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Mum nods, lips pursed.
I pick up the letter, glance at the smug CV. ‘Did I ever complain about not having a dad?’ My heartbeat pumping again.
‘No. Gethin, come on now.’ Mum’s pleading is petrol on the flames.
‘How long have you known about this?’ My voice hoarse and strained.
‘It’s just you haven’t asked for so long…?’
‘What fucking deal did you do with the jerk?’ I bang the table with a jangle of cutlery.
‘Gethin, please!’ She nods towards some disapproving grey-slacks.
‘You’ve always insisted on the truth, haven’t you Mum? Mum?’
The tie-dye children get ushered to the door, the guy in charge stares from his corner.
‘Gethin, you’re really not listening,’ Mum does controlled calm like I’m a kid in a supermarket kicking off for sweets. Not a chance of it working now that the lid’s blown.
‘So, how come I never knew about this?’ I’m half out of my seat now, waving the paper at her. The owner guy’s walking over and Mum shoots him a glance, puts her hand on my shoulder.
I shake Mum off as my chair clatters to the floor and I make for the door.
‘Why would I want this tosser from outer space thrown at me now?’
Spanish Omelette – Jez
‘Is that you, Jez?’ Ken’s cracked voice calling.
‘No, it’s Angelina frigging Jolie,’ I holler, kicking the kitchen door open.
He’s as I left him. Hospital bed in the corner, clutching cold coffee. I squeeze past the table that’s too near the door. Moved to make room for the bed. Try suggesting he sleep in the living room? Oh no, he’ll not be shoved out the way.
Park the bags and stick kettle on. Sweating cobs. Accrington air today thick enough to slice. Right sickly smell about him as I uncurl his bony yellow fingers from the mug. He brushes his hand over mine, rheumy eyes filling. I move to the kettle. Do not go Sentimental Dad before I’m even sat down. I open the Kenco and make us both a cup. Hand him his, black and strong.
He nods his thanks and I go back to the shopping.
‘What the jeepers is this muck?’ he croaks. Ah, Grumpy Git, that’s more like it.
‘Rich Roast.’ I shake the jar at him. ‘Makes a change from Tesco Bloody Value.’
He slops the coffee with his usual rant about me squandering his money on fancy goods. Collapses into a dry coughing fit at the sight of the Chocolate and Orange Cookies.
I take his mug and tip the coffee between his grey lips. He splutters, spraying my hand.
‘I don’t like to buy a large jar neither. Know where I am with a small one.’
‘Here, try a cookie. My treat, so’s the coffee.’ I dump the change and receipt on the cabinet rammed beside the bed. ‘Check, if you want.’
He licks at the chocolate on the biscuit. ‘Too rich for me. Don’t need your bleedin’ charity neither.’ Another lick, and another.
Unpack the shopping into the fridge and rickety cupboards. Everything minging with grease and a coating of nicotine yellow. Could lick the walls if you ran out of fags!
Back to my coffee. Flick though the Bike magazine, my random grab in Tesco.
‘What you got there?’ Chocolate round his mouth, no sign of the cookie.
I show him the fuck-off sports bike leaping off the cover.
