‘How was she?’
‘The same as ever.’ He closed his eyes briefly. ‘I still miss her you know.’
I studied my father’s face. ‘I do too, Dad.’
‘I know you do. You were thick as thieves you two, weren’t you? Hardly needed me around.’ His voice was filled with melancholy.
‘We were. She was…’ I hesitated, trying to pick a word that didn’t sound like a criticism of my father. ‘She was fun. And I always knew she loved me.’
‘Unlike me you mean.’
‘No I don’t mean that at all. I always knew you loved me too.’
‘Well good.’ He shook his head. ‘Gosh I don’t know why I’ve become so sentimental all of a sudden.’
‘It’s all right Dad. It is okay to talk about your feelings sometimes you know.’
He nodded, but barely. ‘I will never understand what your glorious mother saw in an old fuddy-duddy like me,’ he continued, seemingly out of the blue. ‘But she bowled me off my feet you know.’ Greg leaned forward to listen, nodding in agreement. ‘Everyone wondered what on earth she was doing with me, but I was always grateful for her. I treasured every second we had together, even if I didn’t always know how to show it.’
‘She knew you loved her,’ I said, my voice a whisper.
‘Maybe. But she deserved better.’
‘Don’t say that.’
He shrugged. ‘But it’s true.’ He stopped. ‘When I saw her yesterday she knew who I was, at least for a few minutes. And in those few minutes I saw the Penny I’d always known and loved, and it made all the other difficult times worthwhile.’ He sniffed and I realised he was trying not to cry. I had never seen my father cry. ‘She loved you more than you can ever know too.’
‘I know.’ I reached out and took his hand, and he let me. Then he pulled it away and the moment had gone, evaporating into the air like smoke. He pushed himself to standing. ‘Anyway, enough sentimentality. I’d better go and check the dinner before it gets burnt to a crisp.’ Then he shuffled off to the kitchen, one small step at a time, and I was so shocked I watched him until he disappeared out of sight.
After dinner – a turkey meal from Marks and Spencer followed by Christmas pudding and brandy cream – I decided to do some clearing. I hadn’t planned to, but I couldn’t just sit here in this stuffy room any longer without feeling the claustrophobia closing in. I didn’t know how Dad could stand it. Besides, I’d also remembered my promise to Mum to look for her Christmas angel, and now seemed as good a time as any.
‘Are you leaving already?’ Dad said as I stood up, looking up from the table where he was pouring three generous glasses of Baileys.
‘Not yet. I thought I might crack on with clearing some more of that room I started on the other day.’
‘Surely you can leave it for today?’
But I was desperate to get out of this room and clear my head, and think through everything that had happened over the last few days.
‘Just an hour or so. I need to stretch my legs,’ I said.
‘Need a hand?’ Greg said. He was reclining like a lion on the tatty old rug in front of the electric fire, sleepy from the wine we’d shared over dinner.
‘No, you stay here and chat, or have a snooze, you poor old men.’
Before either of them could object, I left the room. I picked my way carefully up the stairs, along the small gap that still remained between the piles of junk and the handrail. I hated the thought of my father climbing these stairs to bed every evening. I had visions of him tripping and falling head over heels, snapping every bone as he fell. It was an accident waiting to happen and I vowed to clear some of this as well before I left today.
At the top, the landing was barely visible either. Two of the bedroom doors were completely blocked, and the other two had so much junk piled round them they were only just accessible. The bathroom door was missing and I could see even that room hadn’t escaped my father’s mania for collecting things. Bottles of shampoo and body wash, sponges, flannels, tubes of toothpaste and towels were all piled in the bath and the floor was half-covered with the same.
Turning away from it, I headed along the corridor towards my old room. I pushed the door open but it got stuck halfway, blocked by something. I could see enough to make out my old bed, piled high with stuff – of course – the windows grimy and dark, the room a shadow of the warm, welcoming place I’d made it when I’d slept here, and my ancient CD player, covered in so much dust it looked like a museum relic. If I hadn’t known where I was I would hardly have recognised it, despite the picture of the Coca-Cola can that still hung crookedly on the one visible wall, its edges curling and ripped.
I went back to the spare room, which I’d started sorting out a few weeks ago, and was relieved to see that the tiny patch I’d already cleared hadn’t been re-filled with something else yet. Small progress, but progress all the same. I sat on the floor, legs crossed, and pulled a few bags from the top of the next pile. I didn’t hold out much hope of finding Mum’s Christmas angel but it had to be worth a go. Sadly, after twenty minutes of sifting through three bags of mostly junk I’d had no luck, and didn’t know where to try next. It literally was like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Or an angel in a rubbish pile.
I hauled the binbags straight down the stairs and out of the front door before my father could demand to check them, then headed back upstairs. There were a few more tatty-looking bags which I quickly checked inside, and then a couple of boxes, large and square. I dragged them towards me and pulled open the flaps of the first one. It was full of LPs, top-edge up so I couldn’t see what any of them were. I pulled out a few at random and it quickly became clear that these were some of my father’s old albums. Neil Young. Bob Dylan. Fleetwood Mac. The Rolling Stones. They were the songs of my childhood; rainy days, listening to the rain pummel the roof, watching the droplets slide down the glass, like some lovestruck kid in a teenage drama. Nostalgia overwhelmed me.
I opened the next box and was surprised to find Dad’s old record player. Why had it been shoved up here with all this junk? Did he even know it was here? I lifted it carefully out of the box and placed it on the floor and blew the dust off the top, watched it shoot into the air and dissipate, resettle. There was a wire and plug sticking out the back and I searched round for a socket. I could just make out the edge of one poking out from behind a pile of boxes by the bedroom door, so I yanked the boxes away and plugged it in. Just like the old stereo downstairs, it came to life instantly. Then I pulled out the first record my hand landed on, removed it from its sleeve and placed it carefully on the turntable before flicking the switch. There was a second of silence, a loud crackle from the dusty needle, then ‘Everywhere’ by Fleetwood Mac began, the familiar line about hearing me calling out your name bringing the memories flooding back. I sat back, leaning against a box, and closed my eyes, letting the images fill my mind for a moment… the parties Mum and Dad used to hold, music and laughter and the tinkle of glasses being filled… Mum and Dad holding each other, Dad standing stiffly while Mum spun out from his arms, her skirt flaring, giggling as he watched her adoringly. Mum singing the lyrics to Dad and him rolling his eyes and laughing as I peered at them through a crack in the door, thrilled by how much they adored each other.
As the song came to an end and the next one began, my mind drifted to Greg. As a child I’d always seen how much my parents had loved each other despite being such an unlikely pairing, and I’d dreamed of having a love like theirs – it had always felt like a fairy tale. I’d believed I’d found it with Adam, once, but it had soon become clear it was different – more fiery, passionate. Thrilling.
