shittiness today off Martin, Wendy and Hayley thank you very much,’ said Mum stroppily, hands on hips.
‘I’m sorry if I came on a bit strong love,’ said Martin.
I checked to see whether he was joking. He wasn’t. ‘But Mum,’ I said frustratedly. ‘She’s pregnant. It’s amazing and you should be so excited about it. This is all she’s ever wanted.’
‘And I am happy for her,’ she insisted, not looking it at all. ‘It’s just I want Hayley to have something to fall back on in life. She’s such a talent and it seems criminal that that should go to waste.’ Her bottom lip wobbled slightly.
I gave up. Frankly I was too bloody hung-over. I felt like total shit by now so I went to my room where I got into bed and promptly fell asleep, despite the fact it was only five-thirty in the afternoon. And despite the fact the wind was howling and an almighty storm was brewing outside.
FIVE HOURS LATER
When I woke up, groggy from my unscheduled nap, I could never have imagined what lay ahead. Yet here I am, standing outside, in the middle of a huge thunderstorm, trying to compute that my dad is back. My dad is back? It can’t be true. Apart from anything else, if he’s my dad, why is he gripping on to me so hard? It’s too surreal. Just at that point, he finally removes his gloved hand from my mouth at which point, because I don’t fully believe anything he’s telling me, rather unimaginatively, I scream my head off again.
‘Fuck’s sake Marianne,’ the man claiming to be my long-lost father yells, though another crash of thunder ensures I can only just about hear what he’s saying. ‘Stop that flaming screaming will ya? It’s me, your dad. I’m not going to hurt you.’
At this point he lets go of me and spins me around to face him and there, in the blustering gale and rain, I get the first glimpse of him in twenty-seven years.
Immediately I know it’s definitely him. Without any photos – Mum has systematically destroyed all the ones that ever existed of him, even going so far as to cut him out of any group shots – it’s been impossible to preserve much memory of what he looked like, given that I haven’t seen him for so long. And yet I must have retained a handful of residual images, because something deep in the recesses of my mind makes a match with this tall, slightly menacing looking hard man who’s standing before me, dressed top to toe in black, rain pouring down his face. He’s got dark brown, almost black hair, that’s very short at the sides, slicked back on top and receding at the brow. He has green eyes, like me, sharp cheekbones, a nose that looks like it’s been in a few fights in its time and a crooked mouth. It’s my dad, and now that he’s standing before me, bathed in a shaft of harsh, overhead, patio lighting I realise I can’t have forgotten him like I always thought I had, because he looks so familiar. The same, only older, every line on his face visual evidence of the time he’s chosen not to spend with us.
I’m pretty sure at this point that he means me no physical harm but I’m still astonished by what’s happening and wary of what his next move might be. I also can’t stop staring. Probably because, when you’ve wondered about somebody all your life, when finally faced with them in the flesh you need to drink in every detail of them. It’s him and I can’t believe it.
I must be having some out-of-body experience because when someone yells, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ it takes a few seconds to register that it was me who said it, and that I’m crying. Really crying. In fact, I’m positively sobbing my heart out, probably due to a mixture of shock, anger and fear. Not that I can feel the tears. By this stage it’s raining so hard the two of us couldn’t be any more wet through if we jumped in a lake.
‘Let’s go inside. You’ll catch your death standing out here,’ he orders, his rough Essex accent a voice from a previous lifetime.
‘Not sure Mum would be so keen on that idea,’ I manage to stammer. I’ve never been as cold as I am right now. I’m numb.
‘Get in,’ he insists gruffly.
In the end it’s pointless to resist and, besides, what am I going to do? Send him back into the ether, possibly never to see him again? I have far too many questions to let that happen so I nod and go to slide the door across with numb fingers.
Once we’re both inside he pulls the door shut, which immediately dulls the sound of the driving rain. We both stand there, staring at one another, dripping wet, making a huge puddle on the carpet. All I can think is what now? I have no clue how to proceed, or what to say or do in this strange situation. My head’s swirling, my teeth are chattering. To be fair, I think I’m in shock.
‘Why don’t you get some towels or summink?’ says the man who has had the audacity to announce himself as my dad. Like he has the right.
On autopilot I do as I’m told. I go upstairs, strip my wet clothes off, dry myself and stick on a tracksuit and my slippers, all the while trying to digest the fact that downstairs is my missing parent. It’s a lot to take in and as I make my way back downstairs again I’m half-expecting him to have disappeared.
However, there’s nothing about tonight that correlates with any of my expectations.
Now, as I proceed with caution into the lounge, to my surprise, I find my father has gone into the kitchen and is stirring a pan of milk on the hob. He’s peeled off his soaking wet, leather coat and has dried his face off with a tea towel. I can tell because it’s sitting impertinently on the side, screwed up and discarded, a bit like we have been. He’s taken off his trainers and is in his socks. White sports socks. Now that the initial shock is wearing off, lots of rather more violent emotions start to encroach on my dumb state and the oddly domestic sight of him stirring a pan of milk suddenly enrages me. How dare he do something so ordinary in such an extreme situation? How dare he help himself to our milk, from our fridge? There isn’t anything normal about him coming back like this, so doing something as domestic as making hot beverages shows a blatant lack of respect for the drama he’s inflicting upon me. I feel insulted on Mum’s behalf. Thinking of her only increases the magnitude of what’s happening.
‘See you’ve made yourself at home then,’ I say frostily.
‘Get that down your neck,’ he says, before pouring the hot milk into two mugs and handing one to me. The mug he’s using is Martin’s favourite. Mum gave it to him on Valentine’s Day. It says Hot Stuff on it.
Staring into my own mug I notice my hand is shaking like a leaf. Hot chocolate. How twee. ‘What the hell do you think you were doing?’ I say coldly. ‘Why were you creeping round the house like that? I could have had a heart attack. I thought you were a burglar. Have you got a problem with doorbells or something?’
‘I didn’t mean to scare you. I went round the back ‘cos I wanted to see you on your own, so I waited till your mum and her fella had gone out. Then, I did try the bell as it goes, but there was no answer, so I came round the back again.’
‘But you grabbed me.’
‘’Cos when I reached out you screamed like a banshee.’
As I open my mouth to protest he says, as gently as his gruff voice will permit, ‘Drink your drink.’
Chilled to the bone, slowly I take a sip, only to find that it’s the perfect drink for the situation, hot, sweet and good
