It’s Saturday and I wake up with a nose full of snot. I lie in bed, blinking at the light. My eyes feel like they’re sweating.
The phone goes. I think about leaving it but know Mum and Simon won’t get up. He makes her breakfast in bed on Saturdays. I usually hear him imitating the noise of a coffee machine, like on that advert. Then she moans that he gets muesli in the sheets.
RING. RING. RING. RING. The phone keeps going and my head feels like it might roll off my body, it’s so heavy when I get up.
‘Joanna?’
Dad. He’s in a phone box. His money’s clanking.
Then I think. He’s probably called every Saturday. Probably he’s called every Saturday and I haven’t known because I’ve been at the shop. Probably he’s called every Saturday and no one bothered to tell me.
‘Joanna?’
Or perhaps this is the first time he’s called. He could have called me at Buggery’s. He could have found out the number.
‘Is that you, love?’
I could refuse to speak. I could slam the receiver down like Joan Collins in Dynasty.
‘You’ve a right to be angry. I’m sorry I haven’t called before. I’ve been working nights. It’s been a bit – difficult.’ My just-woken-up breath stinks in the receiver.
‘Are you all right?’
I sniff.
‘Have you got a cold?’
I sniff again.
‘Listen,’ he says. Lowers his voice. ‘Why don’t you come and see me? Would you? I’d really like it if you would.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Darvington. Didn’t your mum tell you? You can get the bus.’
‘Can’t you come and pick me up?’
‘Your mother’s got the car, Joanna.’
‘I’ve got a cold.’
‘Please come,’ the pips start to go. ‘It’s Two Saxton Close.’
The line dies.
I don’t bother calling Buggery to tell him I won’t be in.
I wear the coat Simon bought me. I want Dad to ask me about it, but I’m not sure what I’ll say when he does.
The sky’s blue and the freezing air makes my eyes feel less burny. The pavements shimmer with frost, like shop displays at Christmas.
The heater on the bus blasts my ankles but nothing else feels hot. Everyone who gets on comments on the weather, claps their hands together and breathes into them, stamps their feet, then sits there steaming. By the time we’re halfway to Darvington, the bus smells like wet dog. I get my compact out to re-dust my nose. The powder’s started to crack around my crusty nostrils. My lips are tight. If I stretch the lower one the wrong way it’ll split and bleed. I do it, taste blood, then slick lipstick over the top.
Dad’s flat is on an estate just like ours. There’s a pushchair, an old TV, a pile of wet newspapers and a black bin liner full of empties in the hallway. I climb the concrete stairs and stop outside the door. His number two sticker is peeling off around the edges.
Before I can knock, Dad’s opened up. ‘I thought I heard your shoes,’ he says.
He looks neat. Blond hair brushed to the side. Clean-shaven. Blue Stratos. I bought him that last Christmas. He’s never worn it before.
He holds the door open and I walk in.
‘I wanted to get the place straight, before you came. That’s another reason I didn’t phone before. Not that it matters now.’
And it is neat, just like him. But it’s like he’s piled all his stuff around the sides of the room. Everything’s arranged around a small rug in the centre of the floor. Record player. Stacks of albums. A couple of dumb-bells (new). A pile of paperbacks. Two chairs that look like they belong in a pub. A portable TV in the corner.
‘Well,’ he says, looking round. ‘It’s coming on. Tea?’ And he disappears into the kitchen.
I hear the tap choking, the water gushing out, Dad saying ‘shit’.
There’s a photo of me, aged about six, in a frilly frame on top of the portable TV. I’m wearing a green zip-up cardigan and wellies, and I’m grinning. Dad bought me the wellies. Mum asked him why he bothered. ‘It’s not like we go anywhere there’s mud,’ she said. ‘Sensible people stick to the pavement.’ But I loved jumping in puddles, splashing dirt up my cream tights. I’d pick it off later, leaving balls of fluffy mud on my bedroom carpet.
‘You can take your coat off.’ Dad turns in a circle on the rug, looking for somewhere to put the mugs down.
It’s too cold in here to take anything off, but I unbutton. Dad watches me. ‘That’s new,’ he says. ‘It’s nice.’
‘Simon bought it.’
Dad nods quickly then looks away. He gestures towards a chair, spills a bit of tea, rubs it into the rug with his toe.
I throw the coat into a corner.
We sit on the pub-like chairs. Dad hands me my tea and puts his down on the floor. Then he presses his palm to my forehead. ‘You’re hot,’ he says. ‘I’ll get some aspirin.’ He’s up and out into the kitchen again. I hear him rummaging in drawers, opening cupboards. ‘There’s some here somewhere,’ he calls. ‘Just a matter of finding the buggers.’
After a minute, Dad comes back. ‘Can’t find them. Sorry.’ He shows me his empty palms. ‘Useless.’
I smile and my lip splits again.
Dad stands there for a bit longer, empty hands hanging at his sides. ‘Sorry,’ he says.
I sniff and swallow.
‘I have got tissues.’ And he’s off. Cupboards and drawers opening, doors banging.
He hands me a battered box. ‘Mansize,’ he announces.
I take one and blow.
He puts a palm on my forehead again. This time he presses so hard that my head touches the wall behind.
‘Do you want to lie down?’
‘No.’
Dad nods at my coat on the floor. ‘It’s nice, that. Must have set him back a bit.’
There’s a silence while Dad chews his bottom lip and twists his watch round on his wrist. He’s lost weight.
‘Do you get on, then? With him?’
‘He’s a dickhead.’
Dad looks surprised for a second. Then he slaps the top of the portable, throws his head back and laughs. We both laugh. I laugh until I start to cough. I taste the blood from my lip. Then we laugh some more.
Afterwards, Dad says, ‘Shall we go out? Do you think you’ll be OK? I was thinking we could go out. Pub lunch. A treat. Would you like to? We could, if you want.’
When I stand up he stops gabbling and stares. Then he covers his mouth with one hand and screws up his eyes and looks like he might burst. He puts his free arm round my shoulder. Brings me in close. His chest heaves. I smell him beneath the Blue Stratos. A smell like fresh mud. A Dad smell.
Phlegm rattles in my throat. Dad puts both arms round me.
‘Lemonade? Good for colds. Best thing. Vitamin C.’
‘Coke,’ I say. ‘No ice.’
It’s warm in the pub. Even with my blocked nose, I can smell the fug. Unwashed carpets, spilled beer, fag ends, old chip fat. I like it.
While Dad’s at the bar, I go to the loo. The doors are thick with paint. There’s grime around every handle. The window’s open and it’s freezing. Artificial flowers, grey with dust, shiver in the breeze.
I sit on the bog and the seat’s so cold it burns my bum. There’s no lock. I get a bit of pee on one hand because I have to keep the other on the door in case anyone comes in.
When I’m done, I stand at the sink and look in the mirror. Someone’s scraped ‘I LOVE COCK’ into the paint beneath. Only too much paint has chipped off and it looks more like ‘I LOVE COOK.’
My face is as yellow as my hair. My nose is as red as my Scarlet Fever lipstick.
I take the end of my lipstick brush and scrape Shane’s name into the paint, underlining it, twice.
Then I fish my can of Elnett out of my bag, spray, and go back to the bar.
Dad’s sitting at a corner table, fingering a wilted menu. ‘Hi,’ he says, as if we didn’t arrive together and it’s the first time he’s seen me today.
‘Hi.’
‘They do everything in here. Burgers. Sausage. Steak Pie. Chicken Kiev. Scampi.’
‘I’m not very hungry.’
‘Feed a cold, starve a fever. You should eat something.’
‘Maybe I’ve got a fever.’
A woman with crystal drop earrings and a red mouth puckered like an x is staring at us from the bar. She twiddles an empty glass round in one hand. The slice of lemon inside flops from one side to the other.
Dad sees me looking at her. ‘She’s a friend,’ he says, nodding in her direction. And that’s enough to make her walk over, her x mouth unpuckering into a smile.
‘Is this your girl, Dan?’
‘This is my Joanna.’
The woman studies me. She waves her empty glass towards Dad. ‘It’s about time love, isn’t it?’ she says, putting a hand on Dad’s shoulder. ‘She’s a lovely looking girl, Dan.’
‘She is.’
She bends towards me and the crystal drops swing forward to her chin. ‘Look after your dad, Joanna. He deserves it.’ I smell gin.
After she’s gone, Dad downs half his pint. ‘Joan,’ he says, shaking his head and smiling. ‘She means well.’ He glances at the bar and she raises her glass to him. ‘Looks out for me.’
‘Do you know everyone in here?’
‘I’ve come in quite a bit. It was lonely. You know. At first.’ He looks into his pint. ‘Anyway. You’re here now.’ He pats my knee.
‘I’ll have a burger,’ I say. ‘No onion.’
He goes to the bar, gets another pint.
We sit looking at the door, as if we’re waiting for someone else to appear.
‘How’s your mother?’ Dad asks.
‘She’s fine. The usual.’
Dad nods. ‘I don’t hear from her.’ He sups his pint. Pauses. ‘And school. How’s school?’
‘Usual.’
‘Shane?’
I don’t say anything for a while. I study the swing doors, imagining him pushing his way in.
‘Joanna?’
‘He’s – usual.’
‘Do you see him much?’
‘More than usual.’ A hotness pulses in my face. I look down at the menu. ‘Have they got ice cream?’
‘You’re looking after each other?’
‘Yes.’
Dad puts his elbows on the table and breathes out through his nose. The sleeve of his jumper dips in a puddle of beer. ‘He needs looking after, you know. It’s not his fault. Any of it.’
My eyes feel hot again. ‘What isn’t?’
‘Being – like he is. It’s not his fault.’
I run a finger down the condensation on my glass, tracing the bump near the lip. I think about my hand in Shane’s pocket.
Dad drains his pint. ‘It’s not been easy for Sheila.’
‘No.’
‘Or for me.’ He looks into his empty glass. ‘Want another?’
When Dad comes back from the bar, I’ve destroyed his beer mat. Shreds of soggy cardboard are scattered across the table. But he manages to clear a little space for his pint. ‘How’s school?’
‘You already asked me that.’
‘Oh.’ He gulps more beer, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and belches softly.
‘Are you remembering what I told you? About working hard?’
I flick my hair over my shoulder. ‘Simon’s helping me with my homework.’
Dad’s knee jiggles up and down, making the table shake.
Then a red-faced girl arrives, puffing like a bull. ‘One burger. One pie. That’s it.’ She crashes the plates down on the table and swings back round towards the bar. Pieces of beer mat go flying into our laps.
My burger bun has already gone limp. I bite into a chip. Everything tastes of snot today.
Dad picks up his knife and fork and releases the steam from his pie lid. ‘He’s the brainy type, then.’
‘Kind of.’
Dad loads his fork with pie, blows. ‘You can do it on your own, anyway. No need for extra help.’
‘It keeps him quiet.’ I wipe my mouth on a stiff serviette and examine the browned blobs of lipstick I’ve left behind. I give it a minute, then I say, ‘Why did you leave?’
He swallows. ‘I thought you knew.’
‘The Power of Love’ comes on the jukebox. Jennifer Rush. I hate that one.
‘I tried with your mother, God knows. But in the end – ’ he looks off towards the swing doors, searching for something. ‘There’s not much you can do when you find out you don’t want to be together any more.’
I look up to the bar and Joan raises her glass to me.
Dad reaches over the table for my hands. His fingers are damp and hot. ‘You’re cold,’ he says.
‘I’m ill.’
‘I’m sorry.’ His eyes look massive and black. His eyebrows strain in his forehead.
‘It’s OK,’ I say, hoping he won’t cry.
‘I didn’t know what to do.’
His fingers are tight on mine. I think of how I never showed him the rip in my palm that day at the pools.
‘Dad.’
‘Yes, love?’
‘I’ve got to blow my nose.’
He lets go of my hands and I rummage in my bag for a tissue. They’re all reduced to strings. I blow, and taste the saltiness
of snot on my upper lip.
It takes Dad five goes to get the gas fire lit. Finally it bangs into life and I kneel in front of the burners, warming my hands in the hissing heat.
Dad comes in with the tea. ‘Get that down you.’
We drink. After a bit, he says, ‘Is there anything you need?’
‘Like what?’
‘Anything. I’m still your dad. It’s my job to get you whatever you need.’ His voice sounds scratchy and worn out.
‘I don’t need anything.’
‘What about Shane? Does he need anything, do you think?’
I look over at him. He’s slumped in the chair, eyes closed. His chin looks baggier than it used to. His checked shirt pokes through a small hole in the elbow of his jumper. He opens his eyes and catches me staring. ‘Something the matter, love?’
I shrug and he comes and kneels by me. We sit in silence and breathe in the burning dust.
Then Dad talks again, and he sounds weird, whispery but urgent, like he’s been running. ‘I should have told you something ages ago.’ He coughs and there’s a smell of beer. ‘I meant to. But it was difficult. I suppose it’s all right, now.’ The gas fire’s scorching my sleeve. I wonder if it’s possible for your clothes to melt while you’re wearing them and still not feel warm.
‘Thing is.’ He pauses, gives me a look.
‘What?’
‘Perhaps I shouldn’t.’
I wait for him to say it.
He does a little cough. ‘The thing is. You should know something.’
‘What?’
‘I think Shane might be – close. To you. To us.’
Could he know about my hand searching in Shane’s pocket? About the feathers in my hair? About the way I nearly slipped down the bank into the pool last night when he shoved his fingers past the elastic of my knickers?
‘I mean, I think he could be related.’
‘What?’
‘You know. Family.’
‘Family?’ I look at Dad then. I see his hopeful, nervous smile.
‘I think he might be my son, love.’
The snot in my nose makes my face ache.
‘Sheila says not. But I think he might be.’ Dad stares into the orange gassy glow. ‘I think your mother suspects.’
I fix my eyes on the hole in his jumper.
‘It’s probably one of the reasons things went wrong for us.’
I think, stop talking. Stop talking.
‘I’m not sure. He looks nothing like me, of course…’
Stop talking.
‘But I’ve got this – feeling, you know?’
I can’t move.
‘I’d like to tell him. But I don’t suppose it would do any good.’
Then he puts his hand on my head. It’s heavy and hot. He strokes my hair.
‘So you two have to look after each other for me.’
Stop talking.
‘Understand?’
Each time his hand falls on my head it’s like he’s pressing me down a bit more. Pressing and holding.