Frank looks up from the cat, meeting my gaze. ‘I just had to get away, Carly.’
I nod, sort of understanding. And now I’m here, in front of the truck that caused so much grief between us, I remember the hopes he had for his thrilling new venture. First stop, a little festival in Cumbria. Next, Reading, Glastonbury, the Isle of Wight. There’d be festivals further afield, in France, Spain and Portugal. Silva’s Steakout would take over the world!
When Eddie clearly hadn’t been interested, Frank had asked me to go to that Cumbrian festival with him, to help. And I’d been so mad, because we were in such debt after he’d bought that damn truck, I’d said no.
‘Frank.’ I walk towards him, my eyes filling with tears as he gets up, and we hug. ‘Please don’t stay here, honey. This is awful, you being away from us. It was all so silly. If you’re trying to punish me for the library night—’
‘Of course I’m not.’ He pulls away, shaking his head. He still looks so handsome, even with his hair unwashed and all mussed up, in the weak morning sun. ‘I’d never punish you—’
‘Please come back then!’
‘No. Not now. I just need to be here—’
‘All by yourself?’ I exclaim.
His gaze drops. Badger has stretched out on the ground now, and stretches luxuriantly. Frank crouches down to stroke him.
Okay, then! I hope you and Badger will be very happy together!I want to shout it out, like a child. But instead, I manage to muster any semblance of calm and logic I haveleft in me. And I say, ‘All right, Frank. You do whatever you need to do.’
And then I turn, breathing deeply as if that will stop the tears, and I walk all the way home.
Chapter Forty
When Eddie dropped his trousers on the way back from Scout camp, pressing his bare bum up against the coach window,of courseit wasn’t Frank who was summoned into the meeting hall for a discussion. It was me – shabby mother, hanging her head in shame on a stackable plastic chair.
We can’t have that kind of behaviour, Carly. It brings the whole troop into disrepute.As if I’d been the one flashing my bare arse at drivers on the M8!
I’m beyond accepting responsibility for anything now. Eddie’s situation with Lyla? In a few short weeks the baby will be here. Since her overnight stay, a couple of weeks ago now, I feel that at least we had a few perfectly pleasant – albeit superficial – conversations. Chatting as we waited for the kettle to boil, kind of thing. Updates on her mum and Uncle Oliver. But I didn’t want to grill her about how she’s feeling emotionally, and I still barely know her really.
At least she and Eddie seem to be in contact. Are they a couple? Or just ‘talking’? Who knows how they plan to look after a baby together and bring up their child. But really, that’s for them to figure out. I truly believe that now because, since that day when I found Frank sitting in the door of the food truck, something has switched in me. At nearly fifty years old I have realised that I’m not responsible for everything that other people choose to do.
Whatever’s going on between Eddie and Lyla, the baby’s going to be born. That’s just nature. It’s not going to wait patiently inside the amniotic sac until a time at which my son has properly grown up, and started flossing and eating vegetables. It’s coming, ready or not.
As for Frank, I’ve been over to see him several more times at the truck, taking provisions as if he’s a kid, camping out at the bottom of the garden. I unearthed our spare duvet which, having been rejected by Dad – and used only briefly by Eddie – I’d assumed was as redundant as the high chair that’s still stashed in the attic. Frank seemed grateful for that, at least – and the pillow and fresh clothes I’d also brought him. But still he wouldn’t even talk about coming home.
It was Prish who suggested that perhaps I should leave him be. ‘I know it’s not easy,’ she said, ‘but for whatever reason, he’s made this choice for now. And going there and pleading for him to come home is only making it worse for you.’
Of course she was right. So I go to work, and I look after Dad, and in some ways it’s easier to manage him without Frank being around. I no longer feel torn betweencatering to my father’s needs, while trying to appease Frank. I still worry about Frank – of course I do – but I’ve accepted now that I can’t force him to do anything he doesn’t want to do.
I never have been able to really. He’s a stubborn man, as is Eddie. However, recently, I have noticed a slight change in my son. In the kitchen, for instance. ‘You should never stir a paella’ has morphed into Eddiemakingthe paella. ‘Easier to do it myself,’ he announced. Perhaps he can’t bear to witness my ‘terrible knife skills’ any longer. Or maybe it’s an act of compassion on his part, since his father left us.
‘So, you and Dad,’ he ventures one evening, as we clear up together after dinner. ‘D’you know what his plans are at all? I mean …’ His brow furrows. ‘Is thisit?’
‘Honey, I really don’t know,’ I tell him.
He sighs. ‘This can’t be easy for you. Are you all right?’
I look at him, surprised by his concern. ‘D’you know what, Eddie? It’s awful. Of course it is. But you know what your dad’s like. I’ve never been able to change his mind about anything. So I’m just having to get on with things.’
He nods, drying our new pan with a tea towel. Apparently, our existing frying pans were all substandard – as is all of our kitchen equipment! So he made me upgrade to a ‘proper’ paella one; cast iron, eye-wateringly expensive. ‘You’re good at that,’ he murmurs, and I smile. Coming from Eddie, I take that as a glowing compliment.
‘I was thinking of going over to Edinburgh at the weekend,’ he adds.
‘To see Lyla?’
‘Uh-huh.’ A pause as he polishes the knob on the pan’s lid. ‘Don’t fancy driving me over, do you?’
‘Oh, right.’ I laugh. ‘You want a lift—’
