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Plan A was getting here and finding him. What the hell is Plan B?
If I stay here, I’ll have to find somewhere to sleep, like a cave or an abandoned house? Fuck knows. I’ve never slept out alone before, I feel I’m wimping out of that one. Plus, what am I going to eat? I suppose I’ve got enough for a bag of chips or something. I could go to the pub for a half, see if anyone offers to put me up. Maybe they’ll know where Don is, even? But that involves explaining how I know him, which I don’t.
OK, the alternative is to hitch back to Sheffield. There are still hours of daylight; if I can get to a motorway by dark, I can hang out in a service station. There’ll be lorries hopefully? If I get stuck there’s always the fall-back position of phoning mum. Get her to pay for a coach ticket or somewhere to stay. I feel such a fail even thinking of including her in the plan. All those wasted years watching Bear Grylls.
I think of Aiden, how I’m lucky that my mum gives a toss. Why I was so angry with her?
I take the last drag of my fag, stub it out and put the butt in my pocket. I’ve been that well trained.
Gutted as I head back down the road. My fragile sense of adventure morphs into the comedown of failure. I drag my feet, looking out to sea again. Those mountains silhouetted like a distant mirage. Flashing signal of a line of gulls across the wide pale sky. There is such a mental sense of space here. Am I really giving up so easily, after the immense ball-ache of getting here? I trace a couple of plumes of chimney smoke from the little white houses in the bay below.
Fuck it, give it one more night. Try the pub? I’ll think of something.
I quicken my pace, a splinter of excitement rising again in my chest. Then I hear the roar of an engine coming around the bend towards me. I jump back onto the verge as an old silver motorbike almost clips me. The rider curses as he passes, shaking his fist at me. Fucking idiot thinks he owns the road. I’m about to set off again when he indicates to pull in towards the museum. Is that? It’s got to be! Him!
Fuck, fuck. Plan A.
I run back and get to the yard to see him by the parked bike. He pulls off his helmet, bends down to peer at the engine. Is it him? Height 5 foot 10. Probably about right. He’s all in battered leathers with tatty fringes. His hair straggles out of a loose ponytail. I’m stupidly disappointed at how old and seedy he looks. What the hell was I expecting?
I walk towards him, literally sick with nerves. Fuck, what do I say? Hi, you don’t know me, but I’m your son… No. Hi, you don’t know me, but I think I know a friend of yours… No. I’ll just ask about the museum first. Fuck. What if it’s not him?
He looks round as he hears me approach, pulls his thick dark eyebrows into a heavy frown.
‘Hi!’ I smile like a loony as I get near him.
He frowns some more, unbuckles the old leather panniers from the bike.
‘We’re closed.’ He hooks the bags over his arm and turns towards the caravan.
I’m like rooted to the spot, watching him fish out the key and open the door. He looks round, scowling.
‘We open at eleven tomorrow,’ he says as he turns to go in and closes the door.
Suddenly released from paralysis, I run up to knock on the caravan door. Heart pounding like fuck.
He opens the door just enough to show his face. All wide stubbly chin, plump lipped mouth, a tiny nose and deep-set heavy-lashed brown eyes. Could this really be my dad?
‘Do ye nae understand me, laddie?’ he says, like proper Rab C Nesbit.
‘Sorry, it’s just, well, it’s you I want to see, actually.’
He pulls the door wide open for a flash, then shuts it back round his face. ‘Not a lot to look at really?’ There’s a flicker of a grin, a chink in the armour perhaps?
A gull squawks as it dips over the caravan roof, making me jump. Is this the age-worn version of the face I’ve stared at in the photo? It is. I’m sure it is.
‘You’ll think I’m mad coming all this way. It was just a spur of the moment thing. As in when I saw the museum on the internet, all those old British bikes, I thought, it’s got to be that Don McCalstry?’ I babble.
He pulls back from the door, shakes his head.
‘I dinnae much care for surprises, but I care even less for suspense,’ he growls. ‘So, you’ll be telling me what you’re doing here, and then you’ll be on your way.’
‘Yes, sorry, no easy way to say…?’ I focus on the deep vertical lines between his eyes. No trace of a smile now. I look down at my feet in the tatty trainers. ‘I think you might be my father?’ I say at last.
The words hang as a breeze gets up. A crisp packet scuttles over the yard. I’m wishing I was anywhere…
He gives me the once over until his eyes meet mine. I feel a sudden shock of recognition, like in the shape of them. My eyes transposed to an alien face. Like looking in a distorted mirror.
I open my mouth to say something, anything, but he throws back his head, exposing the fleshy expanse of his chin, and roars with laughter.
