Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
I had a chat with Mum on the phone this morning, following her cinema trip, and she told me she had a nice evening, once again dismissing any thoughts of romance.
‘Well, I for one think it’s nice that you are at least having evenings out with friends that don’t involve chaining yourself to a lamp post, or similar, for a good cause.’
‘I don’t think I would go that far, but I take your point,’ she agrees. ‘It was really nice being in a toasty cinema watching a good movie.’
Maybe she is beginning to realise that being outdoors isn’t such a great idea during the winter months. At least, I hope so.
‘Anyway, I’m off to work now, Mum. Speak to you soon.’
‘Bye, love. Have a good day.’
I head to Sue’s place on my way in, as she has invited me round to show me the six-foot Santa, along with the boxes of Christmas decorations.
‘And I see what you mean about it being scary.’ I laugh as it stares at me with a smile showing giant teeth and thick, brown eyebrows. Surely someone designed this thing as a joke.
We rummage through all of the other stuff, and the lengths of twisted crêpe paper decorations and home-made paper chains have the memories flooding back.
One year, my grandad allowed me to paint the inside of the lounge windows with a beautiful scene from The Snowman movie, where the snowman is flying over the mountains with the little boy. Dad had found the box of paints in the cupboard, not realising they were Gran’s acrylic glass paints from her crafting box. It took days and lots of hard work after Christmas to get the windows back to normal, although Gran couldn’t help but be impressed with our handiwork.
‘I’m so looking forward to the pensioners’ Christmas lunch,’ says Sue, lifting some red shiny tree baubles from a box. ‘It makes you really feel good being involved in something charitable, especially at this time of year,’ she muses. ‘Sometimes I think I ought to do a little bit more though.’
‘Oh, it does,’ I agree. ‘And I know what you mean about volunteering more, although life can get very busy, I suppose. It’s important we all look after each other at Christmas though.’
‘Definitely. A friend of mine, who lives in London, volunteers at a soup kitchen on Christmas Day and says it hands down beats Christmas at her house,’ Sue continues. ‘Then again, her family are a bunch of crackpots and all they do is fight, especially after a few drinks.’ She laughs. ‘Last year, her grandad ended up in the garden half naked after taking a dip in the hot tub, then locking himself out. Apparently the music was so loud inside no one heard him knocking on the kitchen door that someone had locked.’ She guffaws. ‘That poor man.’
‘Oh, Sue, you do make me laugh.’ I shake my head, imagining the poor old man freezing in the garden whilst his family partied on.
‘Ooh and did I tell you, I’ve got a record player?’ Sue tells me excitedly. ‘A friend of Barry’s works in antiques, well, junk mainly, but he has a load of vinyl. I thought the pensioners might like some golden oldies if I took it along to the party.’
‘That’s a great idea! I’ve been thinking about purchasing one myself, some of them look quite stylish.’
I’d spotted a black and cream one that would fill a space against my grey wall in the lounge.
After spending all day on my feet, I head home just after six, ready for a hot bath and to wrap Mum’s earrings, when I receive a text from my dad’s partner, asking if it is convenient to call me, which leaves me mildly concerned as Rose never usually contacts me. Apart from the one occasion when she called and asked me if I knew where Dad was. It seems he had bumped into an old friend and popped into a local pub for a pint, that turned into several, and his dinner was ruined.
I tap out a reply to the text and a few minutes later, Rose calls and my heart thuds as she tells me Dad has been taken to the hospital by ambulance with a suspected heart attack.
‘What? When? Is he okay?’ I manage to get the words out.
‘A couple of hours ago. Yes, he’s okay, well, when I say okay he’s conscious and everything, so don’t worry. The doctors are running some tests,’ says Rose, sounding flustered.
‘Tell him I will be there in half an hour,’ I say, hanging up and praying he will be well when I get to the hospital.
All the way there I worry about what I might find. The thought of losing Dad is almost too much to bear. He’s always been so strong, and fit for his age. And he’s hardly ever been ill, as I recall. Even when he was, he would shrug it off and recover quickly, although a recent health check at the GP suggested he ought to watch his cholesterol as it was creeping higher. Perhaps he hadn’t heeded the advice, although I would be surprised by that.
My head spins as I drive, willing myself to get there quickly but as safely as possible. Why are traffic lights always on red when you are in a hurry? I tap my hands on the steering wheel impatiently as I wait for the lights to change to green.
A grey-haired man walks past on the pavement, accompanied by a woman young enough to be his daughter. He throws his head back and laughs at something she has just said and I swallow down a lump in my throat at the thought of never being able to do that again with Dad. I say a silent prayer that he will be alright as the lights finally turn to green.