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The stairs have a stairlift now and when I visit his bedroom, there’s a special bed with buttons so it moves up and down, plus a commode nearby and the high smell of disinfectant everywhere. Julie obviously has to deep clean the commode every morning.
By the bedside, there are stacks of medication, plus some old pictures of Mum in a bundle, kept together with an elastic band. Christ.
Tears fall down my face as I look through. I could be looking into a mirror.
I’ve never seen these before. He must have kept them hidden.
The photo on the bottom of the pile pictures Mum and Dad together at a restaurant table. When I turn it over, there’s my mum’s handwriting:Engagement, January 10, 1993
I flip the photo back over and he’s holding her left hand across a chequered red tablecloth. Clear as day, there’s her engagement ring aglow on her ring finger. My father had a big shock of black hair then, a thick black moustache and a distinctly Spanish look about him. He was heavy set while Mum was willowy and blonde, very young and pale, but beautiful. He might’ve seemed like someone who could protect her, someone who’d worship and adore her. The two people in this picture certainly don’t remind me of anyone I’ve ever known.
I put the pictures back how I found them, then open his bedside drawer. Inside there are numerous papers, some bank statements that show the regular payment which comes to me, and his bank balance which isn’t as big as what I anticipated. Perhaps he spent all his earnings on women and booze. I wouldn’t know.
There is also a slim envelope, the paper a bit finer than usual, with the words,Last Will and Testamenton it in a pretty grey font.
I consider not prying, but I have a right to know, don’t I?
A quick glance tells me that I get everything. There is no mention of my mother whatsoever, nor my father’s cousins and other family who now live back in Spain.
If he were still married to her, surely he’d have had to mention her, even just to rule her out?
I pop it back in the envelope and don’t know how I feel about inheriting this house. I don’t know what I’d do with it.
For a few minutes, I just watch him sleep. He doesn’t shift and I take it Julie knows what she’s doing. They wouldn’t leave him alone if it were dangerous, would they?
After I’ve written my number down on the whiteboard magnetised to the fridge in the kitchen, alongside a message to let me know of any developments, I rescue Kallie from the garden and we walk out of this house of unpleasant memories.
Chapter Eight
It’s very early Monday morning, when I’m on the train back, that I send Aidan a message:
Are you awake?
Yes. Want me to call?
Yes.
He calls within seconds and I answer, “Hi, good morning.”
“Morning, this is a surprise.”
“Yeah,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m about to deliver bad news, when that’s exactly what I’m about to do. “I’ve had a bit of a weekend.”
“Oh, what’s happened? If you don’t mind telling me.”
“I’ve been in Luton. To see my father.”
“Gosh,” he says, and I can almost hear the gulp that news such as this must evince from a guy like him, who never had a father. “Is there something the matter?”
“He’s dying,” I tell him, trying not to cry. “My best friend was home for Easter and heard from someone he’s not well. He wasn’t going to tell me—”
I stop myself before I get upset. I can’t be upset on a train, not in daylight anyway.
“Shall we just meet for a coffee then today, and you can tell me all about it? Sounds like you need an ear right now.”
“Yeah, um, that actually sounds really good.”
“All right, well, I’m guessing from the dodgy signal you’re on the train back?”
