somehow constricted, and I remembered how he never looked comfortable throwing a tennis ball; often he just threw it underarm. And I thought of how he always pulled out of a tackle if we played football, and couldn’t play badminton in the garden without making a jokey shot.
He let fly with the pebble.
As it left his hand I lost it against the background of the huge brick wall of the maltings. It was as though it was a magic trick and he had made it disappear. He used to fool me and pretend he had found a sixpence behind my ear, or had guillotined his thumb at the knuckle, and for a moment I wondered if the pebble had vanished. The maltings seemed massive in the thickening dusk, like a huge hole with the pewter sky above it.
The pebble missed by a mile. I didn’t know whether I was pleased or disappointed. Part of me had wanted him to smite the bottle into the river like a real dad. Part of me was pleased I had grazed it and he had missed.
He straightened up, and winked. ‘The two quid’s yours anyway,’ he said. ‘It’s our lucky day.’ Then he put his arm round me and we walked back to the car. ‘Your father’s got a jazz orchestra again,’ he said. ‘We’re back in business.’
Chapter 6
The door was ajar. Milky April light dropped through the stippled glass of the frosted window at the end of the corridor. It was chilly. The air smelled yeasty. I pushed the door to the flat open into a quilt of dry heat. A whiff of old butter and stale clothes lingered in the hallway. All the lights were on. It was just gone four in the afternoon.
My mum was walking towards me from the sitting room. The TV was on behind her. I could hear the racing commentary. It was Aintree Grand National Day 2002. They had been at the flat for four months. She padded towards me, her purple towelling trousers sagging at the knee, a paper napkin wrapped around two fingers.
‘Where is he?’ I said.
‘In the bathroom, of course.’ Her voice was slurred. ‘Silly old fool.’
Along the short corridor the bathroom door was open. My dad was lying on the floor. It was a small room; his body seemed to take up all the floor space. He was still in his pyjamas and dressing gown. The dressing gown was unbelted and his pyjama trousers were half unbuttoned. He was lying on his back. Under his head a halo of deep red blood spread out in a thick circle on the grey marble tiles. Some of it had trickled into the grouting like rays of crimson light.
I knelt down. In the calmest, most non-committal voice I could muster I said, ‘Dad . . .’
‘Mmmm.’ He responded to his name but his eyes remained closed.
‘You all right?’
‘Fine.’
His casual tone surprised me, as though I’d just said lunch would be ready in five minutes. ‘The ambulance is on its way,’ I said.
‘Lovely.’ He opened his eyes and blinked at the ceiling. The same brackish sweet smell was on his breath. I felt unnerved. Oddly aggrieved.
My mum was standing behind me in the doorway. She had called me a little more than fifteen minutes before saying he had had a fall. ‘Badly?’ I’d asked. ‘Well, there’s blood,’ had come the reply. ‘Have you called for an ambulance?’ There’d been a belch down the phone. ‘Can you do it, darling?’ she’d said rather flatly. ‘Would be so much easier. You know the number and everything.’ I’d hung up wondering if she really couldn’t remember how to dial 999 before running to find my keys.
‘What happened, Dad?’
‘No idea.’
‘You had a fall?’
He cleared his throat. ‘Clearly.’ He was still looking up at the ceiling.
‘He went for a pee after the race,’ my mum said, over-articulating each syllable. ‘I heard a crash. I think it was the edge of the bath. He nearly did the same last week.’
I heard footsteps in the hall. I’d left the front door open. It was Jim, the porter from downstairs. He was followed by two paramedics in green jumpsuits.
‘You all right, Romany?’ Jim said
He let fly with the pebble.
As it left his hand I lost it against the background of the huge brick wall of the maltings. It was as though it was a magic trick and he had made it disappear. He used to fool me and pretend he had found a sixpence behind my ear, or had guillotined his thumb at the knuckle, and for a moment I wondered if the pebble had vanished. The maltings seemed massive in the thickening dusk, like a huge hole with the pewter sky above it.
The pebble missed by a mile. I didn’t know whether I was pleased or disappointed. Part of me had wanted him to smite the bottle into the river like a real dad. Part of me was pleased I had grazed it and he had missed.
He straightened up, and winked. ‘The two quid’s yours anyway,’ he said. ‘It’s our lucky day.’ Then he put his arm round me and we walked back to the car. ‘Your father’s got a jazz orchestra again,’ he said. ‘We’re back in business.’
Chapter 6
The door was ajar. Milky April light dropped through the stippled glass of the frosted window at the end of the corridor. It was chilly. The air smelled yeasty. I pushed the door to the flat open into a quilt of dry heat. A whiff of old butter and stale clothes lingered in the hallway. All the lights were on. It was just gone four in the afternoon.
My mum was walking towards me from the sitting room. The TV was on behind her. I could hear the racing commentary. It was Aintree Grand National Day 2002. They had been at the flat for four months. She padded towards me, her purple towelling trousers sagging at the knee, a paper napkin wrapped around two fingers.
‘Where is he?’ I said.
‘In the bathroom, of course.’ Her voice was slurred. ‘Silly old fool.’
Along the short corridor the bathroom door was open. My dad was lying on the floor. It was a small room; his body seemed to take up all the floor space. He was still in his pyjamas and dressing gown. The dressing gown was unbelted and his pyjama trousers were half unbuttoned. He was lying on his back. Under his head a halo of deep red blood spread out in a thick circle on the grey marble tiles. Some of it had trickled into the grouting like rays of crimson light.
I knelt down. In the calmest, most non-committal voice I could muster I said, ‘Dad . . .’
‘Mmmm.’ He responded to his name but his eyes remained closed.
‘You all right?’
‘Fine.’
His casual tone surprised me, as though I’d just said lunch would be ready in five minutes. ‘The ambulance is on its way,’ I said.
‘Lovely.’ He opened his eyes and blinked at the ceiling. The same brackish sweet smell was on his breath. I felt unnerved. Oddly aggrieved.
My mum was standing behind me in the doorway. She had called me a little more than fifteen minutes before saying he had had a fall. ‘Badly?’ I’d asked. ‘Well, there’s blood,’ had come the reply. ‘Have you called for an ambulance?’ There’d been a belch down the phone. ‘Can you do it, darling?’ she’d said rather flatly. ‘Would be so much easier. You know the number and everything.’ I’d hung up wondering if she really couldn’t remember how to dial 999 before running to find my keys.
‘What happened, Dad?’
‘No idea.’
‘You had a fall?’
He cleared his throat. ‘Clearly.’ He was still looking up at the ceiling.
‘He went for a pee after the race,’ my mum said, over-articulating each syllable. ‘I heard a crash. I think it was the edge of the bath. He nearly did the same last week.’
I heard footsteps in the hall. I’d left the front door open. It was Jim, the porter from downstairs. He was followed by two paramedics in green jumpsuits.
‘You all right, Romany?’ Jim said
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