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It Must Run in the Family...
by Paul Norman
Funny, isn't it?
I mean, you rely on your parents for advice for all those years, and then suddenly they change, they turn into people needing to be advised. By you. Gran was like that. When I couldn't get hold of Mum or Dad, I would go to see Gran, and she would advise me. Then, when she turned seventy, she started to worry about things, like gas bills, water rates, that sort of thing. And Mum and Dad would advise her. It's funny how people change. Suddenly.
I see Mum once a week, popping in on the way to pick up Lucy from after school music lessons. We have a cup of tea, a piece of cake, or a biscuit, and I tell her my troubles, and she advises me. Dad's usually in the shed, or mowing the lawn, or weeding, or in the greenhouse. Sometimes, if the weather's really bad, he's sitting in the conservatory listening to his classical music and reading a book. Stephen King. Dalziell and Pascoe. Something like that. He usually waves and smiles. They're happy. Settled. Or so I thought.
Today I sense the tension as I let myself in the front door. And sure enough, Mum's on her own, same as always, only something has changed.
"Hi Mum!" I call out, but this time she doesn't answer. At first I think the house might be empty, though she would have told me if they were going out. But no, she's there, on the settee, in the front room. The TV is on. One of those afternoon quiz programmes, Countdown, I think.
"Hi Mum," I say again. But she still says nothing, and I realise she's been crying. Still is. There's a soggy tissue on the settee next to her, and a packet of unused tissues the other side. I can see through to the conservatory. No sign of Dad.
"Mum, what's happened?" My first thought is that someone has died. I don't think I've ever seen Mum cry except when someone has died. "Mum, are you okay? Where's Dad?"
She sniffles, and takes another tissue from the packet, wiping her eyes first, then her nose. She's been crying for some time, I think. I sit next to her, anxious.
"Has something happened?"
"He's gone."
"Dad?" She can only mean Dad. My heart lurches, suddenly. Does she mean "gone" as in died, or "gone" as in walked out on her?
"He walked out," she says, reading my mind, wanting to set me at ease, though by now panic is starting to set in.
"Walked out?"
"We had a row.""Oh, Mum! He'll be back."
"Not this time."
"What was it about?" They've been rowing all their married lives. A very long time. Last year was their forty-third wedding anniversary. I always thought, if James and I could last as long as you two have, we'll be all right. So far, so good. Mum and Dad's rowing is never serious. Mum loses her temper over something trivial, at least, that's how it appears to me, and after a few days, it blows over.
"What was it about?" I ask again, gently. She needs reassuring. She needs to tell me what happened, so I can assess the situation and tell her everything will be all right, she's worrying about nothing.
"He was painting the kitchen. I went into town. I told him not to move the fridge…." She pauses, dabbing at her eyes with another clean tissue. "When I came back, he'd ripped the new vinyl floor. I told him to wait for me and we could empty the fridge and move it."
I nodded my head. "But he said it was too heavy for you?" Now it's Mum's turn to nod. "I said it again. I'll be back in half an hour and we'll do it together. You're not to move it on your own. You're sixty-three, I said. You might have been able to move fridges on your own twenty or thirty years ago, but now you're getting on a bit…"
"And he didn't take too kindly to that?"
"He just promised not to move it. When I got back he was painting the wall over the cooker, and the vinyl was torn. He'd tried to repair it with double-sided tape, I think, but it shows. It's ruined. I told him how stupid he was, and he just stood there, not saying anything. He finished the painting while I took the dog out. When I got back, he said he was leaving, then he went out and slammed the front door behind him. That was two hours ago. He's not coming back."
"Mum, you've been married how long?" I say, but she won't look at me. Instead, she buries her face in the cushion behind her and starts to sob.
"Did he take the car?"
She shakes her head.
"He walked."
"Yes," she says, barely whispering.
"Then he won't have gone far."
"I was horrible to him, Alison. He's not coming back. I know he's not. Not this time. I've done it once too often. I'm always horrible to him. All he wants to do is his gardening, or reading, or listening to his CDs. We never do anything together…" It's on the tip of my tongue to say 'you wanted to move the fridge together,' but Mum doesn’t appreciate sarcasm.
"You go out with the dog. On the cliffs," I say. "Anyway, he knows you don't mean it. When you're horrible to him, I mean."
But what he really does is to soak it all up. He never answers back. He's always the one who apologises, even when Mum's in the wrong. I hate to say this, but she's not the easiest person in the world to live with…
"Is it really that bad? The vinyl?"
"No. That's the stupid thing. He's repaired it really well. I just – flew off the handle. It was, it was…"
"Because he promised not to do it, then did it."
Mum nods.
"He won't have gone far, Mum."
"Alison, he has never, never ever, walked out on me. Never!"
"Always a first time. Doesn't mean he won't come back for his dinner!" I say, laughing, trying to make a joke out of what is obviously a really painful episode for Mum. "Shall I go and look for him?"
"What about Lucy? Don't you have to pick her up?"
"Not for a half hour or so. You make yourself a cup of tea, I'll go and look for him."Mum peers at me through tear-filled eyes. Still beautiful at sixty. No wonder he's never left her. She's beautiful. And he knows it.
I go to the front door, and the next thing I know, she's at my elbow. "Tell him I'm sorry, Ali?" she says, and I smile reassuringly.
"You're not to worry. I'll find him."
I know exactly where he'll be. Once upon a time, several rows ago, he took me and Nipper, the dog, for a walk along the cliffs. We stood for ages, gazing out across the North Sea, and he told me he often went there when he wanted time to think, time on his own.
They're so lucky, Mum and Dad. I mean, they live in this beautiful bungalow, two minutes from the cliffs, five minutes from the beach, with miles and miles of coastal paths to walk. And that's where I find him. Sitting on the only bench, way beyond the caravan park, his coat collar up against the wind.
"Thought I'd find you here," I say, plonking myself next to him. "You're not wearing a hat. It's quite cool."
"Don't you start," he says, frowning. "The day I've had…"
"The day from hell, eh?"
"She told you, then?"
"She thinks you've left her," I say, light-heartedly.
"I have," he says. "For a while."
"Not for good?"
"Is that what she said?"
"More or less. I found her crying her eyes out."
"Oh dear! I shall get wrong for that too, I suppose."
"Probably."
"Better face the music…"
"I ought to get going. I have to pick Lucy up from school."
"Perhaps I'll give it another hour…"
"Dad!""Only joking." He turns to look at me. "I don't think I'll ever find another one like your Mum, Ali."
"One that nags, you mean?"
"It's not always that bad."
"Why did you move the fridge when you said you wouldn't?""Just trying to get it done before she came back from the shops, I suppose."
"Silly Daddy." It's something I've called him all my life, especially when he makes me laugh."Come on. Can't have her crying, can we?"
"Not if someone hasn't died," I say, and we set off for home, our arms linked.
When we reach the front door, I ask him if he wants me to go in with him. He shakes his head. "No, it'll be all right. You coming for dinner Sunday?"
"Yes, James is not working, and he's not playing golf. I made him promise."
"See you Sunday, then."
"If you're still alive," I say, with a twinkle in my eyes."I'll be fine. So will your Mum." He opens the front door, and I hear a voice. Mum's voice. She'll have seen us coming down the path.
"Tea's ready."
"Just coming," Dad says, but he turns and walks back to me. "Thanks for sorting her out."
"No problem, Daddy. It's my job."
Isn't it funny how our roles get reversed at some stage during our lives? Sometimes I think it's almost as if our parents start to grow backwards as we start to get older. All their common sense gets put to one side, and it's up to us to help them through their little crises. Good job we don't have a crisis of our own right now. We'd have to turn to our parents again, I suppose. Or Lucy. She has a lot of common sense for one so young. Must run in the family.
Gateway is published by Paul Edmund Norman on the first day of each month. Hosting is by Flying Porcupine at www.flyingporcupine.com - and web design by Gateway. Submitting to Gateway: Basically, all you need do is e-mail it along and I'll consider it - it can be any length, if it's very long I'll serialise it, if it's medium-length I'll put it in as a novella, if it's a short story or a feature article it will go in as it comes. Payment is zero, I'm afraid, as I don't make any money from Gateway, I do it all for fun! For Advertising rates in Gateway please contact me at paulenorman@yahoo.co.uk Should you be kind enough to want to send me books to review, please contact me by e-mail and I will gladly forward you my home address. Meanwhile, here's how to contact me: paulenorman@yahoo.co.uk