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“I've borrowed a car seat, I hope that's okay. A friend of mine has one for her grandson.”
I'm touched. This is the man who has never changed a nappy in his life, the one who spent most of my childhood working, rarely coming home before I was in bed. “That's great, thank you.”
After we go through the rigmarole of strapping Max in, I climb in the front next to Dad. Like the outside, the interior of the car is sparkling. Despite being five years old, it still smells new.
“How's the garden?” I ask. Since his retirement and Mum's death, he's become a gardening addict. The last time we visited he spent hours describing all the plants he was growing. I came away knowing more Latin than I knew what to do with.
“It's good. I picked some salad for our lunch. And I've got some peas you can take back with you, if you like.”
“Sounds lovely. How are the potatoes doing?”
“I'm nearly out of the first batch. I've planted some late growing ones, though.”
When we pull up to the house I feel a twinge dragging at my chest. Apart from the garden—which is indeed looking gorgeous—it seems as though nothing has changed. I could be eighteen, coming back from my first term at University, and my mum could be waiting inside in the kitchen with a cup of tea.
Of course, she isn't. It doesn't lessen the lump I feel in my throat, though.
Ever the gentleman, Dad opens my door and helps me to get Max out. The baby twists and turns his head, looking at the trees, the flowers, and the vegetable garden Dad has planted at the back. When he spots some birds perched in the old oak tree, he points excitedly, his face lighting up.
“Birdies,” I tell him.
Max nods, his expression serious.
“How's Alex?” Dad asks when we are sitting at the kitchen table. Max is on my lap, sucking at a Farley’s rusk. We wait for the tea to brew in the familiar green and grey teapot that Mum loved so much. Leaf tea, of course. My dad has never been one for tea bags.
“He's fine. The band has their first gig tonight.” The lump in my throat is back. Of course, I haven't told my dad about our arguments or my depression. Maybe if Mum was here I'd be spilling my guts, but I suspect my dad would run screaming. “His mobile phone contract is all mucked up, though, so he's having to call me on his friend's one.” I make a face. Typical Alex not to have realised he needed to set up a roaming contract. And when I tried to sort it out his provider told me he had to call himself. Which he can't, because his bloody phone isn't working.
“You have it easy nowadays. I remember going on business trips and having to search out a phone box to call your mother. That's when we had a phone, of course. We didn't in our first flat.”
&
nbsp; I've heard this story before. How they used to have to borrow their neighbour's phone in an emergency, and that Dad arrived late to the hospital after my brother was born, having been blissfully ignorant at a football match.
“Have you heard from Graham?” I ask. My brother is fifteen years older than me. He emigrated to New Zealand when I was eight. Though Mum never admitted it, I'm pretty sure I was a mid-life mistake. She was forty-three when I was born.
“They sent a card and a letter on my birthday. Daniel's graduated from University.” He's my nephew, who I've never met. I'm ashamed to say I'm not even friends with them on Facebook. When I think about how close Alex's family are, it makes me sad.
“What did he study?”
“Oh, I don't know, some new-fangled thing to do with computers.” Dad pours milk into a cup, then places the strainer over it before tipping the tea pot up. He still has the same teacups from when I was little, too. Delicate bone china with a Chinese pattern. Mum once told me they were a wedding present.
“Sounds lucrative.”
Dad scratches his head. “I suppose so.”
We spend the afternoon in the garden, Dad pulling up weeds and cutting the grass as Max entertains himself playing with the mud. When he falls asleep, I put him in his buggy under the shade of the big oak tree, and I lie on the blanket, drifting off with him. I'm dreaming about bluebirds and crows when my phone rings, the piercing trill merging with my dream, morphing into a birdsong for a moment, until the persistence rouses me.
“Hello?”
“Hey, can you hear me?” Alex’s voice sounds distant and tinny.
Immediately I sit up, covering my ear with my hand so I can concentrate on the phone. “Just about. How are you?”
“Good, yeah. Tired though. We ended up in some dodgy bar last night and Stu got a bit drunk. Turns out the locals really don't like being called rednecks. How are you and Max?”
I glance over at the baby, reclined in his buggy, and a smile creeps across my lips. He looks so peaceful here, it's as though the fresh air is some kind of panacea. I can't imagine letting him sleep in our rotten backyard at home.
“We’re good. We miss you, though. How are you feeling about tonight?” From the position of the sun in the sky, I'm guessing it's mid-afternoon here, which makes it early morning in Seattle, where the tour is starting.
