Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-six
Eddie greets me, wild-eyed, as I step into the house. ‘Where’ve you been ?’
‘Uh, I was out, love. I was with Prish and Jamie.’
‘What, all night?’ It occurs to me that Eddie being up at this time is a monumental occasion, worthy of a future public holiday: the first time Eddie Silva ever saw the dawn.
‘Yes,’ I reply, shamefaced now. ‘Sorry if you were worried. I did leave a note—’
‘I wasn’t worried ,’ he says quickly. ‘Just couldn’t sleep. Not used to a single bed.’ Is he forgetting he had one in Edinburgh? He jabs a hand into a pocket of his tracksuit bottoms and thrusts my father’s antique phone into my face. ‘And I can’t use this, Mum. I’m sorry.’
I glare down at it. ‘Never mind that now. Where’s your dad? Has he left for work yet?’
‘It’s like walking about in 1996—’
‘You weren’t born in 1996. How d’you know what it was—’ I cut off as Frank appears on the landing, in jeans and the rumpled yellow bear T-shirt, apparently pulled on in haste.
‘Carly!’
‘Hi, love.’ I look up, determined to try to breeze this out, despite my dully throbbing head.
‘You’ve been out all night!’
‘Yes, I, um … I left you a note.’
‘Did you? I never saw anything.’ He frowns as he comes downstairs.
‘I definitely did.’ I hurry to the kitchen and look around for it, but it’s gone. Now Eddie and his dad follow me into the kitchen.
‘Dad,’ Eddie starts, ‘it was really kind of you and Mum to get Granddad a new phone and give me his old one. But maybe you could’ve done it the other way round?’
‘That was Granddad’s birthday present,’ I remind him. ‘And it’s not even a smartphone, Eddie. You know he can’t abide them. Anyway, could you please stop going on about your—’
‘Also, my robe’s gone,’ Eddie announces. ‘Like, just disappeared. Did you wash it?’
‘No!’ I exclaim.
‘Have you seen it, Dad?’
‘Eddie, could you give us a minute please?’ Frank snaps and reluctantly, Eddie slopes out of the kitchen.
‘Frank,’ I start as we face each other, ‘I’m sorry. It was a completely spontaneous thing last night.’
‘I’ve been trying to call you!’
‘Have you? I’m sorry, my phone ran out of charge. We just had a few drinks after work. And it went on a bit late, and we were having such a lovely time …’ I stop, catching myself babbling excuses. ‘I needed time with my friends,’ I add firmly.
‘Why?’ He blinks at me.
‘Has anyone seen my gown?’ Eddie cries out from the hallway, which must have alerted my father, as now he’s coming downstairs to join the jolly gathering. He appears in the kitchen in pyjamas and slippers, looking rumpled and pale.
‘What were you doing in the garden last night?’ he asks Frank.
‘Nothing.’ Frank removes a loaf from the bread bin and drops two slices into the toaster. Weird behaviour, I decide – to suddenly busy himself by making breakfast.
Dad looks at me, as if awaiting an explanation. ‘I don’t know, Dad. I wasn’t here—’
‘She wasn’t here ,’ Frank crows. ‘She was out all night—’
‘Can you stop calling me “she”?’ As Frank’s toast pops up, I grab his arm and lead him out into the back garden. But Dad follows us, and Eddie reappears a moment later.
‘It’s the ringtone,’ he insists, still brandishing my father’s old phone.
I glare at my son. ‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘Listen!’ He makes it ring, shrill and tinny like a child’s toy phone. ‘I can’t handle that—’
‘Those powders came again,’ Dad announces, ‘with my medications. The ones that are meant to help my movements. I thought you were going to stop them?’
‘I tried to, Dad. I left a message—’
‘The ringtone,’ Eddie starts again.
‘You can’t handle a ringtone?’ I snap. ‘How are you going to handle a screaming baby at four a.m.?’
‘Why don’t you change the ringtone?’ Frank thunders.
‘I’ve tried! It won’t change! It must’ve been made when they only had one ringtone. Like when they only had one channel on TV—’ Eddie breaks off suddenly and peers at some unidentifiable object at the bottom of the garden, close to the shed. I follow his gaze. A small pile of something has been dumped on the grass. It’s smouldering a little, I realise now.
‘What’s that?’ I ask.
‘Nothing.’ Frank looks down at his feet.
‘I told you,’ Dad announces. ‘Frank was out here last night. I saw him—’
‘Were you having a camp fire?’ I blink at him.
‘Are you all right , Dad?’ For once, Eddie looks concerned.
‘I burnt your robe,’ Frank mutters.
We all stare at him. ‘You … burnt my robe ?’ Eddie pales in the weak morning sunlight. ‘Have you gone completely mad?’
Frank shrugs. ‘Maybe. Yeah, maybe I have.’
‘Frank!’ I splutter.
‘Well, you know,’ he says in an eerily measured tone. ‘You weren’t here and I was worried and couldn’t sleep. And I’m sick of the sight of it, y’know? That fucking robe? So I thought, what can I do, while I’m pacing about, worrying about where Carly is?’
‘I left a note!’ I cry.
‘There was scrappy bit of paper in the kitchen,’ Dad murmurs. ‘I came down for a drink. I was just tidying up—’
I turn to him. ‘You threw my note away, Dad?’ Then, to Frank: ‘I’m sorry you were worried. I really am. We just …’ I clear my throat. ‘We actually spent the night in the library.’
‘What?’ Frank shakes his head in disbelief. ‘For a moment there I thought you said you spent the night in the library.’
‘Is that allowed?’ Eddie gasps, suddenly a bastion of law and order.
‘No, it’s not,’ I reply. ‘But we did it anyway. We had a library lock-in and you can report me if you like—’
‘Who to? The council?’ Dad looks as if he’s actually considering this.
‘Whoever you like,’ I say, already turning back to the house. ‘I’m going to get showered and changed. I have to go to work …’ I march back inside and pour myself a huge glass of water and guzzle it down.
‘Bit hungover, are you?’ Frank has appeared in the doorway.
‘Just a little. Can we talk later?’ I head upstairs, hoping to shake him off, but he catches up with me on the landing.
‘I can’t believe this,’ he mutters.
‘Well, I’m sorry. But that’s what we did.’
‘It’s mental,’ he announces.
‘It is, yes.’ I make for the bathroom and lock the door. Sod him , I think, closing my scratchy eyes as the shower rains on me. Robe-burning maniac. And he thinks I’m mad?
Frank is still lurking when I emerge from the bathroom. In our bedroom he sits on the edge of our bed, brooding, as I dress in silence. As I head downstairs, he follows me. I snatch a slice of cold toast from the toaster and eat it dry, washed down with more tap water. Dad is sitting at the kitchen table, observing us all, and Eddie is squinting at the substandard phone.
‘Oh,’ he announces. ‘Lyla’s messaged. She says she’ll bring my phone! Her uncle’s driving her over. Can she stay here? Is that all right?’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Frank breathes.
‘Yes, of course,’ I say distractedly.
‘Can we have my old room? It’s just, the bed’s bigger—’
‘Oh, are you throwing me out of my room now?’ Dad’s eyes widen.
‘Of course not, Dad. Eddie, you and Lyla can stay in the girls’ room, where you’re currently sleeping —’
‘But it’s single beds!’
‘Well, that’s all right, isn’t it? It’s still a bedroom—’
‘What’s wrong with single beds?’ Dad asks. ‘Plenty of people would be grateful—’
‘Please don’t start on about how grateful I should be, Granddad,’ Eddie wails.
‘I can’t handle this.’ Frank glares round at all of us. ‘I’m sorry but I can’t deal with this anymore.’ He marches out of the kitchen and stomps up to our bedroom. This time it’s me who’s following him.
‘I’m sorry, Frank,’ I start. ‘This isn’t huge fun for me either, you know.’
There’s a strange look in his dark eyes. It’s not anger. It’s more like desperation. ‘D’you realise how worried I was last night?’
A wave of shame surges over me, and my cheeks flame. ‘I’m really sorry. I should’ve come home after the pub, or at least called you then. Honestly, I had no idea my phone was dead. I just needed a little bit of time away from—’
‘From me ?’ he snaps. ‘Is that it?’
‘No, of course not! Just time away from … all this. You know. This house. That’s all.’
‘Yeah, and I think I do too,’ he announces, marching over to the chest of drawers. He yanks open a drawer with such force, the chest wobbles and Mum’s green glass vase topples over, landing sharply on its side.
‘Frank!’ I charge over and pick it up, examining the small fracture in the glass. ‘It’s broken.’ But when I see what he’s doing, the vase no longer matters. Because now Frank is tugging things out of drawers, seemingly at random: jeans, boxers, T-shirts. He reaches up to the top of the wardrobe and tugs down the battered old leather holdall he took to Paris.
Something seems to crumble inside me as he throws it onto the bed and starts to stuff his clothes into it.
‘Sorry about your vase,’ he mutters.
‘It doesn’t matter! What are you doing, Frank?’
‘Going away for a bit.’
‘Away? What d’you mean? Where are you going?’
‘I don’t know yet.’ He throws in more clothes and then zips it up forcefully. ‘Somewhere. Anywhere away from here.’ He looks at me, brown eyes wet and filled with anguish.
‘How long for? When will you be back?’
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he flings the bag over a broad shoulder and storms downstairs, and then out of our house, banging the door behind him.
I stand there in our silent room, unable to go after him or do anything at all. Instead, I just hold Mum’s green glass vase and stare down at it. It’s cracked, irreparable. Like our marriage, it seems. And it feels as if my heart is broken too.