‘Hello, darling! Come in! Just wait ’til you see what I’ve cooked up for you today.’ Dad stood in the open doorway; a wooden spoon in one hand, a blow-torch in the other and his face shiny with sweat. His still-thick, grey hair appeared slightly damp and my mother’s floral pinny, which he always wore when cooking, was splashed with a variety of substances.
He lived in Chippenham, a market town less than thirty miles from Bristol and we tried to meet for Sunday lunch at least once, and often twice, a month, taking it in turns to host. My lunches were usually some form of easy roast, with an accompaniment of standard vegetables. He had, of late, been altogether more adventurous, often with slightly unpalatable results.
‘I’d be happy to wait forever,’ I said, ‘if today’s offering is anything like your broccoli soufflé.’
He chuckled. ‘You’re my harshest critic, you know. Everybody else loved it.’ He gave me a side-long glance and winked.
‘Please tell me you haven’t made it for anyone else.’
He put an arm around me and shepherded me into the hallway. ‘I confess, I haven’t. Not my favourite dish. Here, let me take that for you,’ he said, relieving me of my coat, hanging it on the hat-stand and peering down at me over his glasses. ‘Now, let me look at you.’
I sighed.
‘None of that,’ he said. ‘As your father, it is my job to make sure you’re looking after yourself and,’ he pushed his glasses up his face and attempted to look stern, ‘you’re looking a little thin, darling. Mind you,’ he smiled, ‘with your cooking, that’s hardly surprising.’
I kissed his cheek. ‘How dare you.’
‘I dare, because I have to eat it.’ He winked again. ‘Now, come into the kitchen and I’ll show you what I’m up to. You might learn something.’
We walked along the hallway, past its memory-hung walls, towards the kitchen. Just before we entered, he paused and pointed up at a photograph of my mother as a young woman. She was sitting at a table, her head resting on her hands, whilst smiling mischievously up at the photographer – my father.
‘I was thinking,’ he said, ‘that you should take that one with you. You look so like her these days.’ He gazed up at the framed black-and-white print and then at me. ‘Same smile, same elfin nose. Yes,’ he sighed, ‘very like her, except for the hair. She had curls, of course. But it was the exact same shade of auburn: to the shoulder, like yours. And the same darkest brown eyes.’ He turned to look at her again. ‘The very image…’ he murmured.
‘Why don’t I take a copy,’ I said, touching his arm, ‘and then let you have it back? It’d be a shame to break up the group.’ The picture sat amongst relaxed portraits of Dad and other university contemporaries. Mum had told me they were all taken in the summer of 1963.
He tore his eyes away from the picture and smiled at me. ‘Yes. You’re right. Let’s get a copy.’ He slapped a hand to his forehead. ‘Now, why didn’t I think of that? That’s age, you see.’
I laughed and looked again at the photograph. My mother had died nine years earlier. Her loss was, of course, devastating for Dad and myself. But as well as taking comfort in each other, we had each benefitted from the support of friends and wider family. I, in particular, had Miriam and Lydia, with whom I was sharing a house at the time. As for Dad, he not only determinedly accepted invitations to dinner from work colleagues and existing friends but also made the, in my opinion, very brave decision to make new friends and take up new hobbies. This pleased but surprised me at the time, as Mum had definitely been the more sociable and outgoing of the pair. And it was some time before I would learn that his new-found enthusiasm for socialising was not, as I had assumed, a personal coping mechanism. He did it, initially at least, entirely for me. Several years after her death, he explained that he had been determined not to give me cause for concern about whether he was lonely or depressed. And it was for this reason alone that, just a few months after Mum passed away, he joined a local choir and the widow and widowers’ club of which his neighbour, Trevor, was a member. As it turned out, his decision was beneficial to us both. It provided me, as he had hoped, with peace of mind that he was not home alone every evening, and the various widow/widower events of walks, talks, dinners and quiz nights provided him with regular, welcome distractions from the fact that Mum had gone.
Nine years on and he rarely spent an entire evening at home. The choir accounted for just one evening out of seven, but the club, whilst officially only a once-monthly meet, afforded an extraordinary number of spin-off social events. And Dad was in particular demand – he and Trevor being two of just four widowers amongst over a dozen or so widows – and it was an unusual week when he wasn’t attending at least one wedding, birthday party or dinner in the role of platonic male escort.
He mentioned one of his club friends now, as he took my hand and led me into a steam-filled kitchen. ‘Today, I am cooking one of Hilary’s favourite recipes,’ he said. ‘It involves steaming.’
‘No kidding.’ I removed my cardigan and fanned my face with my hand. ‘It’s like a sauna in here. My pores are gaping. And what,’ I gestured towards the blow-torch still in his hand, ‘is that for?’
‘Oh, this,’ he said, placing it on the kitchen island, ‘is for the crème brûlée. I’d just fetched it from the shed when you arrived. They used one on MasterChef the other day. It all looked very easy, so I thought I’d have a little go.’
‘Right.’ I opened one of the low cupboards to check that the small fire extinguisher I had bought for him a couple of months earlier was still easily accessible. ‘Tell me about lunch.’
‘Well,’ he began, his eyes dancing at the thought, ‘I’m steaming fish in the oven and vegetables on the hob.’
He talked for several minutes about where to find the best sea bass and the perils of adding too much ginger, with me tuning-in only when a food item capable of hospitalising us if incorrectly cooked, was mentioned. In preference to focusing on the culinary details, I took the opportunity, while he was distracted, to assess his physical state. I had been concerned to find him looking a little leaner, and sounding a little down, when we had last lunched. But I was relieved to see that he now seemed fully-recovered; he appeared to have regained any weight he might have lost and his energetic air had returned.
‘And you said this is a friend’s recipe?’ I asked.
He dipped a teaspoon into a greenish sauce and prepared to taste. ‘Well, it’s actually an adaptation of one of Hilary’s recipes,’ he replied, removing a lid from a pan and releasing yet more water vapour into the already heavily saturated atmosphere. I ran a hand through my hair, as it began to admit defeat and frizz.
‘Oh,’ I said, experiencing a slight anxiety about the nature of his adaptations. ‘Is she a keen cook?’
‘Yes, she is.’ He leaned over the pan. ‘And a very keen walker: Mendips, Gower, Cotswolds. But anyway…’ He cleared his throat. ‘Did I tell you that I’ve made myself some marvellous new slipper insoles from the bathroom linoleum offcuts? They insulate and they’re non-slip. Oh, and Robert across the road has offered to take me out on his new motorcycle.’
He spoke rapidly and although I was well-used to his mid-conversation subject changes, three topics in a single breath was exceptional, even for him. I chose a subject.
‘When you say Robert, you don’t mean Odd Bob, do you?’
‘I mean Robert at number 21,’ he said, ‘with the special friend.’
‘The special friend in his head,’ I clarified.
He nodded absently, distracted by the ongoing tasting process. ‘That’s right.’
I felt sure there must be some misunderstanding. ‘And he’s got a motorbike? A real one? Not just imaginary?’
He looked at me. ‘Of course it’s a real one, darling. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to invite me to ride on it with him, would he?’ He smiled. ‘It’s white with a blue stripe.’
I was horrified. ‘But he was banned from driving on the grounds of insanity, wasn’t he?’
‘His moods do tend to go up and down a little bit but he’s not been banned from riding a motorcycle.’
I took a deep breath and spoke slowly in an effort to keep my voice calm. ‘Dad, last year he set fire to his shed, rather than dismantle it. That’s not normal behaviour.’
‘But you can see his logic, can’t you?’ he smiled. ‘He simply reasoned that it was much cheaper than hiring a skip.’
There was a pause, during which he recommenced tasting and I experienced a rising panic over the possibility of my father careering around Chippenham with a man who regularly shopped in his pyjamas.
‘We’re never too old for anything, you know,’ said Dad quietly, staring thoughtfully down at the cooker.
I looked at him and frowned. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ I asked, prodding his upper arm. ‘My objection has nothing to do with time of life and everything to do with the fact that Robert has an unhealthy fascination with fire and a distinct look of Norman Bates about him. I don’t mind you having a ride on a motorbike – just not that one and not with him.’
He looked up at me, appeared confused for a moment and then smiled. ‘Oh I’m sorry, darling. My mind had wandered. Of course I know you’re quite right about Robert and the motorcycle.’
I felt relieved and kissed his cheek. ‘And I agree with you completely,’ I said. ‘It’s never too late for anything.’
He replaced the various pan lids, turned and hugged me. ‘You are your mother’s daughter, you know,’ he said. Then he looked down, returning his attention to the hob. ‘Now,’ he continued, suddenly brisk, ‘I think this is ready. Let’s go and eat.’
Lunch was edible, although we both agreed that consumption would have been entirely possible through a straw, due to over-steaming.
‘I must check those timings with Hilary,’ said Dad, as he sat down in an armchair and accepted the cup of tea I had made for him. ‘Thank you, darling. Yes, I’m not sure the spinach should have been quite so…’
‘Liquid?’ I suggested, sitting down on the sofa and sipping my own tea.
‘You’d like Hilary, I think,’ he said. ‘And I’ve managed to mend the Hoover.’
For some reason, I felt vaguely unsettled by yet another hasty change of subject, but the opportunity to dwell was snatched away by his next enquiry.
‘So, what are you up to over the coming week? Any plans?’
I sighed at his emphasis of the word ‘plans’. I knew full well what he meant. ‘I haven’t got a date. If I did have one, I would tell you.’
He looked puzzled. ‘But what about the nice Scottish undertaker you mentioned?’
I smiled. ‘Oh, Hugh. Well,’ I hesitated, before deciding that I didn’t wish to extend the topic, ‘he’s away at the moment.’
‘And what about when he gets back?’ he persevered. ‘Is he a nice boy?’
‘I’ve only had one quick cup of coffee with him,’ I began, determined to restrict myself to fact-based objectivity, ‘but he wasn’t unpleasant. He enjoys battle re-enactment.’ I placed my cup of tea on the coffee table beside me. ‘And cutting up dead people,’ I concluded.
Dad’s eyes twinkled. ‘Well, that all sounds most promising.’
‘Doesn’t it just.’
He smiled. ‘You mustn’t be afraid to embrace the new.’
I shook my head. ‘No,’ I said, ‘I mustn’t. And I promise I will. After all, you certainly embrace it.’
‘What?’ He physically jumped, causing his tea to slop from cup to saucer. ‘Whatever makes you say that?’
‘Well, you do!’ I exclaimed, amused by his reaction. ‘You’re so busy and so eager to try new things. It’s wonderful. I love to see you booked-up and surrounded by so many friends.’
‘Oh, I see,’ he said, nodding. ‘Silly me. Look what I’ve done with my tea.’ He tipped the contents of the saucer back into the cup and turned to look out of the bay window behind him. ‘Yes, I’m very blessed,’ he said after a moment, smiling and raising a hand as the young family who lived next door walked past. ‘But I do miss your mother,’ he said, ‘every day.’
I said nothing, but instead picked up my tea and blinked back a tear. He turned to look at me. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, darling. I don’t mean to upset you.’ He looked anxious. ‘I’m not at all unhappy. I just mean I think about her. I remember her. Remember is a better word.’
I smiled but he still looked uncomfortable, before embarking upon what seemed like yet another swift change of subject.
‘So, I’ve been meaning to ask you,’ he began. ‘How is Jon?’
‘Jon?’
‘Yes, Jon.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘How is he getting on?’
‘He’s well, but very busy at work,’ I said. ‘I saw him a couple of weeks ago for a drink and he’ll be at book group on Tuesday.’
Dad nodded, smiled, took a breath as if to speak, exhaled and nodded again.
I felt intrigued. ‘What brings him to mind?’ I asked.
He drank his tea. ‘Oh, no particular reason. Although, you did mention that it was his wedding anniversary recently. I remember having a long chat with him a good while ago: it was at your book group dinner, I think. Such a lovely chap. And a very handsome fellow. We have a lot in common.’
I laughed. ‘Yes, both lovely and very handsome.’
He looked at me and smiled. ‘That’s not quite what I meant, darling.’
‘I know. But it’s true just the same. And like you, he’s not short of admirers – or so his PA says.’
He looked at me over the top of his teacup. ‘You’ve not talked to him about it?’
I shook my head. ‘But I’m sure he’d tell me if there was anything to tell.’
He said nothing, his expression remaining uncharacteristically serious.
‘You mustn’t worry about him, Dad,’ I reassured. ‘He’s like you. He’s not at all unhappy.’
He nodded slowly, as if deep in thought, and then smiled. ‘Well, how could he be anything but happy, with you for a friend?’
I rolled my eyes and smiled, and then, deciding that a change of subject and mood might now be a good idea, I asked, ‘So, how about a walk?’
He gasped and looked at his watch. ‘My goodness. I didn’t realise how time had marched on.’
‘There’s still plenty of time,’ I assured him. ‘I’m not in a hurry to be away, if you’d like a walk.’
‘I would, I would. A leg stretch is an excellent idea,’ he said, suddenly standing up. ‘I, er, just have to make a two-minute phone call and then we can go and blow away the cobwebs. And while we’re out,’ he said, getting up and heading into the hallway, ‘I can explain the benefits of my new slipper insoles in greater detail.’