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Dad clears his throat, and pushes the crossword away. “Is everything okay? With you and Alex?”
“Yes.” Immediately defensive, I try to deflect. “Why wouldn't they be?”
Looking as awkward as I feel, Dad continues regardless. “I don't know, maybe a few things you said. When you called last week to ask if I was free this weekend you sounded very... sad. If your mother was alive she'd be able to ask you, but she's not... so...” He trails off and shrugs, unable to catch my eye. I realise how hard it must be for him to ask me the question. He's never been an emotional man, has always been traditional. Mum did all the caring in our house, he was simply the provider.
If he can put himself out there, why can't I?
“Things aren't great,” I admit. “The doctor says I have postnatal depression, and I didn't want Alex to leave. We've been having lots of arguments.” I take another mouthful of tea to stop my voice from wobbling. I feel so uncomfortable it isn't even funny,
Dad's silent for a while; long enough for me to think he's gone back to his crossword. But when I look up, he's still staring at me. He hasn't shaved yet, and grey stubble has formed into a grizzly half-beard on his jaw. His eyes are pale and watery.
“You know, being a parent isn't easy. It's bound to shake up your relationship. I can remember your mother and I having all sorts of arguments.”
My interest is immediately piqued. Ignoring the incongruity of getting relationship advice from my very-stoic father, I press on. “Really? I don't remember that.”
“We even split up for a few days when your brother was a baby. I ended up sleeping on the floor at a friend's house.”
“Why did you split up?” My eyes are wide and I'm more shocked than I can say. In spite of their traditional roles they always seemed so happy. It's strange having to look back over my family history with a revisionist eye.
“We argued about cake.” He looks down, shamefaced.
I can't help but laugh. “Cake? Seriously?” I angle my head to one side. “Victoria sponge or chocolate?”
“Laugh all you want, it was deadly serious at the time. Graham had been poorly for a little while. Measles or chickenpox, I can't remember. I was doing all this stupid overtime at work to save up a deposit for a house. Back in those days you needed a hefty one to get a mortgage, it wasn't as easy as it is now.”
I think of our poky rented flat, and the cost of buying somewhere in London, but choose not to say anything. Besides, I'm more interested in the cake.
Not to mention the news that my mum and dad split up.
“So I come home for tea, and there's a couple of stale sandwiches and some abomination from Mr Kipling. I turned to your mother and asked her why she hadn't made a nice lemon cake instead, and that was it. Armageddon, Mr Kipling style.”
“Oh...” I say. “I bet she was angry.” A sick child, an absent husband and then unwarranted criticism. It all sounds strangely familiar.
“She was furious. I couldn't understand why. How long does it take to bake a cake anyway? And I've never liked the ones you can buy from the shop.”
“But still, Graham was sick. She must have been exhausted.”
“I realise that now. But back then I took it for granted that she could cope. There weren't all these self-help books or people telling fathers what they should do. I assumed I'd be like my own dad. He didn’t take an interest in any of us. Just came home to eat his dinner before buggering off to the pub.”
“So she chucked you out?”
&n
bsp; “That she did. I managed three days before I came crawling back with my tail between my legs. Even then she made me wash my own shirts for a month.”
I laugh out loud. At this moment I miss her so much. From the look on my dad's face, he does too. No more lemon cakes, no more pithy words. Nobody to tell me I'm doing okay as a mum.
“I wish she could see Max.” I give him a watery smile. “She would have loved him.”
“Yes, she would,” Dad agrees. “One of her greatest regrets was that she only got to see Daniel once. If she was alive now, she'd be dragging me up to London every week.”
“You should come up more often,” I say. “Even if you don't want to stay at ours, you could come up for the day. I'll even bake you a cake.”
He catches my eye. “I've tasted your cakes, remember? Your home economics teacher said she'd never seen anybody cremate a Madeira cake before.”
“You remember that?”
“Remember it? I dined out on it for days. I was so proud of how clever you were at maths. I couldn't give a damn about the cooking, I thought it was funny.”
