Page 73 of The Notecard
‘Like I said, I think I was just a bit overwhelmed.’
‘So you’re happy to talk about your family?’
‘Yes.’
I really want a cigarette.
‘I see you’re training to be a doctor.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And what made you want to become a doctor? I ask because I know quite a few doctors, and most of them had a good reason. Does it run in the family?’
Dad.
‘Umm, yes, my, err, father was a doctor.’
‘Was?’
‘He died.’
There, I said it. He died. Happy now? To be fair, she doesn’t look happy.
‘I’m sorry. Was it hard for you?’
‘Isn’t a parent dying always hard?’
‘Not always. It depends on the relationship.’
She’s looking at me. Judging. Analysing. Squinty eyes. I’m wondering what the funny smell is. It reminds me of somewhere else in time. A place. My grandmother’s house. We used to go there when I was little. Eastbourne. It had the same smell. Her bedroom. I remember playing there. Then Dad came in and told me to leave.
‘It was hard. Dad was my hero.’
‘Was it recently?’
‘Two and a half years ago.’
‘And he was your hero?’
‘He meant everything to me. And Mum. It’s been tough for her.’
She takes a sip of her drink. I want a cigarette. A beer. She writes something down.
‘Is he why you’re training to become a doctor?’
Yes, obviously.
‘It was a factor.’
I realise I’m fidgeting in my seat. I’m uncomfortable.
‘Tell me about your father. What was he like?’
I don’t have a mystery mug of vodka, but I do have a glass of water. I take a sip. I think the smell is lavender, but not actually lavender. It’s a lavender spray. It’s horribly over-powering. I don’t know why she has it. I’m back in Eastbourne. I’m ten-years-old.
‘We used to play chess together, but he wouldn’t let me win. Even when I was a kid, he’d beat me. You need to know what it feels like to lose, he’d say. We had games that went on for days. He loved Wotsits, and I don’t just mean he loved Wotsits, he loved them. He used to hide them from Mum because she said he ate too many. He hid them in the shed. After he died, we went into the shed to have a bit of a clear out, and we found bags and bags of Wotsits.’
I can feel the tears beginning to burn my eyes. The fucking Wotsits. Gets me every time.
