Chapter 56
Poppy
Maybe I’m just nastier than her – or maybe it’s because I’m softer, who knows? But my overwhelming feeling right now, as we crack open a bottle of wine in our hotel room, is one of relief. I am barely coping with losing my mum, and introducing a dad into the equation would feel like a step too far.
I’ve lived without a dad for so many years, he doesn’t really exist in my mindscape. Hearing our mum sound so broken-hearted about it all on the cassette tape, talking about the tough decisions she’d had to make, didn’t exactly make the whole reunion idea any more attractive.
I just wished that she was still here, so I could tell her it was all okay – that she’d made the right choice. That she’d protected us. That she’d been the best mum ever, and definitely had loved us enough for two.
There is no way that he could ever replace her and, in all honesty, I am angry that he is still alive, and she isn’t. Our mum did everything right, and is gone. He did everything wrong, and is still here. It feels wrong on so many levels, and my only real wish is that they could swap places.
We have, though, looked him up online. Anne-Marie had given us a website address, and we were able to locate Cranky Franky with relative ease. As we waited for the page to load on my phone, we had no idea what to expect – but the reality was even weirder than we could have imagined.
We are confronted by the image of a tall man wearing a clown outfit, with the tragic whited-out, teardrop-stained face of a classic picture-book Pierrot.
There is a drooping plastic rose in his clown jacket pocket, a frilly red ruffle around his neck, and he is wearing shoes in the shape of baguettes.
Wow, I think, gaping at him. Our dad is quite literally a sad clown.
‘I’d like to meet him, one day,’ says Rose, gazing at the picture with a mixture of pity and longing. ‘When all of this is done. Give him a chance, at least.’
As the A–Z is all about second chances, I can’t really object – but I’m not feeling it. I shrug, and drink, and say nothing.
I flick away from the website and into my photos.
We called at the Eiffel Tower on the way back here, and recreated that picture of Mum with Franky, from all that time ago.
He’s part of me, I know, just as Mum is, and my sister is.
But not necessarily a part I want to connect with. Not just yet, anyway, and maybe never.
It’s hard to describe to my sister, but I feel a little like my armour is leaking. There is too much emotional rain getting in, and it’s making me soggy.
So I deal with that the only way I know how – by pretending it’s not happening.