Chapter Sixteen
April
The days grow brighter and warmer and the daffodils come out, punctuating my borders with splashes of butter yellow. Scottish winters can be bitter and linger on for way too long. So I’m usually happy and grateful when spring finally shows its face. But this time, everything is different. Seven weeks have passed since Eddie’s baby announcement and there’s still a terrible feeling of distance between Frank and me.
One evening I sense my heart growing heavy as I march home from work along the seafront. On my back, my rucksack contains a selection of 20p books I picked out for Dad, plus some groceries for him, and his prescription that I collected at lunchtime.
I turn into our street and spot Frank’s old banger parked outside our house. It doesn’t mean he’s back from work, as he often walks to Dev’s garage; it’s just on the edge of town. But now the light from our living room window tells me that Frank is definitely home.
I stop suddenly as my heart seems to snag. Kilmory Cottage has always felt like home, even when there was barely enough room in the living room for us all to sit comfortably. I thought I’d love it even more, when Frank and I finally had the place to ourselves. But something’s changed, and now it feels hollow. Empty, really. I can hardly bear it.
Dad’s expecting a visit this evening. Normally, I’d pop home for a quick cuppa first, and a catch-up with Frank, but now it hits me that I don’t want to do that.
I don’t want to see my own husband.
Another chilly reception is more than I can stand tonight. So instead of popping into the house, I climb into my own car, parked next to his, and I drive away.
I pull up at Dad’s rather stark modern block at the edge of a smaller town than ours, seven miles along the coast. It’s the home he shared with Maggie, the woman he left Mum for when I was a teenager – and who left him three years ago. Dad won’t let me have keys to his flat. ‘What would you need them for?’ he asked, radiating surprise and suspicion in case – what exactly? I let myself in while he’s sleeping and rummage through his private things?
‘Just in case something happens, Dad,’ I explained. But no – nothing will ever happen to Kenny Munro, and why on earth would I worry? At eighty-four he’s fine living almost exclusively on tinned soups and stews, apart from the meals I make him, as has been the situation since Maggie walked out.
Things had been tricky between us in the early years. Naturally, my loyalty had been to Mum rather than Dad’s new, younger and more glamorous girlfriend. But over the years I discovered how kind and sweet Maggie was, and how she’d loved Dad absolutely – until she’d had enough.
‘I’m sorry, Carly,’ she told me tearfully. ‘I can’t cope with him anymore.’ I felt sorry for Dad, finding himself suddenly alone, but unable to admit that he was in any way hurt or upset. They’d been together for over three decades and yet he’d seemed more perturbed when a seagull had crapped on his living room window. But I understood why Maggie had left. It was Dad who’d bought this place, so she walked out with nothing. And, actually, I admired her courage.
Now Dad buzzes me in, and I carry up the shopping he always insists he doesn’t need, but which I always bring, in addition to ingredients for dinner. ‘What’s all this?’ he exclaims.
‘Just a few bits,’ I say, unpacking it in his tiny galley kitchen.
‘All this food! How will I get through it all?’
We’re talking a small selection of fruit and some posh vintage Cheddar, which he loves – although he only buys himself value-range industrial cheese, and only then when it’s reduced.
‘I’m sure you’ll manage. And I was in the shop anyway, Dad.’
‘Hmm. Well, that’s up to you,’ he says grudgingly, and I can’t help noting the lack of thanks as I quickly wipe away a spillage of something sticky on the worktop. His somewhat functional flat has grown increasingly musty and unloved since Maggie’s departure, despite my best efforts to clean it without him noticing. I can do it! Why d’you think I can’t take care of myself? However, I can see why he fell for this place. The living room’s sliding glass door leads onto a balcony, offering a spectacular view over the marina, and the sight of the bobbing boats and the glittering sea beyond is soothing, even in Dad’s presence.
I unpack the books I’ve brought him, which he examines noncommittally, as if not sure what they are. ‘And what’s in this ?’ He glowers at the large paper bag as if he’s never seen such a thing before. A bag with the pharmacist’s logo clearly displayed. What does he think is in it? Turnips?
‘I picked up your prescription, Dad.’ Don’t rise to him, I remind myself. Don’t rise, don’t rise, don’t rise!
‘Why do they think I need all this stuff?’ Huffing, as if the medications are foisted on him for no reason, he starts to pull out the various packets. Always robustly fit – he worked as a high-ranking electrical engineer at a shipyard – Dad experienced his first ever health crisis last summer. He collapsed, alone, right here in this flat.
Still just about conscious, what he didn’t do was call me – his daughter and sole offspring, living a convenient fifteen-minute drive away. He didn’t call an ambulance either. Instead he somehow navigated all those stairs and climbed into his car. And then – a silly old heart attack won’t stop Kenny Munro! – he drove himself to hospital.
It was the talk of the acute coronary ward. Once Dad was out of danger, Frank expressed surprise that he hadn’t stopped by at the supermarket to see if there were any yellow-stickered bargains to be had.
And I was shocked to discover that my father had a heart at all.
So now it’s all packets of pills – seven kinds a day – which Dad is unpacking slowly, suspiciously, as if they may be radioactive. Reluctantly, he has also stopped driving, and I suspect this has only served to crank up his ill humour.
‘What’s this ?’ he barks.
Something thuds inside me as he glares at the yellow box. ‘Don’t worry about that,’ I say quickly. ‘It’s Citrolax. That stuff you mix up with water to make a drink—’
‘Yes, I can see that. But why have they given me it?’
‘I did tell them, when I left a message on the surgery answerphone. I said you definitely don’t need any more—’
‘I’ve never needed it!’ As if the presence of laxative powders in my father’s home is a personal affront.
‘No, I know that, Dad.’
‘So why do they keep giving me it?’ He glares as if I’m in cahoots with them – the mysterious ‘them’, who are convinced he can’t poo without help.
Don’t-rise-don’t-rise-don’t-rise. ‘It’s a mistake, obviously. Just throw it away,’ I say lightly.
‘What, and waste it?’ Dad hates waste. On my last visit, suspecting that danger lurked, I quickly checked the bottom shelf of his kitchen cupboard. There sat a whole stash of vintage tinned steak and kidney pies, dented and rusting and emitting the threat of death. I made a mental note to deal with them next time.
Sure, he’ll go mad, if he notices. But better than him being poisoned by prehistoric offal, surely? How would I live with myself if Dad died after eating that? Today – daringly – I plan to smuggle the tins out of his flat.
Right now, he’s still rumbling on about the Citrolax. ‘Keep it then,’ I suggest, ‘in case you need it one day.’
‘Why will I need it?’
‘Well, you might have, y’know, bowel trouble—’
‘I won’t have bowel trouble,’ he says, aghast.
‘Great! Fine! Throw it away then.’
‘But these things cost money.’
‘No, Dad. Prescriptions in Scotland are free.’
‘It’s taxpayers’ money, isn’t it?’
I open my mouth to reply but find myself staring mutely at the box. Throw it over your balcony for the seagulls for all I care! Or sprinkle it over your toast and then see what happens—
‘Can you ring them and tell them to stop sending it?’
As far as communicating with his GP is concerned, Dad will at least permit my involvement. But only because the surgery’s call queueing system drives him to fury.
‘Yes, no problem, Dad.’ I inhale slowly and fully, like Pilates Wendy is always telling us to. At the same time you’re supposed to ‘expand’ your ribs, although I’ve never quite grasped this. Push out your ribs at the sides, Carly. Picture your body flooding with oxygen.
‘Something wrong with you?’ Dad frowns.
‘No, no, I’m fine.’ Just, you know. Your grandson’s about to become a father when he’s not yet mature enough to be able to walk down the street with me. Instead, he charges ahead as if terrified that anyone will see us together. And, as far as I’m aware, he still leaves a trail of possessions wherever he goes: jacket, bank cards, ID. How will he manage with a baby? Will he leave it on the bus?
Of course I don’t say any of this, as I still haven’t broken the news to Dad. Instead, I start to make dinner. Being windowless, his kitchen is pretty gloomy, but at least I can escape him for a short while, and give the surfaces a more thorough wipe-down. And now, as I try to wipe a film of gunk off a shelf crammed with spirit levels and old chipped mugs, an image of Suki pops into my mind.
Suki ordering Bollinger to toast an unplanned pregnancy.
Suki being so effusive and positive over me being a librarian, Frank a mechanic and Eddie starting out as a chef.
Such sunny positivity. God, I could do with a sprinkling of that, I decide as I chop an onion with unnecessary force. Dad and I should be quaffing champagne to celebrate the fact that his bowels are in perfect working order, and will continue to be until the end of time, because he’s immortal, apparently!
I start to fry the onion and garlic, and as I add spices and chicken, a delicious aroma starts to fill the room.
I should be more Suki, I decide.
‘Not too much for me,’ Dad calls through. ‘You always give me those ridiculously big portions.’
I don’t, actually. I serve normal portions and, without fail, Dad always guzzles it all. Sometimes he even wants seconds.
He appears in the kitchen doorway, a little stooped now, although he’s made a remarkable recovery from his heart attack. ‘Managing all right in here?’ he barks, as if unsure that I possess the skills to knock a meal together.
‘Yes, I’m fine, Dad.’
I catch his gaze and something seems to twang inside me. He can’t help it, I remind myself. When I’m feeling together and strong, and I’m remembering to breathe properly as per Wendy’s instructions, I can accept that this is just Dad; it’s the way he’s made. And in his own way he loves me, just as he loves Bella and Ana and, yes, Eddie too, even though he’s hardly the cuddly granddad.
Will Frank be a cuddly granddad? I wonder as I take our bowls of chicken curry – Dad’s favourite – through to the table by the window.
‘Enough for a horse!’ he announces, proceeding to tuck in with gusto. When we’re finished I make a pot of tea and we watch the yachts bobbing in the marina. Above them, a cloud of starlings appears, swooping en masse above the spindly masts.
I put down my fork, noticing that Dad is watching the starlings too. ‘I wonder why they do that?’ I remark.
‘What, the birds?’
‘Yes. They keep swooping back and forth, not landing or going anywhere. All in a huge cloud like that.’
My father nods and his face seems to soften. I do worry about him, living here on his own. His friends seem to have all fallen away – or died – and he’s not one for joining clubs or societies. But I catch a spark of something in his eyes as he says, ‘I think they do it for fun.’
‘You think so? Really?’
‘Yes. Yes, I do.’ I leave him still sitting at the table, watching the birds intently as I wash up. Then, while he’s settled at the window, I bob down and inspect the tinned meat pies at the bottom of the cupboard. There are eight in all, and they went out of date before mobile phones came into popular usage. They pre-date Dad buying this place. Pre-date it being built, even! He must have brought them with him when he and Maggie moved here from their last place.
Stealthily, I pack the tins into my rucksack. And I send out silent thanks to the starlings for holding Dad’s attention as I zip it up.
‘That looks heavy,’ he says later as I hoick it onto my back. ‘What’s in it? Bricks?’
‘Just some work stuff,’ I fib.
‘What, books?’ He frowns.
‘Yes, books. Really heavy books.’ I laugh awkwardly. Dad’s a smart man. It wouldn’t surprise me if his X-ray vision could spear right into my rucksack, to the pies that expired in 1998.
His clear blue eyes glint with suspicion. ‘Thanks for those books,’ he says, a little belatedly.
‘You’re welcome, Dad. They were just out of the 20p box in the library.’
‘Quite right. No need to spend money on me.’
I smile, and as I hug him goodbye he says, ‘Remember I don’t need those bloody powders!’
‘Don’t worry! I’ll remember!’ Then I escape down the fifty-six steps Dad managed to navigate while having a heart attack, and step out in the cool evening.
The starlings are still swooping in the dusk, simply for fun. That’s what I need, I decide. To do something that’s not about earning money (I love my job but it’s still work), or keeping Kilmory Cottage and Dad’s flat to a standard that won’t alert the authorities – but for myself. ‘I need some fun!’ I announce loudly to the birds above.
My God, after all that’s happened lately I could do with a little light relief.
Then, as I’m walking to my car, my phone pings with a text: an unknown number.
I glance back at the flats. Dad has appeared at the top landing window, as he always does when I leave. I wave and he raises a hand in response. He’ll be wondering why I’m standing there rather than climbing into my car. God forbid he should see me checking my phone. It’s all phones, phones, phones these days! People gawping at them like they’ve had their brains removed. Are they born with them glued to their hands?
Rebelliously, I stand there, still clutching my mobile in full view of my father. Yes, Dad, I’m gawping at it like I’ve had my brain scooped out! I’m tempted to start walking while staring at it, and deliberately smack into a lamppost just to rile him.
Instead, I turn away, conscious of Dad’s gaze spearing the back of the head. And I read the message:
Hi Carly, hope you don’t mind, I got your number from your lovely son …
Suki. My heart crashes in panic. Is Lyla okay? And the baby?
… A group of us are going away to my little cabin up north this weekend. Just me and some girlfriends. It’s a little place in the woods, lovely and secluded with a hot tub. I know it’s short notice but bathroom renovations are doing my head in and I have to get away.
I stop, letting the information settle, and glance back at Dad. Although he’s silhouetted against the landing light, I can sense him frowning. It’s all phones, phones, phones! I smile broadly and give him another wave.
…Wondered if you’d like to join us? Suki’s message goes on. With the baby coming I’d love to get to know you better and there’s plenty of room. Please say you’ll come. I’d say bring Frank but it’s girls only, hope OK! Love Suki xx