Going home always brought about mixed emotions. I loved my parents and I enjoyed spending time with them partly because they were more bonkers than me and, in a perverse way, that made me feel better. However, this was inevitably tempered with some apprehension of discovering what new shenanigans they might be involved in.
Arriving to see them on the Saturday morning, I parked outside the semi-detached stone villa that had been my home growing up and remained so in many ways. My room still contained my old bed and the wardrobe still held a selection of my clothes that I hadn’t felt the need to take with me. The chest of drawers in the corner was full of old black scarves and jumpers. Officially the room had been designated as a ‘guest’ room but the last guest to sleep in it had been me, four months ago, on Christmas Day. My parents didn’t do ‘guests’ well. The bedroom door still had my name on it, ‘Kat’ shaped from the silhouette of a bat with blood dripping from its wing tips. I still liked that and might take it with me one day.
I used my key to open the door and found my mum standing on a pair of steps just inside cleaning the coving with a bottle of Dettox and kitchen roll.
‘Hi, Mum.’
‘Oh, Kat, I didn’t know you were coming over today. You usually phone.’
‘Thought I’d surprise you.’
My mum didn’t like surprises. I once booked a weekend away to London for her and my dad for their wedding anniversary with tickets to see Cats. With her control issues she’d spent most of the time in the capital on TripAdvisor, investigating what the highest-rated weekend wedding anniversary trips were. At that time, it had been a spa break in Bath. She phoned me and asked, ‘Why didn’t you do some research and book us on a spa weekend in Bath?’
‘Err, because they don’t have Cats playing in Bath at the moment.’
‘Ahh, so it’s a musical theatre break you’ve organised for us.’ The fact I’d handed her the show tickets in an envelope along with the hotel booking should have given that away really. She’d hung up but then phoned me back fifteen minutes later whilst they were on their way to the theatre to see the show.
‘Kat.’
‘Mum.’
‘If you’d done your research you’d have discovered that The Lion King is the most popular show on in London now, so next time—’
I hung up on her.
That happened to be the first and last surprise break I ever organised for them.
Back in the hall my mum got down from her steps and moved them along three feet to get at the next bit of offending ornate plasterwork. ‘You’d better tell your dad you’re here.’
‘Where is he?’
‘It’s Saturday morning and it’s sunny; where do you think he is?’
‘In a shed?’
‘Where else? Number two, I think.’
I plonked my jacket onto the back of a kitchen chair and went out of the French doors. Our back garden stretched back almost ninety feet with a load of trees and shrubs clustered at the far end. Grass and sheds took up most of the space, though using the word ‘sheds’ to describe my father’s pride and joys did them a huge disservice.
Number one had a flat slated roof, large double-glazed windows and a seven-point locking door with toughened safety glass making it very difficult to break into or, as we discovered, out of. I suppose I’d describe it as a glam-shed. Inside, mounted on the wall was an HDTV, two comfy couches and, in the corner, a desk with a PC and internet connection. It also had independent LPG heating. Shed number one doubled as my dad’s escape from reality. He’d sit in there for hours in the summer watching the test match or peering at the PC screen, researching stuff for his work or talking to fellow shed enthusiasts. Shed number one had also been the site of his run-in with authority when he’d locked the local MSP, Moira Cleethorpes, inside for not agreeing to challenge the local planning authority who’d refused him permission to build an extension onto the back of our house.
Moira had used her mobile to call the police, who had arrived and duly cautioned my father for false imprisonment despite his argument she’d had the third day of the England versus South Africa test match on HDTV to watch and a jug of homemade lemonade to keep her cool.
I approached shed number two from the ‘blind side’ (the side with no windows) and noticed a pile of fixtures and fittings on the grass. Shed number two had recently been decked out to resemble an artist’s studio with two easels, selections of paint, acrylics, charcoal and canvases. The fact neither of my parents had any kind of artistic ability or interest whatsoever hadn’t seemed to cross his mind when he’d been planning it. Now that idea had obviously been changed and a new project had started.
‘Hi, Dad.’
‘Kat.’ My dad jumped, startled. ‘I didn’t know you were coming today. Does your mum know you’re here?’
‘Yeah, she’s cleaning the cornicing.’
He nodded. ‘Still? She started that yesterday. Keeps her busy, I suppose.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m cleaning out space for my new project.’
‘Which is what exactly?’
‘Llamas.’
‘Llamas?’
‘Llamas – they make excellent pets.’
‘I’m not sure they do and why do you want a pet? No disrespect, Dad, but you and Mum have a hard enough time looking after yourselves.’
‘They make very good guard animals, especially against small predators.’
‘Dad, this is Glasgow; the only small predators around here usually hail from a sink estate, are malnourished, have substance-abuse issues, a bad attitude and a Stanley knife in their pocket, oh, and maybe a pit bull in tow.’
‘Llamas don’t like dogs.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘I don’t like dogs either.’
‘I’m not sure picking a pet based on a mutual dislike of something is necessarily the way to go about it but, for argument’s sake, let’s say it is – why not just opt for a cat?’
‘I can’t sell cat poo online.’
I stared at him for a moment. ‘I’m sorry, Dad, I thought you said you “can’t sell cat poo online”.’
‘I did.’
‘I’m not following you.’
‘Llama poo is called “beans” and is very prized by gardeners due to its very rich texture and high phosphate content. It retails for around £35 a kilo.’
‘You’re going to get a llama for its poo?’
‘Two. I’m going to get two. They’re sociable pack animals and like company, and two pooing llamas are better than one, and I might even breed them, so I’ll get two females to start with.’
Although nothing my parents did really should surprise me any more I had to admit this had set me back a little – also if he planned to breed them he’d surely be better with a male and a female unless he’d decided to utilise some sort of artificial insemination technique. The picture dropped into my head of my dad approaching the rear end of a female llama with a large syringe filled with llama semen. I shook my head to get rid of the image and instead continued with my llama objections.
‘Aren’t they noisy?’
‘No, they hum a little.’
‘What, stink?’
‘No, hum as in humming a tune.’
‘They hum tunes?’
‘Well, now, I don’t know,’ he said, scratching his head. ‘I don’t think so. They just make a delightful little humming noise. There’s a website that shows some llamas humming. Do you want to see?’
‘Not right now, thank you. Don’t they spit at you?’
‘No, that’s a myth. They don’t do that unless they’re badly treated or stressed out.’
I reckoned anything, llama or otherwise, living with my mum and dad would be likely to get stressed out damn quickly but I didn’t share my thoughts. ‘You must need a licence or permission from the local authority, then?’
‘No, nothing at all, they’re an administrative joy. I might even invite our local MP over to view them.’
‘She probably won’t come. Is there enough space out here?’
‘For Moira?’
‘No, not Moira, the llamas?’
‘Yeah, just about, if I provide some hay or fodder to supplement the grass, which, by the way, I’ll never need to cut again.’
I’d run out of llama objections.
‘Do you want some coffee?’ My dad smiled, having outlasted me. ‘I’ve just brewed some in the “church”. Come on.’
I followed him around to shed number three, which had been designed and built as a small scaled-down version of the original church from Salem village, Massachusetts (as depicted in Arthur Miller’s The Crucible) complete with a small, square bell tower, clock, and double oak-panelled doors. I wasn’t sure what the Reverend Samuel Parris would have made of the irreligious interior though. As you stepped over the threshold the inside was reminiscent of an old country pub, complete with a shiny mahogany bar and wooden hand pumps connected to ale caskets underneath; a large TV sat on the wall and even a fully functioning fruit machine bleeped away in the corner.
Even though I’d been in here loads of times its authenticity always made me smile. When he shut the door, blocking out the views of the garden, you’d almost swear you were privy to some old-world pub lock-in event.
‘Can I tempt you with a pint of Leg Spreader?’
‘DAD!’
‘That’s what it’s called. Look.’
He pointed to the picture on the hand pump, which depicted a smiling buxom girl in a short skirt sitting on the ground with her legs open. A strategically placed pint glass of frothy ale hid her embarrassment.
I had to smile. ‘Yeah and I’m sure you just got it because it tastes nice.’
‘It’s a good pint actually. Bob likes it too.’
‘I’m sure he does.’ Bob is my dad’s best, and sometimes I think only, friend. Bob lives a quarter of a mile away, and, as well as sharing my dad’s love of wooden huts, is a web designer and fellow lecturer at my father’s university. He’s a lover of real ales, online gaming and collecting vintage comic books. Unsurprisingly, he’s also single and stares at my boobs whenever he sees me, which thankfully isn’t very often.
‘I’m fine with coffee, Dad, and I’m driving.’
‘You could always stay over; the house isn’t the same since you left.’
‘Dad, I’ve been gone for seven years now.’
‘I know, and I’ve still not got used to it.’
‘You should have had more than one kid, then.’
‘We should have but that wasn’t down to me; your mother had been so traumatised by your birth we barely had sex for—’
‘Ouch! Too much information, Dad.’ At least I knew where I got that trait from.
‘Oh, sorry, Kat, anyway, we’re fine now. We just miss having you around.’
He handed me a steaming mug of coffee and I sat on a bar stool while he stood behind the bar, polishing some glasses like a caricature publican. ‘Any change on the boyfriend front?’
Why did everyone need to know about my sex life, or, as it happened to be, my non-sex life? ‘No, Dad, no chance of any grandchildren any time soon.’
‘You’re nearly thirty now, Kat. You need to get out more. You spend too much time mooching about at home and, let’s face it, your job doesn’t exactly offer up the opportunity to meet anyone, does it?’
‘I had a cute corpse in recently. He sat up and said hello.’
He didn’t believe me. ‘Yeah, sure, Kat. You could tone down your make-up as well – you probably scare most men away.’
‘Dad, I’m Goth. It’s not a werewolf mask or anything. Underneath I’m a nice person. If I have to change who I am to try and attract someone, what does that say about me and what does it say about that person who’d only want to be with me if I pretended to be something I’m not?’
My dad blinked at me a few times, put down the glass he’d been polishing and said, ‘I’ve obviously hit a nerve again; maybe we should go back to talking about llamas?’
I laughed; my dad had always been great at dealing with my outbursts. ‘I think we’ve exhausted the llama dilemma. What does Mum think about it?’
‘She’s not said much. I suspect she thinks I won’t go through with it, but I will. I need a new hobby.’
I drained my mug and for the briefest of moments considered trying the Leg Spreader, but opted for another coffee instead. ‘I did actually meet a cute corpse, Dad.’
My dad stared at me for a moment, then shook his head. ‘Kat, that’s not even funny. You spend too much time in the morgue; it can’t be good for the mind, staring at corpses and doing whatever ghastly things it is that you do to them.’
‘Ghastly?’ I spluttered in disbelief, choking in laughter. ‘Did you actually say ghastly? Have we gone back to 1952?’
‘Ghastly is a perfectly respectable modern word, especially in relation to what you do to those poor dead people.’
‘They’re dead, Dad – well, usually – so they don’t know anything that’s happening to them. But it’s true, I had a live one recently. You might have read about it in the papers; he got mentioned in a few. He’d been brought in on the Saturday and I found him still alive on the Monday.’
‘I didn’t read anything about it in The Telegraph.’
I smiled. ‘No, you probably wouldn’t have. Anyway, he’s a cutie called Nathan Jones.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘He is.’
‘What’s his family history?’
‘I’m not really sure.’
I watched my dad as his brain whirred. ‘Jones, that’s a Patronymic name.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It’s a very old name meaning ‘derived from the father’. Back in the day some poor people didn’t have or know their surnames, so they only had a first name, usually John.’
‘What, everyone was called John?’
‘Not everyone, but lots of people, so they took the second name John as well.’
‘What, John John?’
‘Yeah.’
‘That’s silly. You can’t go around being called John John.’
‘Well, they did, becoming known as “two Johns”, which eventually morphed into “Jones”. That’s how it came about. There are other examples like—’
I held my hand up. ‘No, no, that’s enough, I’m bored now, but I’ll be sure and tell him that. I’m glad he’s called Nathan and not John – he’s cute.’
He wasn’t listening. ‘If we go into number one we could look it up on my database?’
‘Maybe in a minute, but I’m not sure it’s worth it.’
‘I thought you said he was cute.’ He had been listening.
‘He is, but why do I need to know his ancestry at this point?’
‘Might give you something to talk about on your next date.’
‘What date?’
‘Well, you said … I just assumed … Is he disabled after whatever happened to him?’
‘No, he’s married.’
‘Oh, that’s worse.’
‘What, being married is worse than being disabled?’
My dad laughed. ‘No … well, it feels like it sometimes … but no, I mean in terms of liking him, if he’s married then it’s a non-starter.’
‘His wife’s left him or is about to or something like that anyway.’
‘How do you know that? Has he told you?’
‘Just my intuition.’
‘Sounds a bit messy, Kat; do you really want to get involved? Can you not just try internet dating or something?’
‘Hayley did that. She hated it.’
‘Hayley’s too fussy.’
‘And you’re saying I’m not?’
‘I didn’t mean you, I meant Hayley. You’re fussy too but in a different way.’
‘I didn’t know there were different degrees of fussiness.’
‘There must be. Dr Dave.’
‘Don’t mention Dr Dave.’
‘I just did.’
‘I wish I’d never brought him to meet you – biggest mistake of my life.’
‘Bringing Dr Dave to meet us? He did come across as a queer fish.’
That shocked me. If my parents thought that about him, given their own eccentricities, he must have been a bloody borderline psychopath. Dr Dave Ross had worked with me some years before, and I’d unwisely become involved emotionally with him. Thankfully, he now lived and worked in London, far away from me. ‘Yeah, I shouldn’t have got involved with him in the first place. He wasn’t good for me.’
My dad knew better than to poke around in that sore. ‘What are you going to do about Mr Jones?’
‘Find out about his ancestry; c’mon, let’s fire up your search engine.’
‘And while we’re there I’ll show you the humming llamas.’
‘Great, I can’t wait.’
Sarcasm always missed my dad. ‘Right, we’ll look at that first, then, shall we?’