‘She knows who we are, and says he used to talk about his daughters back in England all the time. She even knew our names. He had a photo of us – one from school, must be the one Mum sent him – that he carried everywhere with him. She’s trying to find some information right now about where we might find him.’
‘Is he still in Paris, then?’
‘No,’ says Poppy, flashing me a grin. ‘But it does have a tower. She thinks he’s in Blackpool. He used to work here doing street theatre for spare change, and says he got a pitch doing something similar back in the UK.’
Anne-Marie reappears and presses a crumpled piece of paper into Poppy’s hand. She’s effusive now, obviously glad to have been able to help us, but that doesn’t stop her accepting the 20-euro note that Poppy passes over. I suppose a girl’s got to pay them bills. I make pathetic attempts atau revoir-ing, and we leave, waving as we go.
I don’t know if I am relieved or annoyed. Part of me assumed the worst, that he’d have gone the way of addicts the world over and died an early death – and really, would that be so very terrible? Are we just reopening wounds that are best left closed, for all of us? Our mother had very good reasons for keeping us away from him, and they may all still be valid. Plus, why should we assume that after all this time, he would even want to see us?
But part of me, if I’m honest – the part of me that is perhaps still just a little girl wondering why she doesn’t have a daddy – anticipated some kind of wonderfully touching reunion. I mean, we are in the City of Light, and it all looks a bit like a movie set anyway. Perhaps I have been infected with sentimentality.
Oh well, I think, as we head back into the less scary streets of tourist Montmartre. Paris was a bust. But Blackpool will probably be just as good – if we decide to go.
Chapter 56
Poppy
We have made our decision, and it doesn’t involve a trip to Blackpool. I think this was easier for me than Rose, because my heart is definitely not 100 per cent in this whole long-lost-dad thing.
Maybe I’m just nastier than her – or maybe it’s because I’m softer, who knows? But my overwhelming feeling right now, as we crack open a bottle of wine in our hotel room, is one of relief. I am barely coping with losing my mum, and introducing a dad into the equation would feel like a step too far.
I’ve lived without a dad for so many years, he doesn’t really exist in my mindscape. Hearing our mum sound so broken-hearted about it all on the cassette tape, talking about the tough decisions she’d had to make, didn’t exactly make the whole reunion idea any more attractive.
I just wished that she was still here, so I could tell her it was all okay – that she’d made the right choice. That she’d protected us. That she’d been the best mum ever, and definitely had loved us enough for two.
There is no way that he could ever replace her and, in all honesty, I am angry that he is still alive, and she isn’t. Our mum did everything right, and is gone. He did everything wrong, and is still here. It feels wrong on so many levels, and my only real wish is that they could swap places.
We have, though, looked him up online. Anne-Marie had given us a website address, and we were able to locate Cranky Franky with relative ease. As we waited for the page to load on my phone, we had no idea what to expect – but the reality was even weirder than we could have imagined.
We are confronted by the image of a tall man wearing a clown outfit, with the tragic whited-out, teardrop-stained face of a classic picture-book Pierrot. There is a drooping plastic rose in his clown jacket pocket, a frilly red ruffle around his neck, and he is wearing shoes in the shape of baguettes.
Wow, I think, gaping at him. Our dad is quite literally a sad clown.
‘I’d like to meet him, one day,’ says Rose, gazing at the picture with a mixture of pity and longing. ‘When all of this is done. Give him a chance, at least.’
As the A–Z is all about second chances, I can’t really object – but I’m not feeling it. I shrug, and drink, and say nothing.
I flick away from the website and into my photos. We called at the Eiffel Tower on the way back here, and recreated that picture of Mum with Franky, from all that time ago. He’s part of me, I know, just as Mum is, and my sister is. But not necessarily a part I want to connect with. Not just yet, anyway, and maybe never.
It’s hard to describe to my sister, but I feel a little like my armour is leaking. There is too much emotional rain getting in, and it’s making me soggy.
So I deal with that the only way I know how – by pretending it’s not happening.
Chapter 57
Rose
‘You don’t want to?’ I ask, topping up my own wine and studying her. Poppy has put her phone away, and is very quiet, rooting around in her suitcase.
We brought the next couple of instalments of the A–Z with us, just in case. It felt wrong taking it from its flowerstrewn cocoon in the Special Things Box – we’re on to the one with the poppies now – but that isn’t an easy thing to lug around on international travel.
I know Poppy has never been as intent on this Daddy Issues mission as me, and want to understand why. She, however, seems more interested in getting drunk, and opening the next envelope.
‘I’m … ambivalent,’ she finally says, screwing up her face as though trying to decide if that was the right word or not.
‘Okay. Well, you don’t have to come with me.’
She simply nods, and I’m not sure what she’s thinking. She’s putting her Face on – the one that says nothing bothers her. The one that says I Am Fine, Screw You Very Much. The one she used to wear all the time when we started this adventure; the one I always wanted to punch.
