‘No, no, I’m fine.’Just, you know. Your grandson’s about to become a father when he’s not yet mature enough to be able to walk down the street with me. Instead, he charges ahead as if terrified that anyone will see us together. And, as far as I’m aware, he still leaves a trail of possessions wherever he goes: jacket, bank cards, ID. How will he manage with a baby? Will he leave it on the bus?
Of course I don’t say any of this, as I still haven’t broken the news to Dad. Instead, I start to make dinner. Beingwindowless, his kitchen is pretty gloomy, but at least I can escape him for a short while, and give the surfaces a more thorough wipe-down. And now, as I try to wipe a film of gunk off a shelf crammed with spirit levels and old chipped mugs, an image of Suki pops into my mind.
Suki ordering Bollinger to toast an unplanned pregnancy.
Suki being so effusive and positive over me being a librarian, Frank a mechanic and Eddie starting out as a chef.
Such sunny positivity. God, I could do with a sprinkling of that, I decide as I chop an onion with unnecessary force. Dad and I should be quaffing champagne to celebrate the fact that his bowels are in perfect working order, and will continue to be until the end of time, because he’s immortal, apparently!
I start to fry the onion and garlic, and as I add spices and chicken, a delicious aroma starts to fill the room.
I should be more Suki,I decide.
‘Not too much for me,’ Dad calls through. ‘You always give me those ridiculously big portions.’
I don’t, actually. I serve normal portions and, without fail, Dad always guzzles it all. Sometimes he even wants seconds.
He appears in the kitchen doorway, a little stooped now, although he’s made a remarkable recovery from his heart attack. ‘Managing all right in here?’ he barks, as if unsure that I possess the skills to knock a meal together.
‘Yes, I’m fine, Dad.’
I catch his gaze and something seems to twang insideme. He can’t help it, I remind myself. When I’m feeling together and strong, and I’m remembering to breathe properly as per Wendy’s instructions, I can accept that this is just Dad; it’s the way he’s made. And in his own way he loves me, just as he loves Bella and Ana and, yes, Eddie too, even though he’s hardly the cuddly granddad.
Will Frank be a cuddly granddad?I wonder as I take our bowls of chicken curry – Dad’s favourite – through to the table by the window.
‘Enough for a horse!’ he announces, proceeding to tuck in with gusto. When we’re finished I make a pot of tea and we watch the yachts bobbing in the marina. Above them, a cloud of starlings appears, swooping en masse above the spindly masts.
I put down my fork, noticing that Dad is watching the starlings too. ‘I wonder why they do that?’ I remark.
‘What, the birds?’
‘Yes. They keep swooping back and forth, not landing or going anywhere. All in a huge cloud like that.’
My father nods and his face seems to soften. I do worry about him, living here on his own. His friends seem to have all fallen away – or died – and he’s not one for joining clubs or societies. But I catch a spark of something in his eyes as he says, ‘I think they do it for fun.’
‘You think so? Really?’
‘Yes. Yes, I do.’ I leave him still sitting at the table, watching the birds intently as I wash up. Then, while he’s settled at the window, I bob down and inspect the tinned meat pies at the bottom of the cupboard. There are eight in all, and they went out of date before mobile phones came into popular usage. They pre-date Dad buying thisplace. Pre-date it being built, even! He must have brought them with him when he and Maggie moved here from their last place.
Stealthily, I pack the tins into my rucksack. And I send out silent thanks to the starlings for holding Dad’s attention as I zip it up.
‘That looks heavy,’ he says later as I hoick it onto my back. ‘What’s in it? Bricks?’
‘Just some work stuff,’ I fib.
‘What, books?’ He frowns.
‘Yes, books. Really heavy books.’ I laugh awkwardly. Dad’s a smart man. It wouldn’t surprise me if his X-ray vision could spear right into my rucksack, to the pies that expired in 1998.
His clear blue eyes glint with suspicion. ‘Thanks for those books,’ he says, a little belatedly.
‘You’re welcome, Dad. They were just out of the 20p box in the library.’
‘Quite right. No need to spend money on me.’
I smile, and as I hug him goodbye he says, ‘Remember I don’t need those bloody powders!’
‘Don’t worry! I’ll remember!’ Then I escape down the fifty-six steps Dad managed to navigate while having a heart attack, and step out in the cool evening.
