Something’s wrong. I know straight away as soon as I enter my house. The house I wish I could put a spell on to make go away. The first red flag is a blanket of warmth that covers me. I don’t understand. The gas hasn’t been paid for months, so was cut off. Hence no central heating. So where the fecking heck is this heat coming from now?
My disbelieving gaze finally catches up with my brain. The walls of the hallway are… Goodness me, they’re the same gleaming gloss white they were when I moved in. The broken bannister has been repaired. A spanking new runner with diagonal lines covers the stairs. That’s when I look down and notice the hardwood floor has been coated to a liquid-sheen of polished perfection it has never been before.
Reeling, I rush through each room, down and up. I’m in a state of shock. Everything is new or repaired – bathtub, taps, wardrobes, window frames, locks, kitchen units, sink… My beloved front room is restored, not exactly to my tastes, but you know what they say about beggars and choosing. I spin around near the gigantic rug relaxing in the middle of my favourite room. I stop when I catch my dad’s satisfied broad grin peering at me from the doorway.
‘How? When?’ I can barely get the jubilant words out. ‘Did you do this?’
He laughs. ‘Well, it weren’t the building fairies in the night now, was it?’ He chuckles this time, as pleased as punch with himself. ‘I got some of my lads to put everything back to rights. They’ve been working round the clock.’
We embrace partway across the room, a chorus of thank you, thank you muffled against his immense secure chest. And it’s just as well he’s holding me because there’s a weight dragging me, a weight of pure and utter relief – no, disbelief – that’s so intense the only way to respond is to collapse on the floor.
Dad must sense what I’m going through because he soothingly whispers, as if guiding my first steps into the world, ‘I’ve got you, love. I’ll always have you, my darling baby girl.’
A while later we’re side by cosy side on my new sofa – neutral white with large red buttons marking the cushion of each seat – nursing mugs of steaming coffee made from water run from my state-of-the-art mixer tap and brand new kettle with the temperature gauge up the side, a bit like the one in Michael’s kitchen in the bright light office above the trap door. The sizzling thrill that’s been running through me fades slightly. The last thing I need tarnishing the polish of my restored home is the brooding bleakness of the basement.
‘I thought you were angry with me the last time you were here,’ I say softly.
‘I was.’ Dad stops and places his cup on the sparkling glass side table. He visibly collects his thoughts before he starts again. ‘Years back, when I first arrived in London with me knapsack like Dick Whittington,’ we share a smile, ‘I found work on a big construction job. Massive building site. I got matey with a younger guy. We sorta looked out for each other.’ Dad’s features become cloudy. ‘But I couldn’t look after him the day he had a terrible accident—’
The harshness of my indrawn breath unsettles the ease in the room. ‘What happened? Did he die?’
Dad picks up his cup and sips slowly, then rests it against his thigh. ‘He was in a bad way. I only saw him once in the hospital. Then his family took him away. Never saw him again.’ Dad places his cup to rest on the table. ‘See that’s the thing with life, it can cut up rough, go sideways sometimes. One minute you’re on cloud nine, the next – bang! – you’re broken on the ground with no idea of how it happened.’ His whole body twists to face me. ‘I learned that early on as a kid. I needed you to be tough enough to survive. But I was wrong.’
His naked anguish hijacking his face makes my eyes widen. ‘This isn’t your fault, Dad. I should’ve come to you sooner—’
He bats my words away. ‘How could I have allowed a child of mine to end up in such a terrible situation? I shouldn’t have tried to mould you into something you’re not.’
‘What do you mean?’
He looks so helpless. ‘I should’ve realised your mum’s death hit you hard. All I could think about was her wanting you to be a woman of the world, so I had high expectations.’ The shake of his head is somehow more damning than what he’s telling me. ‘I couldn’t even see that they weren’t expectations but rocks and boulders I put on your grieving shoulders. I wasn’t there for you when I should’ve been.’
‘You were,’ I tell him with quiet conviction, although the truth is he was away a lot, as much as when Mum was alive. ‘Just as you are now. Thank you, Daddy.’ And I mean it from the bottom of my mending heart. Clichés are right and proper for moments like this.
Dad rubs his hands like the businessman he is. ‘Right, first thing I do when I leave here is put ten grand in your bank account. I’ll contact the mortgage company and put that right too. Then we’ll sort out the rest over another cuppa.’
#BrokeNoMore #CanAffordSex No more money worries. No more waking, covered in freezing sweat, in the dead of the night. No more. No more. No bloody damn more. Now it’s all done and dusted, it’s easy to sit here in the sparkling bliss of hindsight and beat myself up about not having the guts to come to Dad before. You know why you didn’t, Rachel, inner me niggles away. You know this was never only about your mum dying.
I suddenly notice a tension about Dad, like he’s gazing down the sheer drop of a cliff.
‘What is it, Dad?’
‘I managed to track down Philip’s family. I spoke with his mother.’
My heart drops onto the newly varnished floor. ‘What did you find out?’
Dad’s tongue peeps out to wet his lips or to gather the taste of coffee on them, I don’t know which, but I know this much – Dad is as nervous as heck.
Finally: ‘She told me that he didn’t die ten years ago. He passed away less than three weeks ago.’
Correction: Philip died ten years ago. Oh dear God. I’m shaking so bad even the wrap of my arms can’t help me. All the sobbing that tore me apart that summer comes back, choking and bulging in the very soul of me, threatening to rip every seam of healing I’d stitched into place. But I never healed, did I, not really. How can I when what I allowed to happen has haunted me ever since?
Seeing my distress, Dad is on his feet, already moving to the door. ‘I’m going to get you something stronger. There’s a bottle of brandy—’
My chaotic voice stops him. ‘No. I need to know what Philip’s mum told you because, Dad, I don’t understand how this can be. After…’ The words are there about what happened, but they refuse to be brought up to the light. ‘After it all happened and I asked you to contact his family, you told me that they said he was dead.’
I’m not accusing my dad of anything – let’s be clear about that – But…
‘What aren’t you telling me?’ I know he’s holding something back because he wears that same expression he wore when Mum passed – guilt. Like he blamed himself for what happened to her.
Dad retakes his seat, his hand reaches out for mine. Deliberately I lock my fingers in my lap; I don’t want comfort, only the truth.
He begins. ‘All those years ago his family, for whatever reason, refused to talk with me—’
‘But you told me you spoke with his mother ten years ago.’ The shocked words rush out of me with a burn that scorches my skin from toe to head.
‘I couldn’t make his family talk to me. What I could do was try to find out for myself. So I tracked down which hospital Philip was in.’ Dad shakes his head with a heavy-hearted sigh. ‘I wasn’t permitted to see him but one of the doctors told me that he was burnt so badly he wasn’t expected to last the night.’
My hands cover my quivering mouth with the horror of it. Images of Philip with tubes going in and out of him, motionless. God, so still, in a hospital room only fit for the dead, the flame in his dancing eyes snuffed out forever.
Dad keeps his distance. I respect him for that. This awful grieving is one I have to do on my own.
‘I really did think what I told you was the truth, love. I wasn’t keeping anything back. It’s just I had to deal with Danny…’
I reach out and take Dad’s hand. Squeeze. Wrapped in my own selfish grief, I’ve forgotten that Dad carries the burden of his friend’s tragedy too. The moisture in my mouth dries because I wish I could tell him… I don’t. Can’t. He’d hate me. I hate me. We sit there for… I don’t know how long, but it’s enough time for us to give a shoulder to each other’s grief.
‘Did his mother tell you how he died?’ I don’t recall my voice ever being so small.
Dad’s response is quiet too. ‘Philip was badly injured. After what the doctor told me, I can only conclude that Philip made it through all those years because he was strong—’
‘He was that.’ A strange smile flutters against my lips. Then is gone. ‘One of the strongest people I know… Knew.’
Dad’s expression tightens. ‘I never realised you were so close to him. I assumed he was a workmate you were merely concerned about.’
My face shutters. I’ve given too much away. Then again, this is Dad, the man who held my hand when I took my first steps as a toddler, so I give him a partial truth. ‘Philip was what I needed after Mum passed away.’
Dad scowls hard; there’s something beneath it I can’t identify. ‘Rachel, you and Philip never…’ He leaves it hanging, a father’s modesty with his daughter.
I shake my head. ‘No. It was never like that between us. What happened to him?’
Dad reaches for his drink and knocks it back in one. Keeps his palms round his mug. ‘His situation must’ve got too much for him. He booked himself into a euthanasia clinic in Switzerland.’
I try to control the quiver of my mouth, the involuntary clenching of my tummy. I can feel the walls of my tears crumbling inside. Then they come, a dam of pent-up emotions finally erupting. A horrible noise cracks at the base of my throat. My shoulders shake. And I’m crying and crying. Can’t stop. Finally understand I don’t have to stop. Dad takes me in his solid arms, which I’m eternally grateful for because I need someone to lean on during this time of intense self-revelation.
When there are no more tears left, I pull back and ask, ‘I’d like to go to his funeral. Can you fix that for me, Dad?’
The flash of irritation on Dad’s face startles me. ‘Rachel, that isn’t a good idea. His parents want a private family service. And you need to respect that. Just as they wanted their privacy ten years ago.’
He’s right, I know. Nevertheless it’s a crushing blow. Dad gently lays his large callused palms on my shoulder and turns me towards him. ‘Your life’s back on track, princess. It’s time to leave the past in the past. To look forward. This is our chance to steamroller ahead – together – no more secrets. To be open with each other.’ He leans over, kisses with the lightest touch on my cheek. ‘Let’s put the Rachel and Frank Jordan show back on the road.’
I hold the lighter in one hand and the funeral programme in the other over the sink. I’m alone now, ready to do one of the hardest things I will ever do. I press the lighter on and the flame holds me in its yellow-tipped blue-based flare. My hand trembles as the memories come and go like the swaying motion of the flame that warms my thumb. I shove the memories back with all the strength I have. Take the plunge while I’m still strong and touch the flame to the programme.
The growing flame hypnotises, chewing into the paper. Curls. Blisters and blackens over Philip’s beloved face. Nothing left but lifeless ash that drops and smoulders in the metallic matt of my new sink. Debts sorted, Philip laid to rest, it’s time to move on. Hand in my bye-bye letter to Michael. Time to shut the trap door on my job.
Still, a disquiet descends. You know, like the latest hit song that everyone’s raving to death about and you’re the only one that can hear the beat is lazy manufactured pop. I can’t quite figure it out at first. Then it hits. What are the chances I get a job and it turns out that the programme for Philip’s funeral service is being put together by the person sitting next to me? Coincidence? Six degrees of separation? It’s downright weird. Isn’t it?