‘Why don’t I get us a nice cup of tea and a slice of Dad’s amazing Christmas cake,’ Mum trills.
‘I have been working in schools teaching the children about Shakespeare, making him relevant to today’s kids,’ I say as Dad sniggers dismissively, swapping looks with everyone else in the room.
How I wish I could say Jamal is funding me and backing me up. That would shut Dad up – there’s nothing he loves more than a bit of external validation from another man – but really, I should be enough. I am not going to let Dad’s stupid, outdated, overly unfair assessments of me carry on shaping me anymore, shaping the way I view myself, the way I present myself – apologetically and always expecting to be a disappointment. I have done well this month. Alison’s words came back to me.He must be so, so proud to have you as his daughter. You’re just lovely.And maybe, maybe instead of thinkingnot really, I’m a bit of a disappointment, maybe I should thinkdamn right he should be. Maybe if I had had parents who told me I could do anything if I tried hard enough, who told me I was good enough … maybe I wouldn’t be so permanently bloody lost, always looking to see if I have made anyone cross because that was my default setting growing up.
Today I have had enough. Today I will speak out. I need to, for me.
I stand.
‘You may be disappointed in me because I am not like you, not a tiny bit, but you know what, what you fail to see is how much that is a good thing. You think if it’s not made in your image then it has no merit. Rose looks like you and also fulfils the role you think suits a female best – sorry, Rose – and I don’t. She is quite literally the golden child and I have never had a chance in hell. You see no good in me at all, you’re genuinely disappointed in the person I am.’
‘Yes, I’m disappointed. You are nothing like me,’ he fires back. ‘You don’t have a practical useful bone in your body. Shakespeare, for fuck’s sake, that’s about as much fucking use to the world today as, I don’t know…’ he looks around the room to find something worthy of his insult and lets out a laugh, ‘…as your mother is to brain surgery.’
‘How dare you? What on earth has Mum done to be brought into this? I’m so done with your stupid worldview on what has merit and what doesn’t. You should idolise Mum, have her on a pedestal so high she towers over you. Because that’s what she does, she towers over you. She is still here, decades on, opportunities no doubt missed, and still by your side. I don’t know why, I don’t know if it’s because she loves youthatmuch or if she’s here because she’s scared of anything different. But she’s still here, and quite frankly after just this last year alone you owe her for that. You owe her for a lot and—’
‘Belle!’
‘Well, he does. And I don’t ever think I’ve heard him say thank you.’
‘Jack, Rose, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s got into her,’ my mother says.
‘Stop apologising for me. I do plenty of things wrong, but I can apologise for myself because I am not Dad. I can accept that I fuck up, that when I do it’s my fault, not the fault of every single person around me so yes, Jack, Rose, I am sorry I am making you uncomfortable, and on Christmas Day, but seriously, Dad…’ I turn to face him again and see that something isn’t right. I should have known something isn’t right by the very silence of him. The power of my words isn’t what is keeping him quiet. Somehow, when all eyes were on me, no one had noticed him sitting back down on his chair, a stream of sweat upon his brow, his skin greyish. He isn’t dripping wet or anything, but he isn’t right.
I cross over to the chair and sink to my knees; he feels clammy to the touch.
‘Dad, Dad. Are you okay?’
‘Yes.’ The word comes out, but it’s slow and breathless.
‘Are you in any pain? Your chest? Your arm?’
‘I have had a bit of a sore throat all day, that’s it though.’
‘I’ll get him some honey and lemon. Nip of brandy, that should do it,’ Mum suggests.
‘No, Mum, get him an aspirin, and hurry. Do it now.’
‘But he says he’s not—’
‘Please, Mum, now.’ There’s a firmness to my tone and she turns on the spot to do as I ask. ‘Rose, call an ambulance. We’re probably okay but let’s err on the side of caution.’
‘I say, I’m sure we don’t need to—’ Jack starts to bumble.
‘We do!’ I snap back. ‘Rose, please.’
‘I’ve nev … never heard anything…’ Dad’s words are slow, laboured.
‘Here.’ Mum is back and passes me the small pot, the childproof lid already undone and balanced on the top.
‘Dad, I want you to chew this. Just humour me, okay.’
‘I don’t need…’ he starts to quarrel. Of course he does.
‘Oh, you bad-tempered bastard, just do as you’re told!’ I don’t want to scare him but I do need him to chew on the aspirin. I’d had first-aid training earlier in the year when one of my colleagues had a silent heart attack at work. This looks suspiciously similar.
‘How long are they going to be?’ I call over my shoulder to my sister.
‘I’m doing the whole name and address thing. What am I to say is wrong, sore throat, slightly slurry speech? Over-dramatic daughter?’ She laughs at her own humour.
