Page 20 of Not Moving Out
‘Dad,’ I said, putting my bag on the floor. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Hello, Joe,’ said Dad, standing up, his large frame filling the space between us. ‘I was just passing by and thought I’d stop in.’
I looked at Freya and she looked at me, and I knew exactly what she was thinking.
Chapter Ten
Joe
‘You haven’t told him about us yet, have you?’ said Freya.
We had left Dad in the kitchen, and stepped into the hallway for a private chat because obviously I hadn’t told him about us separating and I had no idea why he had popped by. For a start, Dad lived in Colchester, which was nowhere near Brighton, and he never just stopped in for a casual chat because he was Dad. In all the years we had lived in Brighton, this was the first time he had ever showed up unannounced. It felt more likely that Ed Sheeran would pop in for a cup of tea than Dad, and so I hadn’t told him about the separation. I hadn’t informed Ed Sheeran either for basically the same reason.
‘No, of course not. It’s Dad. We never speak about anything important.’
‘I know. So why is he here?’
‘No idea.’
‘Are you going to tell him?’
‘Well, I…’ I said, not sure what the plan was. Freya and I had only been separated for such a short time, and I would sometimes go for months without speaking to Dad, so the idea of telling him hadn’t even entered my head. ‘No?’
‘So he’s going to be here, perhaps stay the night, and you want to play happy families rather than tell him the truth?’
I could see her point. It seemed ludicrous not to tell him because he would have to find out at some point, but the thought of actually doing it made me feel queasy. It was Dad. We literally never discussed anything vaguely important or, heaven forbid, emotional. Even when Mum died, we barely talked about it, and her fight against cancer had been subjected to the usual family ‘best not to mention it’ treatment. Dad was old-fashioned, stiff, unapproachable, and we just didn’t have that sort of relationship. Freya and I could be separated for years, divorced, and I could have a new partner, and if Dad knew nothing about it, I don’t think either of us would be particularly concerned. I was about to say as much when Dad appeared in the hallway.
‘I’m putting the kettle on. Tea?’ said Dad.
‘Oh, go on then,’ said Freya with a bright smile.
‘Please,’ I said.
‘When will Dolly be home?’ said Dad. ‘I’d love to see her.’
‘She’s actually staying at her friend Maya’s house tonight,’ replied Freya. ‘Sorry.’
‘That’s a shame. I probably should have warned you I was coming, eh?’ said Dad, before he ducked back into the kitchen, leaving Freya and me alone. She looked at me, and obviously knew what I was going to say, and so she beat me to it.
‘Fine. I know what you and your dad are like. I won’t say anything about us,’ said Freya, and at that moment I wanted to hug her.
‘Thank you. I’ll try and get him out of here as soon as I can. Promise.’
‘You’d better,’ said Freya as I heard the kettle come to a boil.
Dad and I had never been close, but we had always had Mum. If our family were a sandwich, Dad and I would have been the bread and Mum would have been the filling. She would have been the butter or mayonnaise, the cheese, meat and all the salad. She made us a proper sandwich, but without her we were just two pieces of slightly rubbish bread that had nothing to keep them together. When she died, Dad and I didn’t have her to make our relationship bearable so we just didn’t see much of each other. It was easier keeping our distance and, the longer we did it, the more our relationship seemed to have become set in stone. Which was why him turning up suddenly out of the blue was suspicious. The last time I had spoken to him was on his birthday, and that was short and cordial like all of our interactions. Now he was sitting in my kitchen, drinking tea, and I had to know why he was here.
‘So, Dad—’
‘Yes, Joe,’ said Dad, slurping on his tea.
I sat opposite him, and took a sip of mine. ‘Why exactly are you here?’
‘Like I said, I was passing.’
‘Passing? You live in Colchester, Dad, which is roughly a two-and-a-half-hour drive away. The last time you were south of London, the brightest minds were still debating whether the Earth was flat. Honestly, Dad, what are you really doing here?’
I looked across the table at my father, and it was hard not to see myself in him. We had the same eyes, similar hair, and sometimes I would catch myself standing a certain way or making a gesture, and I knew it was just like him. Growing up, I had been determined to be nothing like my old man, and I thought I had achieved it by going into comedy when he had worked in factories his whole life. I was different than him, lighter, more open, and hopefully a better dad and husband, but over the last few years I had seen the parts of him I had always found difficult infiltrating parts of myself. Dad had always been more comfortable mending objects than people. His love language was DIY or perhaps, even better, just keeping out of the way. After another sip of his tea and a moment of silence, Dad put his cup down and then looked across the table at me.
