Chapter 15
JACK
The shop is almost empty, the last of the book club – already with their coats on – are still talking, laughing, exchanging recommendations. Despite Maggie’s words, the old sense of pride rekindles in my chest at the community Chadwick’s has created. But I soon deflate.
Because in the corner of the room, sitting on the leather armchair, is my father.
Who I’ve been avoiding.
Shit.
He unfolds himself, makes his way towards me.
I raise a hand in acknowledgement and stride behind the counter. ‘How long has he been here?’ I ask Nell out of the corner of my mouth as she stacks the cups behind the counter.
‘About an hour,’ she replies. I avoid my father’s steps and instead focus on the book cover: a yellow cover with a pair of eyes staring out. She continues talking to me under her breath. ‘I told him you were on a date.’
‘It wasn’t a date—’ She raises her eyebrows, her sharp fringe lifting with the movement.
‘We’re just friends.’
Friends. Is that all we are? I push the thought aside. Maggie is right. Things were moving too fast and—
‘Riiiight. And that’s why you’ve changed your outfit three times today?’
Dad makes his way over. ‘Business is booming!’ He pauses, smiling at the customer.
‘Great read,’ Dad continues. He has what is often described as ‘kind’ eyes.
And it’s true. He does. He’s a kind man, a good father.
A talented writer. But he also kindly refuses to accept that I am no longer the man I was.
‘Can we go somewhere and talk?’
There is laughter coming from the group beside the door and I look over. Anything not to face the conversation that I know is coming.
‘I can’t.’ I straighten the already neatly stacked pile of bookmarks. ‘I’m needed here. Nell’s shift is over and I need to lock up.’
‘Oh I’m fine here,’ Nell says. ‘They’ll be nattering for another half an hour yet.’ She smiles oh so sweetly at me. Traitor.
‘But—’
‘Of course. I wouldn’t want to put your Nell out.’
I let out a sigh and dig my hands into my pockets. ‘She’s not my Nell.’
‘Apologies. Five minutes, son. That’s all I’m asking.’
‘Fine.’
He follows me up the stairs, chattering about the book that he’d signed for a fan while I was at Riz’s. ‘I can barely remember writing the ending to that one, you know. It was when…’
I’ve heard this story a million times. How it was when me and my siblings all had chicken pox and he’d had hardly any sleep for days. The subconscious—
‘The subconscious at work.’
I click on the lights. At least the flat is tidier than the last time he gate-crashed my time.
‘Coffee?’ I ask heading into the kitchen.
‘No thanks. Already had one downstairs. She’s quite something, your Nell.
’ I shake my head; he just doesn’t listen.
He walks over to the bookshelf, fingers the pages facing the room.
Charlotte, my little sister, had commented on this, layering over the real conversation that needed to be had with a smirk that did nothing to hide the horror as she looked at my flat.
‘Getting your Insta on?’ she’d asked. ‘I like it, very minimalist. Very Marie Kondo.’ I look to my shelves, each of my books facing the wrong way so that only the buff-coloured paper edges show.
Dad runs his fingers along the pages, with a tight expression. ‘Very good with the customers.’
‘I know. That’s why she manages the shop.’ I can hear the snap in my voice, the irritation. I walk over to the window, focus on the lights outlining the bay in the distance.
‘Jack, pluck the thistles off your skin for a moment. I’m not here to attack you.’ I turn to face him as he looks to my reading chair; you can barely see it for the laundry hanging over it. He sits on the sofa instead.
‘No? Then what are you here for?’ I fold my arms.
‘You know why I’ve come to see you. The new shop is still only half renovated, Jack.’
‘I know. I’m working on it.’
‘Are you? Because from what I can see there has been no progress in the last four months. You’ve told the landlord that it would be open by the end of the year. You know the holding fee only reduces the rent until then.’
‘I’ve made my decision. I don’t know how many times I need to say it. I’m not capable of opening and running a new shop.’ I let out a long breath. ‘I’m going to sublet the space.’
‘Right. And your dreams for a chain of Chadwick’s bookshops?’
‘That was something I dreamed of before… I’ve tried to tell you this.’
‘How do you know if you don’t even try?’
I shake my head, turn back to the sea, imagining the waves crashing against the shoreline.
‘I know things have been… difficult for you.’
I turn around again. ‘No, you don’t. You don’t know.’ My voice is low but brittle, like it’s flaking away.
‘You’re right. How about you tell me?’ His voice is annoyingly calm. He was the same when we were growing up, would always de-escalate our sibling quarrels in the same calm and controlled manner. He never shouts, never loses his cool. It’s infuriating.
I look over to the bookshelves, to the drawer with the letter from the bank inside, then back to him. His eyes are soft behind his glasses, filled with love and concern, determination and curiosity.
There is no point trying to explain. My answer will still be the same. ‘I can’t do it, Dad.’
‘Now, you see, this is where we disagree.’
Growing up, there was never a limitation in my parents’ eyes of what we could or couldn’t do.
Go out and get shitfaced if you want. Call us when you need picking up.
Want to take a year out of uni? Sure, fill your boots.
Go back to uni when you’re ready. Marry a girl who is completely wrong for you?
It’s your call. But we’ll be here if you change your mind.
We can cancel the wedding at any time. They always believed in letting us find our own path, our own limitations, our own triumphs – which is why this intervention from him is so hard to take.
‘You have never given up on anything in your life, Jack. It’s not in you. Chadwick’s was your dream, and we have done everything we can to support you. But enough is enough. I’m not going to stand by and watch you throw it all away because of one setback.’
Maggie’s words echo through my thoughts: I don’t think you’re ready either…
‘A setback?’ I raise my voice. ‘A fucking setback?’
I walk over to the bookshelf and pull out a book – I recognise the cover as The Water on Horseback.
The spine is cracked, the pages well worn.
I’ve read this book at least five times.
I take a breath and open the pages, clearing my throat dramatically.
‘Page one.’ I stare at the symbols dancing around the page then stride towards him pointing to the text, flexing open the pages.
I stare at the symbols, the pain at the back of my skull already pounding, the feeling of failure sitting squat-like in my stomach.
‘Do you know what it says?’ I ask him. ‘DO YOU?’ Dad doesn’t flinch, doesn’t break eye contact.
‘No, because you can’t see the fucking words on the page from there.
That’s how hard it is.’ I drop the book onto the coffee table.
A dirty wine glass tips. The sound of the glass cracking in two rings out, like an exclamation mark.
‘Have you finished?’ Dad asks calmly.
‘Yes. We’re done.’
‘I hate to break it to you, son. But we’re not. I have never interfered with your life, because I knew you would learn from your own mistakes, but it’s been months and you still haven’t learnt a thing.’
‘I told you that I couldn’t do it after the stroke. After Vicky walked…’
‘And yet you still took out the loan to cover her share. Why would you do that if you didn’t think you could do it?’
‘I didn’t know then how hard it would be, Dad. I thought I could fix it, fix me, but I was wrong.’
‘Maybe you’re right. But we have one job as parents and that is to teach our children to live a happy and fulfilling life, and to find happiness.’ I roll my eyes at his attempt at an inspirational speech.
I’m breathing heavily as I slump down onto the sofa.
‘You have to understand… that dream died the moment my head cracked open.’ I take a minute. ‘A new shop needs a good manager, Dad. Someone who can at least read.’
He shakes his head. ‘You can’t keep burying your head in the sand. It’s time for you to take control of your responsibilities. Here’s what I propose. I’ve found a specialist. An intensive course that—’
‘Dad, I—’ I let out an exasperated sigh. ‘No.’ I’m breathing quickly. My ears are filled with a rushing sound. Dad stands and clamps his hands on my shoulders, guides me back to the sofa.
‘Just hear me out. Dr Levin has helped hundreds of people with reading difficulties gain back some of their abilities. It won’t “fix” you, for want of a better word, but it may mean you will regain some of the missing cognitive function.’
His words are slamming into me like a train crash, each one concertinaing into the other. ‘He’s had incredible results. He can help you.’
‘He can’t.’
‘So what then? Subletting the place is your answer?’
‘If that’s what it takes.’
‘You’re going to throw away your dreams and replace it with… I don’t know, a palm reader or one of those woo-woo tenants with crystals and incense sticks?’
I let his words land, the implications of the financial burden I’ve put on myself. The lower rent from the holding loan will run out soon and once it goes up to full price? I could lose everything. This shop, my flat, Nell’s job would be gone. Something like shame encroaches into the room.
But I know it won’t work. I’ve already tried.
‘Just… promise me you’ll think about it?’
I look at the hope in his eyes and find myself nodding, even though I know that I’m already too broken, and no one, not even this Dr Levin, can help.
Dad’s face breaks into a grin and I hate that I’m letting him hope. He claps his hands together, all optimism and sunshine.
‘Now then. Tell me all about the new lady in your life.’