’
‘Like what?’ I ask, frowning.
‘Like nothing that matters right now, Ellie. Let’s just relax and enjoy being together again. I’m due downstairs behind the bar in couple of hours, though, and I wouldn’t mind a quick nap. And yes, I know, I just got out of bed, but—’
‘Leave it there, please!’ I protest, throwing my hands over my ears in a show of great maturity. ‘I don’t want to hear! La la la la la!’
He’s laughing when I finally dare listen again, and I add: ‘I think I might go for a little walk around the village, then, Dad. See what’s what.’
‘Good idea – but I doubt you’ll see much that’s different. There’s a self-serve check-out in the garage shop, but nobody uses it.’
‘Wow, that sounds exciting – I think I need to see that for myself! Will you be all right on your own for a while?’
‘Darling, I’ve been all right on my own for years. Now shoo!’
I know he doesn’t mean to make me feel guilty with that comment.
I know it is actually the opposite – it’s an assertion of independence.
But still, I feel a flush of regret that I have left this so long.
Meeting him in London for a couple of days, taking in a show and visiting the National Gallery, wasn’t real like this.
It was too easy for him to put on a front, to present the image that he wanted to present.
Here, it is different. He might have a Sandra in his life, but he is also an elderly man living alone in a draughty old building, trying to run a business as his health fails.
That all changes now, I decide. I will stay for as long as he needs me and be as useful as I possibly can. And along the way, maybe my father and I can get to know each other again – the way we are now, not the way we were back then.