That certainly was a bit of a bombshell. Mum had been a chemistry teacher.
“Your mother excelled in chemistry when she was at university. Then we both abandoned that path around the same time, and she became a journalist. Don’t ask me how or why, I never understood the whole thing. When she came back and got pregnant with you and your brother, it didn’t take long for us to see my salary alone wasn’t going to cut it. She hunted around for a journalism job for a few weeks, but the bigger her belly grew, the quicker those doors would swing shut in her face. The best offer she got was to be the secretary of an editorial board, working for peanuts. Of course, she was livid at the very notion! That a woman—much less a pregnant one—wasn’t fit to be offered a real job. And that type of rage just won’t do when you’ve got a bun in the oven, much less two. When she finally came to her senses and realized she had to calm down, she decided to return to her first love. Or rather ‘loves,’ I should say—besides me, of course,” Dad added with a wink. “In the run-up to you two being born, she took courses by correspondence to complete her chemistry degree, which you already know. Studying between bouts of morning sickness, she managed to pass. As soon as you were old enough to be away from her, she became a teaching assistant, then did her PGCE to become a full-on science teacher. Your mother was passionate about children. She couldn’t get enough of them. I would have liked to have been twelve years old forever just to get to hang around with her all day and be the teacher’s pet.”
Dad went quiet and ran his hand through his hair, a nervous habit of his on the rare occasion he actually let the conversation veer towards anything deep.
“Elby. I’ve told you a hundred times: Don’t be sad when you think of her. Think back to the special moments you two shared together. How much she loved you, how close you were. Close enough to even make your own father jealous at times, I’ll admit. Whether she’s dead or not, they can’t take that away from you.”
Before he even finished his sentence, I had burst into tears and curled up in his arms. Sure, right. You’re not the emotional type, not at all. Just keep telling yourself that.
“Well, safe to say I’ve done a great job of cheering you up. Give me another chance, will you? I know just the remedy for this type of heartache. Come on, now! Let’s go,” my father said, taking me by the hand. “The old Austin is fit as a fiddle once more, so what do you say we splurge on some ice cream, yeah? And I’ve got news for you, little lady: Croydon now has its very own Ben & Jerry’s! If that’s not good news, I don’t know what is. And now that your sister’s wedding is off, to hell with fitting into my dinner jacket!”
“So . . . what newspaper did she work for?” I asked, licking melted chocolate ice cream from my spoon.
“I really don’t feel like talking about all that,” my father replied, without looking up from his own massive portion of ice cream.
“Why is that?”
“Because I don’t want you getting any ideas.”
“If you really think you’re getting off that easily, then you don’t know your own daughter at all.”
“Elby, I have to tell you right off: one word of any of this to your brother or sister, and you and I are going to have some real issues.”
“Hey, when you call me Elby, I know you mean business.”
“Her newspaper was called the Independent.”
I threw my father a dubious look. Knowing him, he could be pulling my leg just to see how far he could take the joke.
“The Independent? The daily paper with some of the most talented voices in journalism today? Which section? Culture? Economy? Hold up, I know . . . the science desk!” I gasped, laughing, emphasizing the ludicrousness of it all.
“It was the Metro section. You know, social issues.”
“Are you sure we’re talking about the same woman?”
“She was quite keen on politics, and had an exceptional knack for editorials. And you can wipe that snide look off your face, young lady. It’s the absolute truth.”
“Nice lesson in humility, right? Considering I only write travel chronicles, essentially just hyped-up tourist recommendations.”
“Now, don’t you start! It’s not like any particular subject is more important than another. You transport your readers to distant lands that they’ll never set foot in. It’s the stuff that dreams are made of! And every single one of your articles is a call for tolerance, which is all too rare these days. You need proof your work is important? Flip open the Daily Mail. One glance at that rubbish is all you’ll need. Don’t belittle what you do, my dear.”
“You wouldn’t be trying to say . . . you’re proud of me, would you?”
“Why, because you don’t know that already?”
“You never talk about my work.”