MARA
I insisted that we sit at the table for tea. Dad just grunted in response but I was determined to ignore him. It was usually the best thing to do. Dad’s grumpiness was barely skin-deep, an annoying habit rather than his nature and is best sidestepped. It was a crutch, really – unfortunately one he’d become very reliant on over the last couple of years. A little like the newspaper he refused to move while I laid the table around him.
‘Could you not move that?’
Dad sighed and in painful slow motion folded his newspaper in half while I put the food on the table but not without me catching sight of him smirking. Oh, you are a belligerent old sod, I thought as I slipped a coaster under his can of Fosters.
‘I don’t bother about that, love.’
‘You don’t usually bother with the table at all,’ I said, a little more sharply than I’d intended. But any contrition I felt at snapping at him was short-lived. I watched him and Ed share a complicit snigger. I frowned. It was meant to be Ed and me enduring him, not Dad and Ed putting up with me!
‘It’s been ages since I’ve had a home-cooked meal, love,’ Dad said, wiping the look off his face.
‘Don’t you go next door on a Monday any more?’
‘Oh yes, but that was Monday, wasn’t it?’ And for a moment, his long-dormant cheekiness twinkled in his eyes. My heart softened. It was always like this, visiting Dad. Feeling full of love and empathy one moment, sharply irritated the next, then settling on a general feeling of sadness and regret.
Two years on, Dad hadn’t really moved on after Mum up and left him for Roger – some man with a tan who seemed to come out of thin air. None of us had ever heard of him, that was for certain. When we questioned her, all she said was that she’d had enough. Actually, it was more along the lines of – ‘Why? Why? Isn’t it obvious? I’ve had enough! E-bloody-nough! I want more from life than sitting around watching the bleedin’ telly!’
She packed her clothes and jewellery into two suitcases and went to live with Roger in Tenerife. Just like that. Thirty-five years of marriage and she left with two bags. It broke Dad’s heart, it did. And it broke my heart to see him like this, the sad old sack. But he was also the sad old sack that Mum had got completely fed up with, and more and more I could see why, though I wished I couldn’t.
After dinner, Ed started on the dishes and I switched from thinking about Dad to thinking about how I would broach the subject of Rebecca. Ed would have his hands busy and he wouldn’t have to look at me as I did the drying up. Dad would be settled in front of the telly so no need to worry about him.
‘I’ll put away then, shall I?’ Dad said.
‘You don’t have to Dad, you go and relax.’
‘No, I’d like to. I spend too many evenings alone in front of the box.’
‘Right. Of course.’
I wished I didn’t feel so disappointed. Of course he wanted to spend time with his twins. I shouldn’t feel upset about it. What kind of daughter would feel upset about that? So, very slowly, Dad put the dishes away in the tiny cupboards. Usually I found the pokey little cupboards, unchanged since the sixties, comforting. I was proud of them and their history and lack of space for big modern plates. But I opened them and felt slightly depressed that evening.
Dad told us a story from the garage. I wasn’t listening properly to start with, too preoccupied with wanting to speak with Ed. But, as he spoke, he became perkier than I’d seen him in months. His brusqueness fell away and he was as grateful as a puppy for the company. The guilt of not visiting more piled up on my shoulders as I dried and by the time the dishes were done, I heard myself saying I’d join him in front of a Top Gear rerun.
‘A Jeremy Clarkson fan are we now, Mars?’ Ed asked me, his head in a cupboard looking for biscuits.
‘You know perfectly well I am not a fan of Jeremy twatting Clarkson.’
Ed withdrew his head, a packet of Penguins in his hand and a big grin on his face.
I snatched the biscuits out of his hand and marched into the lounge.
I amazed myself by lasting twenty whole minutes in front of the television without throwing a single Penguin at the screen. I was sure that the more Penguins I ate, the less guilty I felt about not coming more often. It didn’t stop anyone on Top Gear being a complete jerk, of course, but I made a mental note to eat chocolate before I pitched up to Dad’s. But twenty minutes was still my absolute limit, and I kissed Dad on the forehead and went upstairs to find Ed, who had disappeared after only ten!
Ed’s door was shut. I knocked softly and opened it. There he was, sitting on his old single bed with a box half unpacked all over the bed.
‘Taking a walk down memory lane?’ I asked him and closed the door behind me.
‘Something like that,’ he said, looking a little sheepish.
I sat down on the bed with him and picked up a 1998 Face magazine and flicked through it absently.
‘Dad enjoyed the evening,’ I said.
‘Yeah.’ Ed was quiet for a bit. ‘It makes you sad though, doesn’t it? Seeing him light up like that makes his sadness look much bigger in comparison.’
‘Definitely.’
I forced myself to flick through to the end of the magazine before I spoke again.
‘How are you anyway?’
‘Oh, good. Can’t wait to go on this job.’ He wasn’t looking at me, just shuffling through shoebox after shoebox filled with photos.
‘Bet you can’t, you’re going to love it.’
I watched him lean forward and grab another handful of photographs and then said, as casually as I could, ‘Rebecca looked upset that you’d be gone for so long.’
‘She did?’ Ed looked at the door, shrugged and returned to the pile of photographs. Not a flicker of guilt on his face. But he didn’t look at me either.
‘I don’t like her, if that’s what you’re worried about, Mars,’ he said, not looking up from whatever photo he was holding.
I felt myself blush. I didn’t really have anything more to say. Although I hadn’t had the backbone to look him in the eye, I could hear that his voice was straight and honest and I’d heard what I needed to hear. So I picked at the knobbly green bedspread that had been on the bed for as long as I could remember and enjoyed the sweetness of relief. When the green bobbles had been picked enough, I lifted my head and peered over the rim of the box.
‘So what treasures have you got in here anyway?’ I took out a handful of photographs and started flicking through them. They were mostly arty ones he’d taken years ago. I smiled as I saw the familiar images, reminding me of times past, and also charting the development of Ed. They were little windows into Ed’s mind as it grew through his teens and twenties. There were images of graffiti (anarchic phase); homeless men huddled in shop doors (social consciousness growing); the obligatory headstones (every photographer has some); and the start of his street scenes: people going about their business in various neighbourhoods. Then, after a couple of photos of blank walls, came a crumpled photo of Sam and I, arms thrown around each other’s shoulders, our faces turned to the sun laughing. It was in the summer, in Hyde Park, at a music festival. I smiled. That was a good day. But then I realised.
‘Ed, where did you get this?’
Ed glanced at the photo and hesitated slightly before shrugging his shoulders. He returned to flicking through the stack he was looking at but I could tell he wasn’t really looking at the photos. He looked uncomfortable. And well he might, I thought. This photograph had been on the fridge in the flat for a few months before disappearing. I’d assumed it had fallen underneath the fridge and I’d forgotten about it. But here it was amongst Ed’s things, of all places! My unease returned and flooded my body, bringing with it a heavy weariness. Maybe I wasn’t in the mood for talking after all. I stood up. Maybe I wasn’t ready to hear what was going on at all.
‘I’m off to bed now.’
‘OK, sleep well,’ he replied, his head still bent over the photos. I stood there waiting for him to look up at me and when he finally did his eyes met mine for the briefest of moments. He wasn’t letting me in.
‘Night, Mars,’ he said.