‘You shouldn’t eat so many, Dad. Let me make you a sandwich or something.’
‘No need.’ He proffered the tin in Nate’s direction. ‘And a couple of biscuits with a cuppa is fine.’ He pulled out two Hobnobs. ‘You make out I never cook. I’m not bad now, you know.’
Trevor had never done much in the way of cooking before his wife Ruth died six years ago. She was always in charge of the kitchen; it was her place, she said. It had been her mission when Nate was growing up to keep him fed and watered, something she’d carried on well into his years as a young adult as though he needed her to make sure he didn’t wither away. When Nate lived close by and visited frequently in his early twenties, he’d have homemade snacks on demand, meals even when he didn’t need them, she’d send him away with food to put in his freezer as if he wasn’t capable of making anything himself.
‘So no more tins of tuna or bread and butter?’ That was what he knew his dad had had day after day for dinner when he was first on his own because he’d laughed about it. Nate hadn’t seen the funny side and had cooked for him whenever he was here. This morning, Nate had insisted on making them both scrambled eggs on toast with a side of spinach, tomatoes and mushrooms. It made him feel better to know that he could at least look after his dad the best he could while he was here.
‘I still eat both, but not all the time. Remember, Gillian taught me a few things after your mum passed – I can make a mean vegetable soup, a good chicken casserole, fish pie and I can even do mince pies. Gillian went through the recipe with me. Betty’s from the bakery are wonderful, but I wanted to be able to do them for myself. And now I can. If you visit again this Christmas, you’re in for a treat.’
‘Just try to keep me away.’ Nate loved being with his dad for the festive season, cooking up the big turkey dinner. They were often invited to Snowdrop Cottage but with Nate home so rarely, Trevor liked to have it just the two of them if he was and then catch up with friends and neighbours over afternoon teas or a drink at the Rose and Thatch. Nate had never been able to stay long over the Christmas period; people still needed plumbers, and he’d hated the year there’d been so much snow on the roads that he couldn’t get here. He was only thankful that Trevor had been embraced in the warmth of everyone at Snowdrop Cottage for Christmas Day itself, and the pub for Boxing Day. Trevor had had plenty of company right up until New Year when the roads had cleared enough to allow Nate to make the journey safely.
Branston wandered in from the outside but they left the patio door open for the fresh air.
‘It’s a shame I don’t have a jar of mincemeat now,’ said Trevor, ‘talking about mince pies has got my tastebuds going.’
‘Mine too,’ Nate laughed.
‘I even make the pastry from scratch.’
‘Mum would be very impressed.’
‘You know, I think she really would.’ The moment settled between them. ‘You still appear to enjoy cooking if that breakfast was anything to go by.’
‘I don’t mind it at all.’
‘I see the joy, kind of. But I’ll admit a lot of the time I do it out of necessity. Because I don’t want to wither away.’
‘I don’t want that either.’ Because when he’d arrived here, he’d had a discreet inspection of his dad’s kitchen cupboards and the fridge and there hadn’t been many supplies at all, so it was lucky he’d come prepared. A half-empty packet of pasta sat miserably at the back of one cupboard next to gravy granules, a jar of unopened jam and a bag of rolled oats. In another, he found herbs and spices and suspected most of them were out of date. And the fridge, while it did have a couple of kiwi fruits and a bag of carrots, that was about it. Before Nate left this time round, he’d go back to the supermarket and get more pantry staples, leave enough fruit and vegetables for another week, and sneak in some cleaning materials and washing powders too, the things that were more expensive.
If his dad was to live near him in Wales, he’d be able to make sure his kitchen was always filled with fresh ingredients. They could shop together, go to the independent greengrocer near his home for the best products. Nate could cook for him, perhaps teach him some more dishes. Nate could do his cleaning for him. His dad was certainly managing here. But the fact was, he was living on his own, and one minute Nate felt reassured, the next he was panicking that he was too far away should his dad suddenly need him.
‘Dad, I was thinking, how about I visit for a bit longer next time?’ They had to talk but Nate didn’t want to upset his dad. He needed to tread lightly, think before he spoke and made suggestions. Even if he was doing it out of love, his dad might not appreciate it if he thought he was trying to swoop in and take control.
‘I don’t expect you to come again soon.’
‘Well, I’d like to. I was actually thinking I could come back next week and stay for a month.’
‘A month? You’d take that long off work?’
‘I haven’t had a decent stretch of time off for a while; I’m due. And I know another reliable plumber who could take on some of my work. I could do a few jobs around the house – two of those cupboards in the utility room need fixing, the doors have dropped. And didn’t you mention replacing the shower unit?’
‘It’s old, it’s about time. But no rush.’
‘I’ll do that too; you should have a decent shower. I’ll order another one online, have it delivered here. And I drive the van around anyway, most of my tools and plenty of the bits I need for the business and DIY jobs are already inside.’
‘If you’re sure? I don’t want to be any trouble.’
‘You’re never trouble, Dad. Perhaps we could do some sorting out too. I know for a fact that if you don’t know what to do with something, you open up the loft hatch and push it inside. Lord knows what’s up there.’
Trevor began to chuckle. ‘Guilty. I used to do it when your mother wasn’t looking.’
‘She always knew,’ Nate laughed. ‘We joked about what we’d find up there if we ever looked.’
‘Your mum hated holding onto things we didn’t need. Every new year, she’d do what she called a “winter clean”. Never a spring clean, she was more interested in the garden or filling the house with flowers by then.’
His dad didn’t have to say that the winter clean ritual had stopped when his mum could no longer cope with it. Her Parkinson’s had progressed and even the little things had become harder for her.
‘I also know you still have some of my old toys up in the loft. I’m in my late thirties; I’m pretty sure I’ve grown out of them.’
