Cait
To do:
- Unfriend Tom Lewis.
- Make a list of decorating tasks for Matt.
- Start clearing out rooms for Airbnb.
- Collect rubbish for the tip.
- Plant white geraniums in pots at front.
- Visit Dad.
*
Resolutions made on the drive over to see Dad in Chippenham.
- Stop saying oof and groaning when getting in or out of the car or on or off sofa.
- Stop talking out loud to myself.
I usually talk to myself at home so it’s OK, short phrases like, ‘Right, that’s done now.’ Or talking to the plants in the garden after removing bindweed – ‘I think you’ll feel better now.’ However, I found myself doing it in the supermarket this morning when picking up a few things to take to Dad.
‘Don’t forget red peppers,’ I said to myself as I went along the vegetable counters.
‘That’s another off the list,’ I said as I found mushrooms.
‘Good,’ I said as I loaded loo paper onto the trolley. ‘Now, should I get a packet of frozen peas or not?’
An elderly woman by my side gave me a curious look as she picked out potatoes.
I smiled at her and said, ‘I see dead people.’
She didn’t get the movie reference and backed her trolley out of there fast.
*
Dad was sitting on a bench at the front of his bungalow when I arrived and didn’t see me at first. He was wearing his battered panama hat and a light summer jacket and was eating an ice cream with a spoon from a tub. He liked ice cream, and I had a flashback to days out at the seaside when my brother Mike and I were little, and he’d buy 99s for us, those cones with ice cream and a chocolate flake. Blackpool was his favourite place for a trip. He used to go there as a lad with his parents, then later as a young man when he was a ballroom dancer. He’d won prizes in competitions there back in the day, long before Strictly. Whatever the weather, beaches with him were always full of fun: donkey rides, ball games, squealing at the cold waves in the sea. There were always people around on those seaside trips, car-loads full of aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, all laden with sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper, bottles of Vimto or dandelion and burdock to drink. The journeys were noisy affairs with lots of banter and singing. The garden at home in summer was the same, with the paddling pool, tennis racquets, cricket bats all deployed. Dad was always first up to play, whatever the game – whether it was croquet, rounders, or running around with the hosepipe soaking us all. And now there he was, a frail old man with white hair, sitting on a bench, shrouded in loneliness. It was evident in the hunch of his shoulders and the slowness of his movements, and it broke my heart to see him like that.
I’d told him time and again that he could come and live with us, but he wouldn’t hear of it. ‘Last thing I want is to be a burden to anyone,’ was his constant reply. After Mum died, he visibly shrank, incomplete without her. He’d always had double energy, a full-time job lecturing at the university, as well as the hobbies, like making wine (my brother Mike and I called it Krudo and would pour it away discreetly as soon as we could when offered a glass). Then came the making of dolls’ houses, and after that barometers and coffee tables. I still had a table he’d made with a wonky leg, and wouldn’t hear of having it replaced with a new one. He was never happier than when out in his shed at the old family house with a hammer and nails bashing away at something. I used to love going in there, the smell of woodchip and petrol, looking at the rows and rows of tools and screws, each neatly labelled and in its place.
When we were little, he’d read bedtime stories to Mike and me and did all the voices of the different characters. He was always a great entertainer and could sing too. Bath times were occasions to look forward to when we had to pretend we were in a soap commercial and be on our very best behaviour. He did magic tricks, pretended to swallow toothbrushes, made dolly mixtures appear from the light fittings, traditions he continued with my two boys when they were young. He made life fun, with Friday night declared fizz and crisp night, something Matt and I carried on for many years, when one of us would arrive home with a bottle of bubbly and nibbles for us and lemonade and crisps for the boys. Dad was always in charge of the drinks. On the 24th of December, he’d set off on his bike to buy crème de menthe, Advocaat or Babycham for visitors, most of which stood untouched throughout the season, but seeing those bottles in the back room was part of our Christmas. Dad played piano, sang in the choir, was part of the local tennis club, until his knees let him down and partners aged alongside him or died off and suddenly he didn’t feel it was his place.
He’d kept up exercises, though, going through an army routine every morning, with his constant companion Brandy the Labrador sitting at the door watching with interest. And now Mum had gone, Brandy too, and the bungalow they retired to has grown quiet. He told me that the days there were long. Like so many of his generation, he didn’t watch TV during the day. Radio Four was permissible but not TV, despite the many box sets I’d bought him, it was only allowed after six, starting with the news. He and Mum had had their rituals: breakfast – always the same, porridge and fruit, then at eleven coffee and a biscuit, a cup of soup and crackers at twelve thirty, tea and a cake at four, supper at six. When they were younger, they’d always had a sundowner in the evening, taken with great relish, but Dad rarely drinks any more. It upsets his stomach. He could cook for himself, though it tended to be frozen meals from M & S, his once large appetite reduced to that of a bird. Despite various suggestions about sheltered accommodation, he won’t move house. ‘I’ve got my independence and I know my way round here,’ he insisted. But, to me, it didn’t seem right that such a happy and full life had shrunk to one where it felt like he was waiting around for his turn to die.
He was always the protector, the one we all went to in order to talk over options, always a good listening ear with sound advice to pass on. I adored him when I was a child, feared him as a teen when he became critical of skirts too short, telephone calls too long, but then came a softening as he grew older and I grew up. And now I knew he was lonely and a bit depressed, which was so unlike him. I knew he missed my mother, as did I. She had been the practical one who had run the house, he was the one who made the magic. On the rare occasions that she’d send him off to get groceries, he’d return with a puppy or a bike or a new gadget to try out. We’d always had dogs, but when Brandy died a year before Mum, Dad didn’t replace him, saying it would be unfair because he wouldn’t want a pup to be left behind when he died.
‘Hey, Dad,’ I called.
He immediately sat up, throwing off the invisible cloak that had settled around him and put on his cheerful face. ‘Caitlin.’
‘What you up to?’
‘Oh you know, this and that.’
I waved a newspaper. ‘Want a paper?’
‘Already read it, cover to cover.’
I took his hand. It was like holding a large soft paw. ‘Dad, you would say if you don’t want to be here any longer, wouldn’t you? You know you can always come and live with us.’
‘Not necessary. No. This is my home. It’s fine,’ he said, then laughed and came out with his favourite familiar line delivered in a Scottish accent. ‘I’m no long for this world.’
‘You have to stop saying that. You’re eighty-nine. You might live till you’re a hundred.’
‘Hope not.’
‘Are you OK? Really?’
‘Just fine, Cait. Just fine.’
I knew things could be worse regarding my parents. Although Mum’s death had hit me hard, she’d gone quickly. She’d died after a fall, had five days in hospital having a hip replacement from which there were complications, and she’d never returned home. Five hellish days but, looking back, it was swift. Too swift. I’d been to visit on the Saturday then gone home thinking that she’d be out a few days later. Due to unexpected problems, she’d gone into a coma and died the next day. I’d never forgiven myself for not being there, for not having realized something like that might happen, something I found hard to come to terms with despite reassurances from Dad and my brother that there was nothing I could have done. Hard though it was, I was glad it hadn’t been more drawn out. Lorna’s mother has dementia, has had several strokes, and has been told she wouldn’t last the night more times than I could count in the last years. In her rare lucid moments, she says she wants to go, she’s tired. Lorna had grieved, let go, grieved then let go so many times that all she wanted now was release for her mother. It was the same for a few of our friends who had aged parents who had no quality of life. So hard to witness and do what could be done, but feel helpless all the same.
‘So what have you been doing, Cait?’
‘Planning to do up the house.’ I told him about the latest plan to do Airbnb.
‘You sure? Strangers in your house?’
‘But that’s just it. Apparently you never see them. They’ll be tourists, so only want a bed for the night. All we have to do is give them breakfast.’
‘If you say so, love. I couldn’t be doing with strangers in my house.’
‘Do you want to go out anywhere?’
‘Where to? Why?’
‘Change of scenery.’
‘Maybe.’ That meant no.
On my last few visits, he’d been reluctant to go anywhere, as if he was retreating more and more into himself.
‘Let’s go out for lunch. You could have a beer.’
Dad smiled. ‘You’re a good daughter, Caitlin. Now then, tell me all about what’s happening in your life.’
I filled him in on the latest with Matt and news about the boys.
‘And are you happy, Cait? How are you really?’
‘I’m fine, busy, working on new book ideas, just fine.’
We are both good liars.