Page 6 of The Notecard
Mum goes bright red, and I feel my own cheeks reddening. Dotty doesn’t seem to notice.
‘I mean, I might be seventy-four, but I think about it,’ says Dotty.
‘The main thing is the company,’ says Mum quickly. ‘And Nick, like I said, I haven’t done anything yet. It’s just something I’m thinking about.’
‘Yes, yes, of course, it’s fine,’ I say slightly uncomfortably.
We sit and drink our tea. I don’t know what to say. I understand that Mum needs someone, but she’s also my mum, and the idea of seeing her with someone else other than Dad is hard to comprehend. I think I probably just need some time to get used to the idea. Luckily, before it becomes too awkward, my phone beeps with a message. It’s Rob. He’s on his way home from work and says he will stop by for a quick chat. Saved by Rob. We sit in silence for a moment, and I’m waiting for Rob to message me that he’s outside, when Dotty says.
‘Although it’s hard to find willing partners at my age. Some try, bless them, but none are as good as my little friend. It’s been an absolute godsend since Derek passed away,’ says Dotty, and it takes me a moment to realise that she’s talking about a vibrator. I get up and make more tea.
Meg
Iopen the door to Dad’s black cab and get in next to him. Dad’s driven a black cab for the last twenty-five years. I don’t know what he did before that. For as long as I can remember, he’s been a cabbie. It meant he often worked weekends and evenings, and so we didn’t see much of him growing up. It does mean I never have to worry about getting a lift home when I’m out in London. Dad’s my own personal cabbie.
‘Hello, Dad,’ I say, sitting down next to him.
‘Hello, love, you alright?’
‘Yeah, okay. Mum and Laura are inside. We’re trying to find Laura a wedding dress.’
‘Good luck with that,’ says Dad, and we both laugh.
Dad’s wearing one of his classic awful cardigans. It’s brown, made from mohair, and it’s a crime against fashion. Dad’s thinning brown hair is getting thinner and he’s wearing his driving glasses. He calls them his driving glasses, but he needs to wear them all the time. He won’t even consider contact lenses. ‘I’m not putting things in my eyes, love, it just isn’t right’ said Dad when I brought it up. Dad’s very old fashioned when it comes to pretty much everything, but I like that about him. He’s unchangeable. A constant.
It’s been awkward with Dad since the separation. Whereas Laura and Mum are as thick as thieves, I’ve always been closer to Dad. We have a special bond. When I was little, he’d take me out for the day in his black cab. He would pretend I was a passenger, pick me up and ask where I’d like to go. I would make something up and Dad would drive there. We’d go through central London, spend the morning wandering through Harrods together, Hyde Park or the Natural History Museum. He’d take me to one of the cabman’s shelters they have scattered across London. The little green huts that serve bacon sandwiches and tea in polystyrene cups. I remember the faces and the voices of the other cabbies, friends of Dad, and the women who worked there. Proper Londoners with thick accents. He didn’t do any of that with Laura, and I don’t think she wanted to. After the separation, I didn’t want to take sides, but I felt sorry for Dad. I don’t think he saw it coming. He was as blindsided as the rest of us when Mum asked him to move out.
‘How’s work?’ says Dad after a moment.
‘Yeah, good, I suppose. You?’
‘Yeah, yeah, you know how it is, love. Same old.’
Dad takes out a cigarette and lights it up. I ask for one.
‘I thought you were going to quit?’ says Dad.
‘I thought you were going to quit?’
‘Fair enough,’ says Dad with a smile. He passes me a cigarette. I light it and inhale. Dad’s right, I was going to quit, but I haven’t been able to manage it yet. The stress of the last six months hasn’t helped. We sit together in silence and smoke our cigarettes. Dad and me. When I was a kid, we’d do the same thing (Dad was the only one smoking then) and Dad would tell me not to tell Mum. It was our little secret. I suppose nothing much has changed. He’s smoked for as long as I can remember, and Mums hated it for as long as I can remember.
‘How is she?’ says Dad after a moment.
He’s talking about Mum.
‘You know Mum, putting a brave face on it. She’s pretending it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to her, but I think she’s hurting inside,’ I say, and then I look across at Dad. ‘Don’t give up on her.’
‘It’s what she wanted,’ says Dad stoically, taking a puff on his cigarette. ‘I didn’t want any of this. I was happy as things were. She’s the one who needed space. I don’t need space.’
I think Mum had some sort of midlife crisis. Mum and Dad have been married for thirty-one years. They were happy for most of it (at least growing up I always thought they were happy), but the last few years have been hard on them. Once Laura and I had both moved out, they had to start a new life together. Empty nesters in their house near Watford. Mum wanted to travel, have some fun, and Dad was still in work and family mode. Then last year, Mum went on a girl’s holiday to Magaluf with two friends. I heard all about it when she got back. It was all very scandalous. Her best friend, Sharon, or Lidl Shazza as she’s called because she works in Lidl, was recently divorced and slept with three men, one of whom was in his twenties. I think Mum saw how much fun Shazza was having, and she wanted a bit of it too. It was shortly after that holiday that Mum got her first wax, came over to my flat, and proclaimed, ‘I went in for the landing strip, Megs, but came away with the full Brazilian! Bum and everything!’ I was shocked, but not as shocked as Dad, apparently.
‘Anyway, I didn’t come by to talk about your mother,’ says Dad brightly. ‘I have some news of my own.’
‘You haven’t had anything waxed, have you?’
‘No, nothing like that,’ says Dad with a laugh.
We both take puffs on our cigarettes.
