Page 45 of Don't You Forget About Me

If you grow up with parents who are unhappy with each other, you accept it and work around it. You no more directly address or it or expect it to change than if your family home has low ceilings, or you live in a cul-de-sac. You unquestioningly accept your lot. The only time it spooked me was when I’d visit a friend and their mum and dad could amicably disagree without venom, or decibels.That’s possible, I thought?

When I was small, I used to accompany Dad on his Saturday outings, no matter how mundane: DIY stores, the tip, over to his friend Graham’s, dragging round vinyl shops looking for jazz records, watching the football, to collect the fish supper from the chippy. I was never bored, I actively volunteered for service – Esther was invited at first, but made it clear it held no charm for her, compared to doing her own thing.

I used to love staring out the car window, hopping along holding Dad’s hand, legs dangling from chairs I was too short for.

A huge amount of fuss was made of me by cashiers and shop assistants. I was never a girly little girl, I liked trousers and sweatshirts with superheroes on them, and somehow that provoked even more cooing.

I can’t remember how the tradition began, but every so often, Dad finished whatever the task in hand was and said: ‘Where to, captain?’

This meant a treat. And it could be, within city limits and budget, anything I wanted. It was unspeakably thrilling. Imagine, as a kid, being put in charge for an afternoon.

‘Chocolate pudding … in a glass?’

We went to a department store café, and I had a tower of aerated mousse pierced with a wafer shaped like a fan, while Dad sipped a cup of tea.

‘An adventure, with flying.’

The local multiplex,Batman, and a bag of Revels.

‘Ice skating.’

I did endless unsteady circuits of the rink, hired boots laced so tight they were cutting welts into my feet, while Dad read his paper.

There was an uncomfortable adjustment period when I became too old for our Saturdays. Dad jangling his keys in the hallway, having to shout over blaring music: ‘You coming or what, Georgina?’

Mum snapping: ‘Of course she’s not bloody going to a farm shop with you, John.’

After the uncertain interlude where I felt too old for it, but too young to abandon it, we adapted: I went into town to shop, and when we were both done with our errands, we met for lattes and macchiatos and wedges of gaudily iced sponge cake.

One wet-to-the-bone winter, when I was fifteen, I had a different idea. Darkness had fallen by 5 p.m., Mum and Esther were still out shopping somewhere.

‘Can we go for a curry?’

Mum despised spicy food and I’d never so much as had an Indian takeaway. Dad didn’t miss a beat.

‘It’s Saturday. You’re the captain.’

An adult saying yes to spontaneous fun: it felt so freeing. Mum always found five reasons to snap: ‘Another time, maybe.’ Dad understood me, and I understood him.

We went to a place on Glossop Road that’s not there anymore. Dad perched his readers on his nose and authoritatively supervised a representative selection of famous dishes, rice, breads and some yoghurt to ‘put out any flames’.

To this day, much as I can appreciate an upmarket Indian restaurant with lassi cocktails, colonial fans and stylish plating, what I really want is a neon sign, sitar music, flock wallpaper, sizzling Balti and hot lemon towels and tongs. It’s my Proustian rush.

I knew as soon as I was prodding shards of poppadom into the mini lazy Susan with the sugary mango chutney and tangy lime pickle that I was going to be a fanatic.

‘But you hardly ever have this food?’ I said to Dad, through forkfuls of chicken tikka masala, after he’d expounded on the joys of moving on to more interesting dishes once I’d served my apprenticeship.

‘Your mum doesn’t like it.’

‘Don’t you miss it?’

Dad smiled. ‘Marriage is compromise. You’ll understand some day.’

‘I’m not marrying anyone who doesn’t like curry. No way.’

Mum usually tolerated our outings as a positive thing, but I remember that night we got back and she needed scraping off the ceiling.

Dad hadn’t warned her, cauliflower cheese had gone to waste, our clothes ‘reeked’ and would need washing, why wasn’t Esther invited, why couldn’t we do a family dinner, how much had that cost.At first I tried placating her but when that failed, I slid off upstairs and left them to it.

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