It’s the first Saturday in December, and I am sitting in a Costa Coffee in Bristol, waiting for my dad. This used to be my favourite coffee place, with all the little pastries and biscuits and things, but I think I’ve been spoiled by the Comfort Food Café now. Or maybe I’m just a bit freaked out by being back here, and knowing I’m about to have an awkward conversation.
I’m stirring my mocha while I wait, feeling slightly nervous about seeing him. Mum has continued to take root at my house, and we have continued to try and find a balance that makes it manageable for both of us. I’m not sure if we’re succeeding, but so far, there’s been no need to involve the local constabulary or call an ambulance, which is possibly as good as we can expect.
She has, to be fair, started to make herself very useful – the fact that she has a car and a lot of spare time has definitely made my life simpler when it comes to logistics at least. Having someone to give me a lift to college, or drop Saul off at nursery, has been a rare luxury. It’s only now I realise how insanely hectic our lives were – a carefully orchestrated performance pulling together times, places, and various bus timetables.
If the last weeks of November were nothing but rain, then December is so far nothing but pain. The incessant lashing has stopped, but the temperatures are starting to plummet and the wind is wild and unforgiving. Back in Budbury, especially, you feel it whipping up from the bay, slapping your cheeks and making your eyes water as you walk down the street.
Van, who is still doing work for Frank at the farm and also gardening for Tom, is now bundled up in sweaters and shirts and body warmers and gloves, his tanned skin out of place in a small village in England, making him look like some kind of exotic refugee.
We’ve seen each other a few times, always in the company of others, always as friends – but every now and then I’ll catch him looking at me, and he’ll smile, and the corners of his blue eyes will crinkle up in amusement, and I’ll have to fight off a swoon.
In other news, Tom has a shortlist of potential Star-Lords who he’s planning to interview, and Auburn has asked if she can come along. Just for fun and to see if any of them look like Chris Pratt.
Tinkerbell is now allowed out, and has become one of those cats who owns multiple people – I’ll be crossing the road from the chemist, and see him draped along Edie’s window ledge, or sitting on Becca’s doorstep. It seems to fulfil his need to roam, and he always comes home at night to see his best buddy Saul.
Martha has been to her interview at Oxford, and both Zoe and Cal are understandably pipping with pride – now they have to wait and see if she made it through the selection process. Josh, Scrumpy Joe’s son, is hopefully off to East Anglia to study chemistry, which will be quite a change for both him and for Lizzie.
Lizzie herself seems thrilled with two developments in her teenaged life. One is that she’s started a ‘small business’ doing pet portraits. She’s always taking snaps, Lizzie, and like most teens seems to feel like life hasn’t been lived unless you’ve shared it on social media. But she does have more of an interest in photography than most, and got a new camera for her birthday. Midegbo, Bella Swan, Rick Grimes and Tinkerbell have all been her test portraits, and now she’s promoting herself via Matt’s veterinary surgery.
She’s also delighted about Laura’s news – which has now been made public. I think Cherie had already figured it out, because it takes quite a lot to get one over on Cherie, and she’d already told her sister Becca, but everyone else was shocked. Not, maybe, as shocked as Matt and Laura – when their ultrasound revealed that she’s expecting twins.
Apparently this is more common in ‘geriatric pregnancies’. She was about as thrilled as you’d imagine at the use of that particular term, and is currently walking around in a state of shock as she tries to get used to the idea of not only one baby, but two.
You’ll see her in the café, staring into space as she beats a bowl of buttercream or blends up smoothies, and it’s obvious her head is elsewhere. Cherie’s made an executive decision that she shouldn’t be allowed near knives or the chopping board any time soon, telling her she won’t be able to change all those nappies if she lops her fingers off.
So, in the way of life in Budbury, not a lot has happened – but a lot has happened. It’s the way things work there, marching to the beat of a gentler rhythm than the rest of the world.
Now I’m here, back in the big city, that feels especially noticeable. There are so many cars and vans and buses and bikes. So many people and voices, and so much noise. Everybody seems to be in a hurry all the time, and have that streetwise always-aware look on their faces as they dash from one crowded shop to another – like they’re not being funny, but keeping a close hand on their bags.
I’m probably overthinking it. I usually do. But life in my small, sleepy corner of the world is a lot slower than it is here – and while it was exciting for the first hour of getting swept along by the tide of humanity, blissfully anonymous, I’m now feeling a bit worn down.
I have a heap of bags at my feet at my corner table, mainly for Saul’s Christmas stash, and my hands have finally warmed up after being wrapped around my mug for a good five minutes. The place is packed with fellow survivors of the Great Christmas Shopping Disaster of 2018, all of us with the same weary look. Keeping a chair for my dad is getting harder by the minute, and I’m relieved when I finally see him poke his head around the door and scan the room for me.
He comes over when I wave to get his attention, looking a little bit sheepish but none the worse for the emotional wear of what’s happened.
He’s only about five ten, my dad – but compared to me and my mum he always seems like a giant. He has dark hair that’s thinning on top, and a moustache he’s insisted on keeping since the Eighties, and has the tiniest touch of a beer belly. In short, he’s a normal-looking middle-aged bloke, wearing a leather jacket that looks like he stole it from The Sweeney.
We share a hug when he makes his way through the crowds and randomly discarded shopping bags, and he gets us both another coffee before finally sitting down at the table. I’m guessing, from the look on his face, that he’s been feeling a bit nervous as well.
‘So,’ he says, poking my bags with his toe, ‘been shopping for the nipper, have you?’
‘Yep. I’m all shopped out. It’s like a war zone out there.’
‘I know, love – season of goodwill hasn’t quite kicked in yet. Still the season of sharp elbows and queue anger. How is he, Saul? And how are you? And how is …’
He trails off, staring into his coffee for answers.
‘Mum?’ I supply helpfully. He nods, and tries to smile.
‘She’s not so bad, Dad,’ I reply. ‘Seems to be quite enjoying herself in the village. No idea how long she’s staying, but I’m assuming for a bit longer as she asked me to call in at the house and pick up some more stuff for her. I was hoping you could give me a lift there later?’
He nods, looking miserable at the prospect, and stays silent.
I give him a few moments, then have to prod: ‘Well, go on then. Tell me your side of the story. Did you really run off with the woman from the ice cream van?’
He stalls for a while longer by helping a woman lift a pushchair over some abandoned coats, then finally sits back down, looks me in the eye, and says: ‘Well, it’s not quite that simple, Katie.’
‘I’m sure it’s not – but as I’m the one picking up the pieces with Mum, I think I at least deserve to know, don’t you? And anyway – I’ve been worried about you as well.’
‘No need to worry about me, and as for your mum … she’ll be okay, once she gets her head around it all. And … well, no, I haven’t run off with the ice cream woman, all right? I am staying at hers, but we’re not a couple.’
‘What do you mean, you’re not a couple? Mum seems to think you’re love’s old dream …’
‘Less of the old, cheeky. I told your mum I was moving in with Fiona, and she jumped to that conclusion.’
‘Much as Mum’s doing my head in a bit at the moment, I can’t blame her for that – it seems like a logical conclusion when your husband leaves you to live with another woman!’
He nods, as though conceding that I might have won that point on a technicality.
‘Yes, well. It was the wrong conclusion. Fiona – well, Fiona likes ladies, love, you see? And I’m not a lady, am I?’
A trick of unfortunate timing means that as he says this, I have just taken a mouthful of coffee. Coffee that is immediately spat out in one of those full-force snort-laugh-sprays that results in your whole face getting spritzed. After that, I choke for a second or two, while Dad passes me a napkin to dab my chin with.
‘She likes ladies?’ I repeat.
‘Yes. Is that so shocking in this day and age? I thought you young people were all up with that LGBTTQQ stuff …’
‘Hang on – what’s the QQ bit?’
‘Queer and questioning. There’s also intersex, asexual, allies and pansexual, if you’re interested …’
‘Since when did you become an expert?’
‘Since I became housemates with an L,’ he replies smugly.
I screw the damp tissue up into a ball and throw it into the saucer.
‘Anyway. That’s by the by,’ I say. ‘And of course I’m not shocked that lesbians exist. But I am shocked that you’re currently living with one, and maybe even more shocked by the fact that Mum thinks you’re loved up with the lesbian in question – and you’re letting her think that. Do you have any idea how much make-up she’s wearing at the moment? Or how much she’s flirting with any man she meets? How much weight she’s lost? All to try and make herself feel better because she thinks you’ve rejected her for Fiona Whittaker!’
He’s quiet again by the time I finish, all traces of smugness gone. He reaches out and pats my hand in an attempt to comfort me. I’d been so busy being annoyed by my mum, I hadn’t quite realised how worried about her I was.
‘I’m sorry, love – no, I had no idea. Though I should have guessed; it’s not like I don’t know how much of a drama queen she is. I just … it seemed easier to let her think that. Fiona’s not ashamed of herself for being what she is, and quite right too – but she also doesn’t shout it from the rooftops. People can still be old-fashioned, can’t they? She’s kind of a public figure as well … but you’re right. Maybe what I mean is it’s just easier for me. The truth’s a bit more complicated, I suppose.’
I gesture for him to go on, although part of me is convinced that he’s about to tell me he’s actually gay. That he’s been living a lie for the whole of his life, and couldn’t do it any longer. And, you know, that would be fine – eventually. Once I got used to it. I’m just hoping he’s not one of the T’s though – he’d make a terrible woman.
‘Okay,’ he says, looking at his coffee wistfully. ‘Wish I had some brandy in this … anyway. I got to know Fiona better over the summer. I’ve always known her, like you, for the ice cream van. Then one day, when I was getting a Magnum, we started talking about Lee Child books. You know, because it’s a gun? And then we talked a bit more, about other books – she’s a big fan of James Patterson, like myself. And eventually, she asked me if I fancied joining her book club.’
This conversation is most definitely not going the way I expected it to. I don’t quite know if it’s going worse, or going better, but it’s definitely heading off in a surprising direction. I find myself thinking, oddly, that the image of my dad sitting in a room discussing Jane Austen is potentially weirder than everything else.
‘Right,’ I reply, nodding. ‘You always did like James Patterson. So, you joined the book club …’
‘I did. And met some really interesting people, as you can imagine. Broadened my horizons a bit. Then one thing led to another … the occasional night at the theatre. A comedy club. Meals out. Even the ballet. All very friendly but nothing more, love, honest. For all my flaws I’ve never been unfaithful to your mother … I think I’ve become a bit of an A, to be honest.’
There are all kinds of answers to that, but I bite my lip. Being flippant won’t help anyone.
‘That’s why she thought you were having an affair – the nights out, time away from home? She actually said she knew there was something wrong because you stopped fighting with her.’
He looks so sad when I say this that I almost feel sorry for him.
‘That’s the problem, isn’t it?’ he says gently. ‘For so many years, that’s been all we’ve had. I’ve done things I’m ashamed of. I’ve let myself get sucked in, every single time. I don’t know, love, I’m no expert on relationships – but I think to make a marriage work, you have to be the very best you can be. And all me and your mum ever did was turn each other into the worst possible versions of ourselves. Spending time away from it, with different people … well, it just opened my eyes a bit, I suppose.’
‘I can understand that, Dad – I really can. But why now? And why didn’t you at least try and talk to her about it?’
‘Have you met your mother?’ he jokes, absentmindedly ripping open sugar sachets. It reminds me of my mum, that first day in Budbury, trying to find something to do with her hands.
We’re both silent for a while, and then he says: ‘But you’re right. I should have done. I got home from work one day, and we had a huge row. This won’t come as any surprise to you, but it was a real humdinger – all over the fact that I said the potatoes were a bit salty. Serves me right, on the one hand – she’d cooked my tea, and I was sitting there moaning about it.
‘But then the usual happened, and before I knew it, we’re standing up screaming, and she threw the salt mill at my head, and I threw the pepper mill at hers, and … God, I was just so tired of it. We’d been there so many times. She’d carry on sniping, and eventually I’d snap and give her a shove, and she’d threaten me with the electric carving knife, and … I just couldn’t face it any more. It all got worse after you left, Katie.’
I’d like to pretend I’m confused by this, but I know exactly what he means – I was their buffer zone. Without me or Saul around to at least temper them, it must have been a free-for-all.
‘Without you there, we only had each other,’ he continues. ‘And it wasn’t enough. So I walked out and went to Fiona’s, and she offered me her spare room, and that was that. It’s not been easy. Sometimes I miss your mum, love – we’ve been married a long time, and it wasn’t all bad. But I knew that I couldn’t go back, not the way things were. I’m sorry – sorry for being such a coward and landing you with her, and sorry for the fact that you must have felt horrible when you were a kid. Trapped in the middle of it all. And I’m glad you got away.’
‘Got away from you?’
‘Yes, I suppose – although I hope you won’t always feel like that. I hope now things are different, eventually you won’t feel like you need to escape from us.’
‘I can hardly escape from Mum right now,’ I reply, point-ing my spoon at him accusingly. ‘She’s living in my house.’
‘I know. But again, that won’t be forever, will it? It’ll get better. And I’m glad you got away from Jason as well. I didn’t mind Jason, I really didn’t – and you’ve never told us why you left him. I’m not soft, though, and I can imagine – I think you were following in our footsteps. When your mum said she wanted you to use what was left of the nest egg your nan had left, so you could make your move, I was pleased. I was proud of you for being so strong. I still am, Katie.’
I let out a big breath, and kind of slump back into my seat. I’m exhausted by all of this, I really am.
‘Okay, Dad. This is all big stuff. I’m glad you’re happier, I really am – but you’ve got to talk to her, all right? You can’t just ignore it. You need to see her and sort things out, and act like a grown-up. Stop letting me deal with it all, because that’s what’s happening right now, isn’t it?’
He nods, and finishes his coffee.
‘All right, love. Again, you’re right – and I will. Just give me a bit more time, will you? Don’t tell her for the time being. Just let me sort my head out for a bit longer, and then I promise, I’ll talk to her. Now, after all that … shall we nip to the pub for a quick one before I drive you round to the house? Don’t know about you, but my nerves are shot.’