Читать книгу By the Time You Read This - Lola Jaye - Страница 5

I remember my dad lifting me up by his large hands and twirling me around in the air. Me, giggling with wonderful anticipation of the giddy feeling that would grip me, right before the remnants of my breakfast would start to rise in my throat.

‘She’s going to be sick, put her down!’ Mum would shout. Spoiling the moment. Our moment. And that’s basically all I could clearly remember about him. Oh, and the mole under his eye. The picture on my dressing table, and others banished to a small box in the loft, was all I had to help piece together the size of his nose, curve of his large lips, cute little button ears encased in what I could only imagine to be the smoothest skin I could ever wish to touch. I often imagined jumping into that photo, if only for sixty seconds – each one spent running my finger across the surface of his skin, the contours of his face, implanting an image in my brain that would live there for ever and ever.

But I didn’t have the power to jump into a photo.

And Dad wasn’t alive again.

In fact, when Auntie Philomena left the reception I ran into the reeking toilets of that restaurant and cried. I continued to sob for the rest of the night, away from the noisy crowds and uncool music. And then again in my bed, still dressed in that awful frilly dress, dolly shoes banished to the ether. As usual, Mum didn’t notice, she was too loved-up with the Bingo Caller to care. I wasn’t even sure why I was crying because, as Auntie Philomena had put it, this was a good thing. Right? Like hearing a message from the grave. But I suppose that’s what really bothered me the most: he was still dead. Lifeless. His ashes scattered in a foreign sea thousands of miles away along with old tyres and rotting bicycles. He hadn’t come to rescue me from my life of endless days at school, Mum’s moaning and now a stepdad thinking he’d acquired the right to tell me what to do just because he was knobbing my mother.

Dad was still gone.

Philomena had handed me a crumpled old Tesco bag like it was a pot of glistening gold; a perfect, divine specimen needing special handling. It was heavy, with something book-shaped inside. Great, I thought. Yet another book to read. So all I could do was chuck it on the floor among my Doc Martens, twelve-inch singles and one of the pink dolly shoes, staring at it from time to time with a cocktail of confusion, fear, excitement and sadness floating in the background.

Luckily, that weekend was spent with Carla while Mum and the Bingo Caller honeymooned in Cornwall. Although my best mate and her family lived only next door, same south London, same Charlton, it felt like a trillion miles away. And it might as well have been. Carla and her brother Corey were allowed to stay up late AND were allowed to eat ice cream AFTER nine o’clock. So, staying there was perhaps a great way of forgetting about Dad’s ‘message’ for a while and get my head right. But my head remained jumbled and I couldn’t get it out of my mind, counting the days till Mum returned. And the minute the sickly newlyweds arrived back home, complete with their first all-shrieking, super-duper, mirror-cracking argument over what to watch on telly, I raced to my room, desperate to peer inside that Tesco bag.

‘Don’t I get a kiss, young lady?’ shouted Mum as I reached the top of the stairs – just outside my room and that Tesco bag. My heart raced as Mum slowly climbed the stairs, moved towards me and smiled wildly to reveal her front gapped teeth.

‘Sorry, Mum. Welcome back,’ I said, one eye on the door to my bedroom as she planted a wet kiss onto my cheek.

‘Is there one for me as well?’ said the Bingo Caller, opening the door to their bedroom. They couldn’t have heard my silent toot as I replied, ‘Yes.’

At last on my bed, I carefully removed the plastic and instantly clocked the ugly green notebook with the words The Manual written on the front in thick black ink.

Mum shrilled my name. ‘Lois!’

I quickly replaced the plastic bag over The Manual, stuffing it under my bed.

‘What??!!’ I replied, totally exasperated.

‘Carla wants to know if you want to go to the sweetshop.’

I clocked the piece of plastic poking out from under the bed. ‘Erm…yes, tell her I’ll be right down…’

‘What is she doing up there?’ said Carla.

‘Nothing! I’ll be right down!’ The Manual could wait another half-hour, right?

*

I waited impatiently as Mr Tally, the bald man behind the counter, looked on as Carla picked out her ten penny sweets. Mr Tally had this annoying habit of watching us and ignoring the grown-ups who were probably busy out back, nicking a pint of milk (I’d never even stolen before, although Corey swiped a sherbet dip once).

‘I think you’ve gone over,’ said Mr Tally, and I wasn’t sure why, considering he’d always tip the tiny paper bag out onto the counter and recount the contents anyway.

‘How have I?’ challenged Carla, today dressed in a pair of very ripped jeans. The door pinged as another young customer ignored the ‘only two schoolchildren at a time’ notice slapped onto the glass door. ‘I’ve got a Flying Saucer, a Mojo, Refresher, whistle, pink shrimp and a Fruit Salad. How’s that up to ten pence?’

I sighed and glanced at my watch. We’d been at this for ten whole minutes and I was bored. I had to get back to my bedroom and that plastic bag.

‘The Jamie whistle counts for two pence,’ he said.

‘So I’ve still got three pence then! Div!’

To save on time and aggravation, I picked out a ready-made bag, hoping it contained my favourites, and we headed towards home.

‘Why don’t we go down the rec?’ asked Carla.

I opened my bag, relieved to find a white chocolate mouse. ‘I don’t feel like it today. Let’s just go home.’

‘You got stuff to do?’ she asked with a look of utter disbelief. As if Lois Bates would ever have anything exciting to do. She had a point.

‘So what’s it like with the new pops?’ she asked, her mouth stuffed with at least three items.

The white mouse and Black Jack currently being demolished in my own mouth nearly flew out as I shrieked, ‘He’s not my dad, Carla!’

‘Sooooreeee!’ she shrugged, curling her lip like they did on telly. Actually, Carla could very well be mistaken for one of those actresses or models, anything she wanted to be. She was easily the prettiest girl in Charlton – no, make that south London – and even with short hair. Tall, slim, always wore the latest fashion, fun, but an absolute whinger if she didn’t get her own way. I was relieved when she sucked on a gob-stopper, leaving me to gossip about Sharlene Rockingham and whether Mrs Codrington – our science teacher – used to be a man or not.

The hot sun shone above us, warming my insides like an electric blanket, and I could swear I felt Dad’s presence. Like he was willing me to do it; just go home and open up that Tesco bag, start acting my age and not my shoe size. I was a big girl now, after all – and, I repeat, almost a teenager.

I finally left Carla in front of her telly and came face-to-face with the plastic bag in my bedroom. I discarded the plastic and the relief was instant – followed by a stab of fear. Puke tents were suddenly pitching themselves in my tummy as the plastic fell to the ground, mercifully covering the pink dolly shoe I now used as a pencil holder.

And there it was again.

The ‘something’ my dad had left me.

The ugly green book, staring back at me.

The Manual

I opened the hard cover and immediately smiled at the first caption.

This is my (Kevin Bates’s) manual to my daughter Lois. The love of my life.

I sighed heavily, dropping the book straight onto my toes, wincing as the pain shot upwards. My body flopped backwards onto my untidy bed, shoulders colliding with the one-eyed teddy, and a single tear poured from my eye like a waning waterfall. My chest heaved up and down with the force of a silent sob, not because it hurt (and it did) but because, after all these years, I’d finally heard from my dad.

And he’d just told me he loved me.

I made myself a cup of hot chocolate and placed it well away from The Manual and inches from Dad’s picture. I sat upright on my bed, something that would please Mum as she was always going on about my posture. My face began to drip again. I wiped my eyes frantically and swiped at the snot with my hand, sniffing a couple of times, then stopped behaving like a wuss long enough to peep into the second page.

Rules of The Manual:

1 You must only read each new entry on your birthday (from ages 12 to 30).

2 This is a private manual between you and me.

3 No peeping at the next entry!

4 You are allowed to look back at previous entries. Actually, I insist on it!

5 I’ve tried to be really neat, stringing sentences together in the right way, but if you spot the odd dodgy grammar or spelling mistake – just make sure you don’t copy them next time you hand in your homework, young lady!

6 Under each new year, you’ll see that I’ve pretended you’d actually be interested in what was happening in my world around that age.

7 You can look at the miscellaneous sections any time you like – if you think they’ll help. I’ve cleverly placed these at the front, so you don’t get tempted to peep at future pages!

I frantically turned to the next page, heart beating forcefully under my T-shirt.

Hello Lowey,

Hope you’re sitting comfortably.

I sat back against the headboard and shoved the one-eyed teddy onto the floor.

First off I have one thing to say.

I’m sorry.

I am so very sorry for leaving you. It was never my intention. You were only five years old at the time, remember? You probably don’t, unless you’re one of those rare and ultra genius kids, which I very much doubt considering the collaboration of the Bates/Morris genes (only kidding). One thing I totally saw, every time I looked at you, was this beeeeeautiful, vivacious, chatty, smiley little girl, who liked Cheesy Wotsits and running around the living room like a short-legged Olympic runner. This massive sports bag full of potential; a Motown lyric just about to be sung at an open-air concert to thousands; an unfinished portrait, waiting for that last flick of a brush to complete the artist’s beautiful vision.

I wasn’t ready to go, but I had to. And I’m sorry that by the time you read this… I won’t be around anymore.

But this is your time, your beginning. And I want to guide you as best as I can on your journey. Be a father, a dad, a pops to you even though I’m not around any more.

Question: will you let me?

My sobs returned. This time, a little deeper.

Now, let’s go back a bit.

I always thought I wanted a son first. To play footie with, argue the mechanics of a car, play-fight and share my old Scalextric. But all that floated through the hospital window the very first time I held you as you tried to open your eyes, an hour after your beautiful mother pushed you into the world. You were so soft and you smelt so… oh, I can’t explain it… you smelt all fresh, like the bubble bath section of the supermarket… like only a baby can. Blimey, I was hooked and I knew as I looked into your eyes, I was finished. No longer Kevin Bates, sometime Jack the Lad, joker of the pack. But Kevin Bates, Daddy to Lois – and nothing would ever be the same again. I was in your power for ever and ever. My little girl.

I turned the page, feeling sad. Then happy. Scared. Excited. This yo-yoing of emotion felt so strange to me.

I knew we were going to call you Lois.

Because a few weeks before your birth, I’d persuaded your mum to go and see Superman, where I had to summon superhuman strength to lift her out of that cinema seat! Huge! And that night on the way home from the Coronet, you kicked so much I thought I’d have to pull over and deliver you myself!

And even then, I knew. Had never seen your face, never heard your voice, but even then, I knew what you, Lois, would mean to me.

I stifled a smile. At last, explanation for my horrible and weird name.

While Philomena’s kids were noisy, you were a quiet baby. Only really grizzling when you were hungry or needed a nappy change (two good reasons in my book!).

I loved looking at you. How your forehead would crinkle anytime you didn’t get your own way or as you perched on your knees in front of the television deep in thought (something you certainly never got from me). How your eyebrows arched at the thought of something really important, like ‘Why does Big Bird have a funny voice?’

You, my baby, were a shy little thing. But on odd occasions you’d allow your mum and me the privilege of being a part of your world – especially if you needed our help for something really important, like whether or not you could watch Button Moon – or you’d ask for my opinion on one of your many artistic creations (like that drawing you did of the three of us, with rainbow Mohican haircuts).

Our times together were great, Lowey. Kissing you on the forehead as we slouched on the settee, watching The A-Team (which, by the way, is the best show on earth). You’d giggle up at me and I’d feel this little lump in my throat as well as this surge of strength and then weakness for the cutest little girl I had ever seen. The way your eyes were so trusting as they looked to me – plain old Kevin Bates – for some type of reassurance that I’d always pro¬ tect you. Be there for you. Comfort you.

Wow.

And then I’d kiss you on the forehead again, Lois, just because… just because I could never resist that smile of yours. I’d like to think you’d still let me do that if I were there – you know, kiss you on the forehead as you snuggle up to watch TV. Or would you squirm away and tell me ‘I’m a bit old for that, Dad’? Well, you don’t have a choice because I will be kissing your forehead every night before you go to sleep. For the rest of your life – whether you like it or not.

In a nutshell, I need you to know that your daddy loves you soooooo much. With stars on! And although I’m kind of gone, I will NEVER, EVER leave you. I’ll be there with you, for you and around you. Don’t ask me how, just know I will be and especially through this manual, which I hope you will keep for ever and ever. And as well as your birthdays, I want you to open it up whenever you feel con fused, lost, lonely or even happy! Yes, Lowey, when you are happy too.

I wiped the fresh layer of snot from my nose with the back of a trembling hand, and for a good ten minutes I didn’t move or think of anything. This was all too much to take in. So unexpected. I suddenly felt ancient – at least eighteen. And while I ached to turn the pages, devour everything my dad had ever written to me, I knew doing so would mean nothing left for later. Next week. Next month. Next year. I needed this manual. I needed my dad and nothing would tempt me into jeopardising any of that – even if it meant reading a sentence a day for the rest of my life.

I re-read that first page around a hundred times, ignoring Mum shouting up from the kitchen, ‘What are you doing in there, Lois?’ and ‘Dinner’s ready! Wash your hands first!’

I wasn’t hungry for mere food, but sat down to the meal with the same old plates, same old knives and forks, same everything. Only I had changed. Something inside wasn’t ticking the same any more. I’m not saying I was suddenly a grown-up. I just didn’t feel like a little kid any more. And I certainly didn’t feel like sitting at the table listening to the Bingo Caller and Mum talk about a load of rubbish, while upstairs in a Tesco bag was the bestest, most important thing I had ever read.

‘The fish is lovely,’ enthused the Bingo Caller, carefully tucking into Mum’s trademark snapper and rice.

‘Our first meal as a family! Well, you know…since we got married,’ giggled Mum, sounding like a little girl. Equally, the Bingo Caller gazed at her the way a toddler does at a lollipop.

‘This is a lovely meal,’ repeated the Bingo Caller. Mum smiled, squinted her eyes, then dared to question why I chose to pick at the food.

‘Nothing’s wrong with it. I’m just not hungry, Mum.’

‘Aren’t you feeling well?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Did someone upset you? Something happen when I was away?’

‘Not really… No, nothing.’ I continued to pick at the food, just desperate for the sensation of my dad’s manual against the surface of my fingers once again.

‘Got a boyfriend?’ asked the Bingo Caller, mouth full of fish.

I quickly and angrily shook my head in response. ‘Of course not!’

‘You don’t have to be rude, Lois. We just want to make sure you’re okay,’ said Mum sternly.

‘Sorry,’ I mumbled.

After dinner, I finally got the chance to escape. I turned to page five of The Manual, butterflies break-dancing in my stomach. It simply read:

As you read The Manual, always remember without doubt and without question, I love you… with stars on. Dad.

I closed my eyes and grazed the top of my forehead with my index finger. An image of Dad gently kissing my forehead appeared along with this total feeling of calm replacing all the stuff I had to deal with at school, Mum remarrying…everything washing away like water down a smelly drain.

That night, just before dropping into the land of nod, I whispered:

‘I love you too, Dad. Goodnight.’

And I knew he’d heard.

* * *