‘No, this’ll do.’
I glance at him, hating the way my mind is spiralling now – to thoughts of when Dad might consider moving back to his own flat. It sounds terrible because thereisroom here; we have a bedroom each. In fact, the household feels eerily depleted. Not because Frank is a big, tall man who’d always occupied a lot of space with his chatter and interfering pan-poking and the way he pottered about, always doing stuff. I mean, it’s notjustthat.
The void he’s left feels even bigger. Because it’s not just the physical Frank who’s gone – butus.The way we’ve always been together. That’s gone too, and now I rattlearound at home not quite knowing what to do with myself.
Guilt niggles at me as I watch Dad, biting into his toast. ‘Here, let me make you another one.’ I open the fridge and scan the contents. ‘Oh, Dad. That was the last egg …’ I look at him, expecting him to say,Don’t worry, toast is fine.
He just sits there, looking at me expectantly, saying nothing.
I blink at him. It’s a cool, breezy Sunday morning, and I’ve tried to rally myself with the promise of a day in the garden. It’s looking neglected, the roses growing straggly and weeds sprouting between my hollyhocks. ‘We’re out of eggs, Dad,’ I clarify.
‘Are you?’ he asks.
What d’you want me to do? Run to the shops to get more? Expel one out of my arse?The fridge starts bleeping. I’ve been standing there with my hand on the open door. I close it and push back my hair. No sounds from Eddie yet; at nine-forty he’ll still be asleep. ‘I’m going out for a walk,’ I announce.
I make for the kitchen doorway. ‘Will you get eggs?’ Dad calls after me.
‘Yes,’ I say, obediently, already shrugging on my jacket and heading out of the house.
I don’t know where I’m going. I just need to get out of this house, like Frank did ten days ago. WhereisFrank? He’s replied to some of my messages, just to say he’s okay, and expressly asked me not to show up at the garage. I haven’t wanted to anyway. I’ve been desperate to seehim– of course I have – but not at his workplace, not withDev and the others around. And he’s refused to meet me on the beach, or anywhere else.
What is he doing? How is he spending his evenings and weekend days without me? Tears sting my eyes as the sharp wind hits my face. Then I realise. Frank is a doer, always making or building or fixing something. He’s not a sitter-rounder kind of man. So of course he’ll be working, even on a Sunday. He’ll be putting in extra hours to help Dev, and keep himself occupied – and there’ll be no one else there.
I pass the redundant roundabout and the overgrown crazy golf course, then take the road away from the sea. Heading for the edge of town now, I pass a few dilapidated buildings with faded signs, until I come to Dev’s garage.
The main door for vehicles is shut with a hefty padlock. I go round to the side, where the flaking wooden door is ajar. Heart fluttering, I step in and look around. The main fluorescent light is on, and under its blue-white glare various tools are lying around. It looks like someone’s working in here today. ‘Frank?’ I call out tentatively.
Nothing. I prowl around, crouching to check under a truck with a missing wheel. ‘Frank? Are you here?’
I step back outside and go round the back of the building. Parked a little distance away, on scrubby ground, is Frank’s old food truck. The truck he insisted was such a bargain, and he’d be off to festivals, selling steaks in ciabattas. The girls were far too busy with their numerous extra-curricular activities to get involved. But maybe Eddie could help him? Father and son, foodand music – what could be better than that? Maybe this was something they could do together, that would bond them!
For a moment I just stand there. The truck is dark burgundy, rusting and faded now. The lettering –Silva’s Steakout– is painted in yellow on its side. Ana did it for him, sketching numerous designs on paper before she felt confident enough to paint it onto the van.
It’s not the van, or Ana’s lettering, that I’m looking at now. It’s Frank, who’s sitting there, facing me from the open door of the truck.
‘Frank. You’re here.’
I go to him, and then stop.
‘Yep, I’m here.’
I open my mouth to speak but realise I don’t know what to say. ‘I’ve been so worried,’ is all I can manage.
‘Sorry about that.’ He looks tired, and a little unkempt in black sweatpants and an old sweater, but otherwise okay.
‘I don’t understand why you’re here,’ I say. ‘It’s been ten days—’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘Have you been sleeping here?’
Frank nods, his attention caught briefly by a black and white cat that pads towards him.
‘It must’ve been awful,’ I murmur.
‘It’s been all right,’ he says with a shrug. He leans forward to pat the cat, who’s rubbing at his ankles. ‘This is Badger.’
‘Oh, yes. You’ve mentioned him …’ I’m trying not to cry.
