The fact that home didn’t feel right to Bella sets me thinking that maybe Frank feels that way too. And perhaps, now we’re sort of empty-nesters, it’s time for a big change? So one Sunday evening, as I’m starting to cook dinner, I say, ‘D’you like it here, Frank?’
He looks at me in surprise. ‘What d’you mean? In this town or this house or—’
‘In this house,’ I clarify.
‘Why d’you ask?’
‘Well, we’ve been here an awfully long time, haven’t we? Twenty-two years. And we chose it because we had a baby. It was to be our family home. But now everyone’s gone and—’
‘I still like our house.’ He looks puzzled. ‘Of course I do.’ Dad is napping on the sofa but we’re keeping our voices low, just in case.
‘But are you truly happy here, Frank?’ I go on, unable to let it drop now because something is wrong – I can sense it. And I need to know what it is. ‘I mean, d’you like being here in Scotland? Or d’you ever, I don’t know … wish you were back in Portugal?’
‘Of course I like Scotland.’ He eyes the groceries on the worktop that haven’t yet been put away. Tinned soup, peaches, baked beans and pork sausage, all bought atDad’s request. ‘I’m just not sure about living in Scotland in 1952,’ he adds.
I smile, grateful that he still has it in him to make a joke. ‘It won’t be for much longer,’ I murmur.
‘No, it’s fine,’ he says with a shrug. However, we both know what we really want to say, but can’t quite say it.
My father keeps saying he ‘won’t be here long’. However, it’s been over a month now, and he seems fine, health-wise – yet there’s been no mention of when he might actually want to go home. Prish keeps saying I should broach it with him: ‘Maybe his confidence has taken a knock? And all he needs is a gentle nudge?’ But how to do that without implying that we want him to leave?
Naturally, Frank and I have done nothing more thrilling than drink cups of tea in bed since Dad’s arrival. Not that Imind, of course – sleeping at opposite sides of the bed with the Gulf of Mexico between us. But really, it’s no easier than when Eddie was here. The only difference is, I’m not perpetually worried about my father finding a job.
‘I think,’ I murmur, ‘he might not want to go back to his own place, Frank. And we might need to accept that.’
I study his expression as the realisation settles. ‘Right. Okay.’ He blows out air.
‘I’m sorry. I mean, he was always so fiercely independent. So I can’t understand it …’
‘He must like it here,’ Frank suggests.
‘Yeah.’ I nod. ‘I can’t ask him to leave, Frank. I just can’t.’
‘No, I know, honey—’
‘Carly! CARLY!’ Dad yells from the living room.
‘Yes, Dad?’
‘Is dinner on the way?’
‘Jesus,’ Frank mutters.
‘Yes, Dad,’ I call back, although I have barely started it.
‘Not too big a portion for me!’ he retorts from the command centre. ‘You always give me way too much.’
‘All right!’
I look at Frank, and he groans. ‘Is there any need for that?’
I throw out my arms in a gesture of helplessness. ‘What canIdo?’
‘You’re giving mefartoo much,’ Dad hollers through the house. ‘I’m putting on weight—’
‘This having to eat at six on the dot,’ Frank exclaims. ‘I don’t see why—’
‘It’s just the way he is.’
