Then a huffy silence descended, making me feel guilty for not appreciating him. And I couldn’t cope with that. Dad’s catchphrase when I was growing up whenever I went to someone’s house, was ‘Make sure you’re grateful; don’t forget to say thank you.’ He was terrified in case other people’s parents found me rude, the odd little girl without a mother whose father hadn’t taken care of all that ‘please and thank you’ business.
So instead of insisting on being independent, I’d convinced myself I was lucky to have someone to run me around, someone prepared to put themselves out for me. Half the women I worked with spent their lives stressing up and down the motorways or shivering on train platforms. I imagined that, sooner or later, the novelty of carting me about would wear off and I’d eventually get some L-plates.
But then Sandro was born and Massimo was convinced his screaming would distract me and cause an accident. Then he was concerned about my health. ‘You’re not doing as much exercise as you once were. Walking everywhere keeps you fit and I need you to live a long time.’ And he’d squeeze my hand, assure me that whenever I needed to go somewhere, he was at my beck and call.
Somehow, the years slipped by and the right time to bring up driving lessons again never materialised, tinged as it was with underlying tension, that wanting my own driving licence somehow insulted Massimo’s ability to take care of me.
But that was then. Now, my dad was disappearing into darkness and I was stranded, miles away, reliant on the stars, moon and Massimo’s moods aligning to give me a lift to see him.
With the unwelcome knowledge that all that ferrying about, all that concern for my safety was just control by another name.
Massimo would block me if I told him I was going to learn to drive. He’d be far too clever to announce to the world that he was forbidding me to do it. But there’d be a financial crisis of some sort that led to spending less on ‘non-essentials’, a drama that required me to cancel my lessons and, crucially, a drip feed of how I didn’t have the co-ordination, the anticipation, the reactions necessary to pass a test, topped off with ‘we know what happened to your mother’, until I barely felt safe using a vegetable peeler.
But Dad needed me.
So when Maggie offered to teach me to drive, I grabbed onto it, refusing to fall into the usual trap of talking myself out of it. My thoughts flitted about, trying to find a tightrope strung between the obstacles to overcome. I couldn’t tell Massimo I was learning because he’d dream up a way to stop me. And I couldn’t ask Maggie to lie to Massimo.
‘Would you really do that for me?’
Maggie laughed in the way that people who expect good things from the world find people who don’t funny. ‘I’d love it. It would give me huge satisfaction. Mum never learnt to drive because we were too poor and it really limits what she can do. And anyway, you don’t want to be dependent on Massimo to trolley you about when he’s away so much. You’d be able to nip over and see your dad whenever you wanted.’
I tried not to sound as desperate as I felt, aiming for a ‘Yep, great idea, I’ll have a bash at this driving lark’ rather than like someone who’d fallen overboard on a cross-channel ferry and was clinging to a lifebelt. But, to my horror, I got all choked up. It was so long since anyone had offered to resolve any of my problems rather than just adding to them. But around Maggie, I always got a giddy feeling. Her down-to-earth optimism was infectious, the sense that yes, things might get a bit troublesome but putting the kettle on and calming down would be a good starting point. That even if I was myself – rather than the me that Massimo poured into a mould ten years ago – she’d still like me.
She stopped in a layby.
‘Oh bless you, you poor thing.’
As naturally as anything, she undid our seatbelts and pulled me into a big hug. I never had any spontaneous physical interaction with anyone any more and it was as though my brain had to be told my body didn’t need to be on standby. I was permanently braced for Massimo to turn on me, ready to dart out of his way, or primed to anticipate that any affection was a prelude to a demanding sexual marathon.
I drew back for a second before deliberately relaxing.
Maggie smoothed my hair while all my confusion, my fury for allowing myself to become this person, bubbled out of me. She was so capable, even though she was always saying things like, ‘What do I know? I just sew on zips. You’re the brainbox, Lara. I’d love to be able to tell people I had a degree in accountancy and have them all look at me thinking, wow, she must be bright.’
Yes, so bright that I’d allowed Massimo to stop me seeing my own dad.
I pulled back, away from the warmth and comfort Maggie offered. If I told her the truth, she’d expect me to rush home, pack my bags and do something about it. But what could I do? What could a woman like me with no money of her own, no family and, thanks to Massimo, no friends, do? Where could I take Sandro, where could I go, that wouldn’t traumatise him more than Massimo’s irrational behaviour?
I did what I always did. Forced the emotion back inside me and sieved through the stock of reasons I usually used when I had reacted badly to Massimo or, God forbid, stood up for myself: ‘I’m tired.’ ‘I’ve had a difficult day with Sandro.’ ‘Sorry, I know you didn’t mean anything by what you said, I’m just a bit oversensitive today.’ Anything to keep the peace and stop a heated discussion escalating to such an intensity that Sandro would run up to his bedroom with his hands over his ears or the dog would start barking, dancing around growling, while Massimo goaded him into snapping at me.
I cleared my throat. ‘Sorry, Maggie. I’m overreacting. It’s such a shock seeing Dad like that. He thought I was my mother.’
She put her head on one side and held me by the shoulders. ‘You’re not overreacting. Your dad is confused and hurt and you’re upset. There’s nothing weird about that. God, Lara, give yourself a break. You’re not some bloody block of concrete.’ She paused. ‘Do you want me to give Massimo a ring and let him know what’s happened?’
I had no plans to tell him that Dad was getting worse. ‘No thanks. I’d hate him to worry and rush home. He’s got enough on his plate at work.’
And she pulled the face, the expression I’d seen on my friends’ faces – when I still had some – the one that said ‘Don’t be such a doormat.’ And like them, a sigh of exasperation.
But I needed this friendship, this shred of normality in my insane world. ‘I would love you to teach me to drive though. Do you think we could do it without telling anyone? I’d love to surprise Massimo and just turn up one day behind the steering wheel?’
I held my breath, wondering whether I’d got away with it, whether that seemingly innocent suggestion would be enough to get Maggie on board.