“What?” Dave’s eyes slide away from mine and rest on the clipboard in his hands. Then he recovers himself. “I don’t have a blog, Amy. When would I get the time?”
“When you’re on nights. There’s wi-fi in the coffee shop and you use your laptop.” It’s a long shot but from the look of surprise on Dave’s face, I can tell I’m right.
“That doesn’t prove anything.”
“Dave, it’s called ‘Diary of a Tamed Colt’. Like your old band. And my friend has traced the blog to your laptop. He’s a computer genius.” Now this isn’t strictly true, but Clover said Brains could do this if we asked him to.
But it’s enough to make Dave tuck his clipboard under his arm, put his hands out in front of him and say, “Arrest me, officer. I’ll come quietly. But I didn’t know blogging was a crime, honest. Look, can we talk about this somewhere more private?” He points at a door. “In here. Edna won’t mind.”
I look around for Clover but she’s disappeared. I follow him into the room. An old woman with a pink face as wrinkly as a prune is snoring soundly in one of the beds. Curtains are drawn round the other bed.
“Don’t worry, that one’s empty,” Dave says. “The patient’s gone home. And Edna would sleep through anything, wouldn’t you, Edna?” She gives a fruity snore.
“So how much of my blog have you read?” he asks. He leans his back against the window ledge.
I shrug. “Just a few bits.” Clover had printed out his profile and some posts she thought I’d find interesting. I’d forgotten Dave was younger than Mum: thirty-one. Almost as young as Shelly. It felt very strange reading his private thoughts. But they were up on the Internet for the whole world to read so I didn’t feel all that bad.
www.bloggize.com/diaryofatamedcolt
Diary of a Tamed Colt
About Me
Age: 31
Gender: male
Location: Dublin, Ireland
Profession: nurse. I used to be a singer/songwriter
Marital Status: living with one partner and one moody teenager and two noisy babies
8 December
Babies
Yesterday I held my sister’s three-week-old baby, Bella. She wriggled around in my arms and let out an amazingly loud fart before filling her nappy with the most poisionous smelling mustard goo with bits swimming around in it. It looked like scrambled eggs. (I know because my sister changed her in front of me – disgusting!) I felt exactly nothing for this baby, even though she’s my niece. Nothing!
I’m seriously worried. Our own baby is due in a few months. What if I feel nothing for it?
I’m scared. What if I’m a useless dad?
20 February
Teenage Scream-age
I don’t understand teenage girls. One minute she’s perfectly normal, the next minute she’s morphed into some kind of Valkyrie warrior queen from hell. I’m doing my best, but it never seems to be good enough. Are all teenage girls crazy?
Am I supposed to discipline her, be strict? Am I supposed to be her friend?
14 March
Where Has My Life Gone?
One day I’m an up-and-coming singer/songwriter and the next I’m back at the day (and night) job. What happened?
I feel like my dreams have all gone down the toilet because I have to pay all the bills. Do you have any idea how much nappies cost? Or teenagers’ clothes?
I feel so frustrated. There are all these song ideas running around in my head, but when I get home I’m too tired to write. There are always babies to walk or nursery rhymes to sing.
I’m only thirty-one. Why do I feel so old?
“I’m sorry.” He looks sheepish. “I didn’t think anyone I knew would actually read it. I was just blowing off steam. Though I suppose using the word ‘Colt’ was pretty obvious.”
“Did you mean all that stuff about not feeling anything for Bella?”
“Yes, at the time. But it’s different when it’s your own baby. It’s all about genetics. You have a special bond right from the start.”
I give a snort.
He stops and looks at me. “OK, Amy, you want the truth, here’s the truth: babies are easy. You kiss them, they don’t push you away. You love them and they love you right back, unconditionally. But you’re different. You’ve always blown hot and cold with me. At the start we got on great. I taught you how to play ‘Yellow Submarine’ on the guitar, remember? We used to dance around the kitchen together.
“But when Alex was born and you went to stay with Gramps and Clover, you came back a different person. I tried to hug you and you pushed me away. And that hasn’t really changed, has it?” He laughs bitterly. “I can’t compete with Art. Big shot trader with the fancy car and the exotic holidays. He still owns half the house. How do you think that makes me feel?”
“Big shot trader who ran off with his secretary,” I remind him. “Big shot trader who forgot my birthday last year until Mum reminded him. And now you’ve run off too.”
“I haven’t run off!” Dave looks horrified. “It’s not as simple as that.”
“Come home then.”
“I can’t.”
“Why? Mum’s so upset. She can’t sleep and she hasn’t eaten for days. Please? She misses you. And the babies miss you too. Alex was looking under the kitchen table for you last night.”
“And what about you? Do you miss me?”
I open my mouth to say something but he says quickly, “You don’t have to answer that. You see, Amy, it’s different with you. You’re not my biological daughter, but I choose to love you. I can’t help it. You’re a great kid. And I’m sorry if I don’t tell you that often enough. The way you help with the babies and everything. If you left the house instead of me, then things really would fall apart.”
This time I think before I open my mouth. “I’m sorry if I’ve pushed you away. But I was ten when I met you, I’m thirteen now. Of course I’ve changed. I’m a teenager! I don’t hug Dad much either. And I’ve never hugged Shelly, not once. So please, stop with the hugging!
“And you don’t have to be strict either. Just be yourself: Dave Marcus. The dad and the musician. You can be both, you know. And in a few years Evie and Alex can be your backing singers. Why don’t you write something for them instead of all those ‘Woe is me, life’s rubbish and I’m going to die’ songs you used to write?”
“Thanks a million, Amy.” He’s grinning so I know he hasn’t taken offence. “And that’s not a bad idea. Rock songs for kids. You might have something there.” He pauses. “Do you really want me back?”
“Yes! We all miss you. Please. Just come home.”
The curtains round the empty bed swish open and Clover jumps out.
She says, “That’s sorted then. Everyone’s happy and, Dave, you’re going to be Ireland’s answer to the Doodlebops or The Wiggles.”
“Clover!” Dave says. “I’ve just made that bed.”
She just smiles. “Love the blog, by the way. Ever thought of journalism?”
“I’m taking it down as soon as I can get to a computer.” Dave narrows his eyes. “Who else knows about it? Did you tell Sylvie, Clover?”
“Nope,” she says. “And my lips are sealed.”
“Mine too,” I promise. “As long as you come home, that is.”
“Hey! That’s blackmail,” Dave says.
Clover grins. “I’ve taught her everything she knows.”