Rachel Dann - Pieces of My Life

As we arrive at Mum and Steve’s that evening, Mum flings open the front door before we’ve even turned the engine off.

‘Sweetie!’ she cries, loud enough for the rest of the street to hear, smothering me in a hug right there on the driveway. ‘I’ve missed you so much. Come inside, I’ve got those chocolate crispy cakes you like!’

I feel a pang of guilt then, thinking of all the weekends over the past few months when Harry and I have chosen to do something else instead of make the two-hour trip up to Essex to see Mum. Whatever Harry says, it’s only really an hour and a half if you leave early on a Saturday morning. As Mum herds us inside the house I tell myself firmly that, once we’re back from our travels, I really will insist on making time to visit her more often.

My remorse is short-lived, however.

‘Do you have internet banking?’ I hear Mum asking Harry as he follows her into the kitchen. ‘If so, you should cancel it, love. It’s dodgy. I’ve been reading about this man who—’

‘Hacked the Pentagon computer systems… yes, I know,’ I snap, more impatiently than I’d intended, as I almost go flying in an attempt to avoid standing on her large black-and-white cat, Chester, spread out inconveniently in the middle of the hallway carpet.

‘I’m serious, Kirsty, it’s not safe. I’ve been reading about it.’

‘Right, Mum, I’m just going to use your toilet…’ I step past her and lock myself gratefully in the sanctuary of her downstairs loo.

What is it about being back in the company of your parents that can turn the most articulate and sensible twenty-something into a stroppy, monosyllabic thirteen-year-old? However much I tell myself before each visit to my mother’s house that this time I really will make an effort to be more patient with her… it’s bizarre how, within five minutes of being in her company, that all goes out of the window and I seem to be propelled back a decade into door-slamming adolescence. I sit on the turned-down toilet lid and stare at the faded, flowery wallpaper, realising glumly that it has happened again – I’ve lost my temper with her before the kettle has even boiled.

In the end, I needn’t have worried about how to break the news. I step out of the bathroom, fixing a determined smile on my face, to find Harry, Steve, Chloe and my mother all gathered in the middle of the kitchen. One glance at my mother’s face tells me the bombshell has already been dropped.

‘But… South America ?’ She looks up at me imploringly, as if pleading for it not to be true. ‘Isn’t that where that man escaped from recently – you know, the drugs one, what was his name, Steve? The famous one. Isn’t he on the loose now?’

Steve and Chloe exchange confused glances. I glare at Harry, asking him with my eyes, ‘What happened to telling her over dinner?’

Harry shrugs at me and turns back to Mum. ‘We’ll be very careful, Rosemary,’ he says in his most polite, Responsible Adult tone of voice.

‘Oh, I don’t doubt that, love.’ Mum rubs her hands over her face in a weary gesture. ‘It’s everyone else out there I’m worried about… and they all drive like nutters in places like that. There must be so many traffic accidents.’

‘Come on now, Rosie, let’s get some tea on and then Chloe will lay the table,’ Steve murmurs, simultaneously steering my mother into her armchair and casting a pointed expression at Chloe, who until then has done little but lean against the breakfast bar and watch events unfold with an expression of mild amusement.

Dinner involves a volley of questions about travel insurance, health insurance, emergency contact details, severe weather warnings and earthquake safety protocols.

What feels like a hundred years later, I hug Mum goodbye on the doorstep.

‘Just be careful, love,’ she mutters into my hair.

‘Mum, we’re not even leaving for two more weeks…’ I start to gently pull away from the hug, conscious that Harry is already behind me in the car with the engine running. ‘I’ll see you before then.’

‘I know, but I want to take every chance to tell you to be careful between now and when you leave,’ Mum says, her voice wobbling.

I scowl at Chloe making faces behind us in the hallway, and allow Mum to continue hugging me, patting her on the back and wondering when would be an appropriate time to begin to extricate myself. Finally, with another two or three promises to be careful and to phone her soon, I make my escape.

That just leaves one person.

‘So, how interested do you think he’ll be in our plans, on a scale of totally indifferent to completely uninterested?’ Harry crunches the car to a halt on the little gravel driveway leading up to my father’s cottage.

‘Harry, that doesn’t help.’ I climb wearily out of the car. ‘I need your support here, not sarcasm.’

‘Sorry, babe.’ He squeezes my arm and indicates for me to go first and ring the doorbell. Then, almost to himself, he mutters, ‘I just don’t know why you still care so much what he thinks.’

I don’t really know why I still care either. It would be so much easier not to bother any more. Stop ringing. Just send him a postcard when we get there. But he’s my father… I’m his only daughter. Trying to get him to take an interest in my life is programmed into my DNA. Harry couldn’t possibly understand, with parents who have supported and encouraged him unconditionally in every venture since his first school sports day.

To my surprise, the door swings open almost immediately before my finger has even left the bell.

‘Hi, Dad.’ I step into the hallway and let him pull me into a stiff, awkward half-hug, then move aside to let him shake Harry’s hand. Only then do I notice he is wearing a dark navy suit, his usual reading glasses absent and presumably replaced with contacts, and it strikes me how smart he looks.

Has Dad dressed like that for us? I feel surprisingly touched. I had told him we had some important news, but he didn’t have to go to the trouble of…

‘I’ve got the theatre at seven,’ he informs us, indicating for us to go through to the living room. ‘So, shall we…’ His tone is pleasant enough, but his meaning is clear.

Stupid me. Thinking he’d dressed up for my visit.

The theatre. Of course. I just don’t learn, do I?

Swallowing back my irrational disappointment, I take a seat next to Harry on the plain, brownish-coloured sofa taking up one whole side of the living room, and look up at my father. Other than the suit, he looks exactly as I remember him from the last time we met, however many months ago that was. Tall, imposing, and wearing his habitual slight frown beneath a thick head of pewter-grey hair.

‘Tea?’ he asks, still in the doorway.

‘I don’t drink tea, Dad.’

‘Oh, no, of course… coffee then?’

Both Harry and I nod. Dad disappears into the kitchen, leaving Harry and me sitting in clumsy silence in the living room. I gaze around at the neutral wallpaper and carpet, the nondescript furniture and bare walls, realising that this house could belong to anyone, of any age. Dad has lived here God knows how long yet there is still nothing personal about it, no character, not a single picture or ornament…

Harry turns to me, eyebrows raised. ‘Wait for it.’

I frown at him. ‘Not helping.’

Then Dad’s voice rings out from the kitchen. ‘Kirsty? Harry? Do you take milk? Sugar?’

‘Told you.’

‘ Stop it,’ I hiss, then raise my voice. ‘Yes, please – just milk for both!’

I glare furiously at Harry as Dad reappears, bearing two steaming mugs. It’s painful enough to see how little my father knows me, without Harry drawing my attention to that fact even more. I know it’s only because Harry feels defensive on my behalf – he’s often commented he thinks it’s awful how Dad doesn’t make more effort to stay in contact – but even so, I don’t need to be reminded of it.