June
Living at Kilmory Cottage: Carly, Frank, Kenny
Carly
‘I won’t be here long,’ Dad announces as Frank clears the table after dinner.
‘Kenny, you can be here as long as you like,’ Frank says. ‘Honestly. Just treat it like your home.’
‘Yes, Dad,’ I add. ‘Don’t worry about anything at all.’ I glance back at the supermarket order I’m doing on my laptop.
‘Don’t get anything special in for me,’ Dad says, looming over me now, peering at the screen. ‘I’ll be gone by the weekend.’
‘There’s no rush, Dad. You don’t have to make any decisions yet—’
‘I’m just saying.’
‘Okay,’ I murmur wearily. ‘I’m getting the normal shop.’
‘Just don’t go mad.’ He hovers there, breathing in my ear and observing me ‘going mad’ by ordering wildly extravagant potatoes, bread and butter. Would he prefermargarine? Or lard? Still, it’s fine Dad being here. Right now, it feels like the right thing to do because, when we went to collect him from hospital, a young nurse who looked a little like Eddie quickly pulled Frank and me aside.
‘We’re relieved he’s going to stay with you,’ he said. ‘He lives in a second-floor flat, doesn’t he? With no lift?’
That’s true, I told him, adding that we were happier too, considering the trauma he’d been through. And if Frank wasn’t exactly delighted, then to his credit, it didn’t show.
‘Thanks for all this,’ I murmur now in the kitchen. Since his arrival Dad has commandeered the TV to binge-watchCash or Crash. Old episodes, featuring spectacularly dumb-brained (his term) contestants are rewatched to his immense enjoyment. But at least they keep him occupied, and for now, withThe Empty-Nester’s Handbookstuffed away on a shelf, we seem to have settled into this strange new routine.
‘Thanks for what?’ Frank asks lightly.
I turn and look at him. ‘For being there for us, all that time Dad was in hospital. All the visits you did and keeping things going at home.’
‘God, Carly,’ he exclaims, ‘what else was I going to do? Of course I’m here for you. Honestly.’
But I wasn’t sure you were anymore,I want to say.And now I know you are. It took a can of rotten pilchards to show that you still love me, and that when all this is over, and Dad’s ready to go home, we’ll be okay.
Frank wipes his dishwater hands on a towel and hugs me. ‘We’ll get through this,’ he adds, and I nod.
‘At least he doesn’t steal chargers or leave takeawayboxes under the bed,’ I remark. And as I’ve told Suki – who very sweetly has been texting to see how he’s doing – Dad seems to have not only settled into Kilmory Cottage, but is actively enjoying ruling the roost. We’ve given him the biggest and brightest bedroom, with a sea view. The girls always shared it, then when Bella moved out it was Ana’s, and when Ana left home Eddie commandeered it before Frank and I even had a chance.
‘I’ve waited all my life for this room!’ he announced, a little unreasonably, considering the fact that Eddie never had to share a bedroom. But in he went, fouling it up within days, thinking we didn’t know about him smoking out of the window. For weeks on end it felt as if the curtains were barely opened. So much for the sea view! Then when Eddie moved to Edinburgh, our plan was to make itourroom. But the baby announcement knocked the stuffing out of us, so the move was never made.
Anyway, now it’s my father’s domain. And so, it would appear, is our sole bathroom. ‘Can I please get in there!’ he calls out, with a sharp rap on the door if Frank or I dare to occupy it for longer than five minutes.
Meals are different too. My father, refuser of fresh food, favours the plainest of fare: fried fish, oven chips, pies. With the TV blaring, because isn’t that what you want as you eat your dinner after a day’s work?
Quizmaster: ‘What’s the capital of Finland?’
Tense-looking woman, visibly sweating: ‘Er … Stockholm?’
Dad: ‘Oh-for-God’s-sake-fools!’
We tolerate all of this because his body is healing after being racked by botulism. Being so utterly poisoned ateighty-four could have killed him. So I cook the meals he enjoys, and we bring him endless coffees, made with Nescafé (Dad regards real ground coffee as a crazy extravagance, and it simply isn’t worth the fuss). We speak in whispers when we don’t especially want him chipping in because, although Dad’s hearing isn’t great, when it’s a personal matter it’s suddenly as sharp as a whippet’s. And of course I do his laundry and buy his daily newspaper and pick up his prescriptions, steeling myself when the Citrolax keeps on coming.
Occasionally, Dad insists on going to the shops, which is good for him, I suppose – a bit of exercise. He returns with a carrier bag of reduced food: pineapple slices turning brown, and a pack of cooked chicken that I can hear screaming ‘Danger! Danger!’ before it’s even come out of the shopping bag.
And then the days turn warmer, and our garden bursts into full bloom in the bright June sunshine. Bella visits again from London, fussing over her granddad and telling me that she can’t get her head around being an auntie yet. ‘How d’you think Eddie will be?’ she asks. ‘As a dad, I mean?’
‘Honestly, I have no idea,’ I say.
