And there’s Colin the alpaca, roaming around in his little paddock, looking like the miserable sod he is. God, the alpacas were a disaster. Dad bought six of them, about three years ago, and he reckoned they were going to make our fortune. They were going to be an attraction, and we were going to set up an alpaca wool factory, and all sorts. He actually charged tickets for some school party to come and visit, but then an alpaca bit one of the kids, and he hadn’t done a risk assessment or whatever and it was all a total hassle.
Although that wasn’t as bad as his ANSTERS FARM WINTER WONDERLAND! VISIT FATHER CHRISTMAS IN HIS GROTTO! with cotton wool for snow and Poundland tat for presents and me as a fourteen-year-old resentful elf. It was twelve years ago now, but I still shudder at the memory. Those bloody green tights.
“Oh, it’s wonderful to have you home, Katie!” Biddy has come out too, holding her glass. She gives me a hug and pats my shoulder. “We miss you, darling!”
Biddy has been Dad’s girlfriend for years now. Or partner. Common-law wife, I suppose. After Mum died, for the longest time it was just Dad and me. It worked fine. I thought Dad would be on his own forever. There were a few local women, mostly blond, who came and went, and I didn’t really distinguish between them.
But then Biddy arrived, right before I went off to uni. From the start, she was different. She’s a quiet, persistent, sensible person, Biddy. She’s pretty in her own way—dark, slightly graying hair, deep-brown eyes—but she’s not flashy or trendy. There’s grit to her too. She used to be a chef at the Fox and Hounds, till the late hours got too much for her. Now she makes jam and sells it at fairs. I’ve seen her stand there patiently at her stall, six hours at a time, always pleasant, always willing to chat. She’d never overcharge a customer but never undercharge either. She’s fair. True and fair. And for some reason—I have no idea why—she puts up with Dad.
I’m only joking. Half-joking, maybe. Dad’s one of those people—sends you mad with frustration, then comes through just when you weren’t expecting it. When I was seventeen, I asked him over and over to teach me to drive. He put it off…forgot…said I was too young….Then one day, when I’d given up hope, he announced, “Right, Kitty-Kate, it’s driving day.” We spent all day in the car and he was the most kind, patient teacher you could imagine.
I mean, I still failed. Turns out Dad’s got no idea how to teach driving; in fact, the examiner stopped the test halfway because apparently I was “unsafe.” (He was particularly unimpressed by Dad’s advice: Always accelerate toward changing traffic lights, in case you can nip through.) But, anyway, the thought was there, and I’ll always remember that day.
That was Dad’s gentler, more serious side. He doesn’t always show it, but underneath the swagger and the twinkles and the flirting he’s as soft as butter. You just have to watch him at lambing. He looks after all the orphan lambs as tenderly as though they were his real babies. Or take the time I had a bad fever when I was eleven. Dad got so worried, he took my temperature about thirty times in an hour. (At last he asked Rick Farrow, the vet, to stop in and have a look at me. He said he trusted Rick over any doctor, any day. Which was fine until the story got out at school. I mean, the vet.)
I still remember Mum. Kind of. I have dim splashes of memory like an unfinished watercolor. I remember arms around me and a soft voice in my ear. Her “going out” shoes—she only had the one pair, in black patent with sensible heels. I remember her leading me around the fields on my pony, clucking fondly to both of us. Brushing my hair after bath time, in front of the telly. I still feel a sad, Mum-shaped hole in my life when I allow myself…but that’s not often. It would feel disloyal to Dad, somehow. As I’ve got older, I’ve realized how hard it must have been for him, all those years, bringing me up alone. But he never let me realize it, not once. Everything was fun, an adventure for the pair of us.
I have a memory of him when I was six, the year after Mum died: Dad sitting at the kitchen table, peering at the Littlewoods catalog, his brow furrowed, trying to pick out clothes for me. Wanting so badly to get it right. He can make you weep, he’s so kind. And then he can make you weep because he sold your precious matching bedroom-furniture set with no warning to a guy from Bruton who gave him a really good deal. (I was fifteen. And what I still don’t get is, how did the guy from Bruton even know about my bedroom furniture?)
Anyway, that’s Dad. He’s not exactly what he seems. Then, the minute you’ve worked that out, he is exactly what he seems. And I think Biddy understands that. It’s why they work as a couple. I used to watch all those other women Dad had, and even when I was a child I could tell they didn’t quite get Dad. They could only see charismatic, charming, rogue-ish Mick, with his moneymaking schemes. Standing rounds at the pub, telling funny stories. That’s what appealed to them, so he played up that side. But Biddy isn’t about charisma; she’s about connection. She talks directly. She doesn’t mess around or flirt. I sometimes see them talking quietly together, and I can tell that Dad relies on her, more and more.
She’s careful and discreet, though, Biddy. She doesn’t ever get between me and Dad. She knows how close the two of us were, all those years together, and she’s all about standing back. Never venturing an opinion. Never offering unsolicited advice. Nor have I ever asked her for advice.
Maybe I should.
“Crisp, Kitty-Kate?” Dad has followed me outside into the winter sunshine with a bowl of crisps. His graying, curly hair is still rumpled from doing his morning jobs outside, and his skin is as weatherbeaten as ever, his blue eyes shining like sapphire chips.
“I was just saying to Katie, it’s lovely to have her home,” says Biddy. “Isn’t it?”
“Certainly is,” replies Dad, and he raises his glass toward me. I raise my own and try to smile—but it doesn’t come easily. I can’t meet Dad’s eye without seeing the little splinters of sadness among the twinkles. So I gulp my drink, waiting for the moment to pass.
If you saw us from the outside, you’d have no idea. You’d think we were a father and daughter reuniting happily on Christmas Eve. You’d never sense the waves of hurt and guilt bouncing invisibly between us.
The internship in Birmingham never caused a problem. Dad understood that it was all I could get; he knew I didn’t want to settle in Birmingham; he didn’t worry. The internship in London, he rationalized as well. I was “just starting out” and no wonder I had to get some experience.
But then I took the job at Cooper Clemmow, and something froze. I remember breaking the news to him and Biddy, right here. Oh, he did all the right things—hugged me and said, “Well done.” We talked about visits and weekends, and Biddy made a celebratory cake. But all the time I could see the stricken look in his face.
We haven’t really been right with each other since then. And certainly not since the last time he came up to London, almost a year ago now, with Biddy. God, it was a disaster. Something went wrong with the tube and we were late for the show I’d booked. A group of young guys jostled Dad, and I think—not that he’d ever admit it—he was scared. He told me in no uncertain terms what he thought of London. I was so tired and disappointed, I burst into tears and said…some stuff I didn’t mean.
Since then, we’ve danced warily around each other. Dad hasn’t suggested visiting again. I haven’t asked him to. We don’t talk a lot about my life in London, and when we do, I’m careful to stay upbeat. I never mention my problems. I’ve never even shown him where I live. I couldn’t let him see my flat and my tiny room and all my stuff slung in a grotty hammock. He just wouldn’t understand.
Because here’s the other thing about Dad; here’s the flip side of us being so close for so long: He feels everything on my behalf, almost too keenly. He can overreact. He can make me feel worse about a situation, not better. He rails at the world when it goes wrong for me, can’t let things go.