CHAPTER 47

A couple of days trickled by, and we all got sick of sitting around indoors doing nothing, so I started going out to work with Evil Imelda. Annoyingly, I also began to wonder if she was actually that evil. She worked as a professional dog walker, and how could a professional dog walker be evil?

Imelda’s company was called Pooches with Paws, which I thought was kind of stupid because didn’t all pooches have paws? Maybe that was the whole point. She drove all around the neighbourhood in a special painted van, decorated with bright paw prints and cartoon pictures of every type of dog you can imagine.

On our walks I started to think that being a dog walker was the coolest job in the world. Getting to spend all day with different sorts of dogs, walking around and playing fetch. It sounded better than commodities, or whatever Kingsley did. Imelda told me it was harder than it looked, but she couldn’t see herself doing anything else.

I got to know some of the dogs. The best ones were a licky brown hound called Monty, a fluffy poodle called Charlie, and a multicoloured dog called Jed. Imelda said Jed was a Heinz 57 because he had that many types of beans in him. I didn’t know what she was on about.

Some of the dogs were a bit mean, like those small yappy ones that looked like bony roast chickens with all the meat taken off. Imelda kept those ones away from me and told me what not to do. Don’t stare into their eyes, don’t make sudden movements, don’t make loud noises. It reminded me of what not to do around Morag whenever the Big Bad Reds were particularly big, bad and red.

Usually we took the dogs to the park, but sometimes we drove out of town to an old quarry where the dogs could run around and be crazy. Somehow I always got caked in mud, so Imelda took me to get wellies from the shops. They made a fart sound whenever I walked, which was kind of funny.

“Jason does feel bad, you know,” Imelda said one day out of the blue, as we both stepped over a fallen log at the quarry. The dogs were darting around us in the bushes and play-fighting over sticks. “Your dad, I mean. He feels guilty.”

“For what?” I asked.

“Everything. For not being around to support you and Morag for so long, I guess.”

Morag always told me Dad didn’t want to know us, that he was focusing on his new life with Evil Imelda. But he had been teaching me guitar and forcing me to listen to his old CDs. He asked plenty of questions about my life. So I reckoned he did want to know me after all.

Imelda sighed. “He always wanted the whole two-kids-and-a-wife thing, but he just couldn’t make it work. Or not with Morag, at least. They both were living a bit of a rock-and-roll lifestyle when they met. But that kind of thing just doesn’t last for ever. They fell out of love. I think that was a blow to his self-esteem.”

We had talked about self-esteem in PSHE at school. Miss Carmichael told us that self-esteem was basically what we thought about ourselves in our heads. She said it was our beliefs and opinions about ourselves, and that self-esteem was important.

“Did his self-esteem go lower?” I asked.

“I think so, yeah.” Imelda seemed thoughtful. “He wanted to make everything work. For you and Morag. Things got difficult with Morag after a while, and she wasn’t happy. I think they weren’t a good match, which happens. It’s nobody’s fault, of course; sometimes things just don’t work out.”

“Maybe Morag had the Big Bad Reds all the time,” I muttered. “She can be proper hard work sometimes.”

“It was both of them, by the sounds of it. Of course, he’s never been great at talking about feelings.”

I knew what Imelda meant. I didn’t like talking about my feelings either. Most of my feelings were bad, or embarrassing, or got me into trouble. Talking about my feelings made bad things happen. It was best for me to press my feelings down, like overstuffing a suitcase.

“He did try to get in touch with you, you know,” Imelda said. “He did try to be a part of your life.”

“What?” I felt winded. “But Morag said he never… Morag told me he didn’t want to…” I stopped, worried I’d say something wrong.

“Yeah.” She nodded sadly. “He wanted to look after you every other weekend. Offered to send money. He did send money sometimes in the post, along with your birthday cards and gig invites. Morag said she didn’t need it. She sent the cash straight back to him in the exact same envelope. She said she could cope perfectly fine without your dad interfering.”

“Dad sent me birthday cards?” I felt all light-headed, as though I might float away in the breeze. I’d never had a birthday card from Dad in my life. “But Morag never gave them to me!”

“I know.” Imelda sighed, rummaging through her pockets for dog treats. “I think Morag prefers to cope all on her own. She sent a pretty clear message about that. Then your dad gave up trying to send money and cards.”

I couldn’t believe what Imelda was telling me. Why would Morag return Dad’s money when money was something we didn’t have enough of? If she’d taken the money to begin with, none of this would have happened. No funeral crashing, no stealing school uniforms, no baggy suits from the charity shop.

Why would Morag hide away my birthday cards? For years I’d thought that Dad didn’t care about me at all. If I ever asked about him, Morag wafted him away like a bad smell.

Anger started bubbling up inside me. Morag never made much sense to begin with, but every time I learned something new about her, she got even more confusing.

“Don’t blame her, Solo.” Imelda broke my silence. “She was really struggling, evidently. Plus, everyone gets wound up and overwhelmed sometimes. Morag isn’t the only one. Not by a long shot.”

“Do you ever get overwhelmed?”

Imelda laughed. “Oh, yes, if only you knew. Sometimes I want to flip my lid when your dad leaves beard trimmings all over the bathroom sink. That’s not even the half of it! The Big Bad Reds are actually pretty normal, Solo.”

I felt bad again. If Imelda got overwhelmed by a few beard hairs, she must have hated me for throwing a whole plate of curry at the wall. I stared down at my muddy wellies.

We walked on in silence for a bit while the dogs zigged and zagged around us. No one had ever told me the Big Bad Reds were normal. Was it really true that everybody got them? I thought Morag was the only one, like she was patient zero and everyone else caught them from her. It felt good knowing that I was wrong about that. Then I felt bad for blaming Morag the whole time.

There still hadn’t been any news about Morag. The story had gone into even more newspapers and been on the telly. Dad and Imelda said I wasn’t allowed to watch the news, and I wasn’t allowed on social media. At first I kicked off a bit, but it was probably a good idea.

“What was Dad’s band called?” I asked, changing the subject. Dad talked about his band all the time, but went cagey whenever I asked him about the name.

Imelda smirked. “You honestly don’t want to know. Trust me, Solo.”

“Go on!” I pleaded. “Tell me. You can’t keep it secret for ever. I’ll find out one way or another!”

“Fine. They went by the name of the Loco Parentals. Dead cringe, isn’t it? They changed the name after they all became dads.”

I made a mental note to search for them on the internet when we got home. I didn’t know what Loco Parentals meant, but I actually liked the sound of it. I wondered what other history there was to find out about Dad.