Ice Creams at Carrington’s (22 page)
‘I wish we could just have the happy bit all the time,’ I say, thinking life would be so much easier then.
‘We can!’ I frown, wondering how he’s worked that one out. ‘Well … what I mean is, there are never any guarantees in life, of course there aren’t, but that’s the whole point. It’s all about perspective at the end of the day, and the bits you pay attention to. If you accept the rough with the smooth, then you immediately eliminate the doubt, the worry, which is the worst bit.’
‘Hmmm …’ I say, deep in thought. Dad takes my hand.
‘Sweetheart, don’t you see? If we don’t experience the heartbreak, how can we ever savour the sweetness? Appreciate the truly exquisite moments? Really cherish them and bask in the happiness they bring? This is the problem these days: youngsters like you are so busy trying to avoid getting hurt that you forget to enjoy the good bits.’
‘But it would make everything so much easier.’ I smile wryly.
‘Of course it would, but then it sure wouldn’t be half as much of an exhilarating rollercoaster ride either.’ He grins and shakes his head. ‘You’ll see. You wait until you’re my age. I bet you’ll look back and feel pleased to have lived a life worth living, to have experienced every range of emotions, and had adventures. In my opinion, it beats a predictable, monotonous life, one of having never taken a chance,’ he says wisely. I nod and smile, thinking perhaps he has a point. We sit in silence together, reflecting. And then, to lighten the mood, he says, ‘Georgie, darling, I’m so pleased you’re here, but if you need to get going, I’m fine, really I am. A couple of gallstones aren’t going to hold me back. I’ll be up and about before you know it.’
I laugh. ‘Dad, are you trying to get rid of me now?’
‘No, but what’s the point of you sitting around here when you have so much else to be doing? Stuff that’s far more exciting, I bet.’ He grins and squeezes my hand. I smile, thinking how amazing he is, after everything he’s been through – the gambling addiction, the shame of going to prison for fraud to fund his addiction, losing his family, then Mum dying and attending her funeral handcuffed to a prison guard. I remember it as if it were yesterday – his own brother, Uncle Geoffrey, refusing to look him in the eye. And then being alone for years in that horrible fetid bedsit; but Dad never gave up, he always called me, kept trying to make things better, even when I refused to have anything to do with him. And thank God he did, because otherwise I’d still be that insecure, sceptical girl, always trying to fit in, as I was back then. Well, OK, a part of her is still there and probably always will be, but hey, at least I’m muddling along, trying to do things right … The feeling lingers. I squeeze his hand back.
‘The doctor did say that you’ll probably be OK to come home in a few days, well, not
home
home as in back to Mulberry just yet, but certainly out of here. I was thinking a nice hotel for a week, or however long you need. I’ll sort everything out for you, Dad. There’s bound to be lots of luxury five-star spa hotels close by, where you can rest and recuperate in style with full room service – Andorra is a very popular place for skiing in winter and tourism in summer, so we’ll find somewhere really nice.’
‘Love, don’t worry about me. Like I said, I’ll be fine, and there’s nothing wrong with Nancy and me travelling on in Daisy.’
‘Dad, no way! You can’t. I’m not being funny, but that camper van has no proper heating.’
‘Ah, we don’t need heating, not in weather like this. It’s gloriously warm, even at night.’
‘But what about the bed? You can’t recuperate on that tiny thin mattress; you can barely lie side by side on it – what if Nancy accidently bumps your scar in the night? Please let me sort out a hotel. I wish I could stay here to look after you, but …’ My voice trails off as my mind races, wondering if there’s any way at all I could stay with him for a bit longer, just to be sure he’s OK; but it’s impossible, I can’t let Carrington’s down, or Tom. Not again.
‘I know, the regatta. And you don’t want to miss out on that. It’s exciting. A chance to really show what you can do. The old dears at home were all talking about it before we left. How is it all going?’
‘Fine, I think. Everything was pretty much organised before I went to New York, and Annie, she’s the girl who took charge while I was away, said it’s all on track. It should be brilliant.’
‘Well, that’s really good news. It’ll be a huge success, you’ll see.’ I smile, but it’s too late. ‘What is it, sweetheart?’ Dad probes, not missing a beat and turning his head to look me directly in the eye.
‘It’s nothing, Dad. We’ve already chatted for far too long. Besides, you’re supposed to be resting … Nancy won’t be pleased when she comes back,’ I chide, attempting to change the subject.
‘Pah, plenty of time for all that. Tell me what’s up? Is it Tom?’
I glance away. Silence follows.
‘I’ve ruined everything, Dad. I just hope I can fix it.’ I pick at the hem of my shorts. ‘But talking to you has really helped,’ I quickly add.
‘Oh, I’m sure you haven’t, love. Tell me about it …’
And I do. I tell him everything. Right from the start. How Tom has asked me to move in, and I’ve hesitated, and I’m not even entirely sure why – I thought I was being independent, sensible and mature about it, or perhaps I was just hankering for reassurance, something more from Tom to ‘prove’ his intentions other than it just not being practical any more for us to live apart. I’ve told Dad about Isabella and how I’m convinced she hates me. We even had a short interlude when Nancy popped back with two mugs of tea before asking if I minded if she went and freshened up in the family room – have a short nap, perhaps. So then it was on to Sam and how she was with Nathan that day in the kitchen, and then Christy turning up out of the blue. Followed by my biggest faux pas, the grand finale, the Grand Canyon surprise – or, to be more precise, my ruining of it with my inadvertent absence – because I forgot all about the envelope.
Dad mulls it all over before speaking.
‘Georgie, the thing is, sweetheart, Tom is probably as devastated as you are underneath that stiff-upper-lip cool thing he has going on. It’ll be his pride, you’ll see … Leave him be for a few days, let him calm down. I imagine he’s disappointed; angry perhaps, certainly upset … I bet he was chuffed to bits with himself for organising the birthday surprise – you know how us men can be when it comes to doing things like that. It’s a very big deal.’ I smile at Dad’s old-fashioned views. ‘And then, when it didn’t work out …’
‘But I can’t help thinking I should have stayed at home and then none of this would have happened. You too – at least at home you were safe, and everyone seemed happy, sort of. You know, Sam isn’t talking to me now, Dad. I should never have left her when she needed me most.’
‘But you can’t change stuff that’s already happened, love. The past is gone; what counts is the here and now and the going forward. And, in my experience, love, things that are going on for others are rarely all our fault, but we often assume they are. Talk to her, explain how you feel, apologise, do whatever it takes to sort it out. Ask her how she feels, ask her what’s going on for her, take an interest, because at the end of the day, we have no idea what’s really going on for somebody else. And she’s been a wonderful friend to you, hasn’t she?’ I nod. ‘Good, so now might be a chance for you to be a wonderful friend to her.’
‘Do you really think so? That it’s not too late?’
‘It’s never too late … you and I both know that. Look at us! Look at what we have now. And I bet you never would have thought it possible a few years ago.’ Dad winks and squeezes my hand just as Nancy arrives back with a jug of water, three plastic beakers, a bag of grapes and an enormous bunch of wild flowers.
‘I went for a walk after my nap to blow the cobwebs away, and found these.’ She waves the flowers in the air. ‘Thought they might brighten up your room,’ she says, instantly getting busy by pulling open the nightstand door in the hunt for a vase. ‘Oh dear, the nurse assured me there was one in here. Never mind, I’m sure I’ll find one somewhere.’ And she’s off again. I smile. She really does love and care about Dad, so much. And about me too; she’s so kind and caring and values the relationship Dad and I have, which is very special of her, she could so easily have resented me, and what I represent – Dad’s previous life married to another woman. But Nancy has never been like that. She’d do anything for Dad, I reckon. Maybe they will stay the course after all. I truly hope so.
O
n arrival at Toulouse Airport, it seems there must be some kind of festival going on. The sound of drums and vuvuzelas fills the air as Nancy pulls into the drop-off parking bay.
I turn to give her a hug. ‘Thanks for the lift, Nancy. I really appreciate it.’ It’s been lovely spending a bit of time together, just the two of us, on the journey here – three hours, and Nancy is going to do a bit of sightseeing and have a nice lunch somewhere before heading back to see Dad this afternoon. Dad is doing really well but was insistent that Nancy takes some time out, instead of being ‘cooped up in the hospital all day long’. Secretly, I think he was looking forward to watching an old black-and-white film on the only English channel he’d managed to find after getting the portable TV to work, followed by finishing his book, lunch served at his bedside, and an afternoon snooze. I spotted the cheeky roll of his eyes every time Nancy flung back the sheets and encouraged him to do the exercises set out by the physiotherapist – ankle circles followed by leg raises to stop his joints seizing up.
So, on the way here, Nancy and I had a proper heart-to-heart. She even chatted about Natalie – her daughter who died in the motorbike accident. Not in a sad, maudlin way, though; she seemed to enjoy reminiscing, remembering the happy times. And I talked about Mum too, told Nancy about her teaching me to swim, to knit, to play the piano – only ‘Chopsticks’, mind you, but still, it’s a cherished memory, and it felt nice to be able to chat about Mum in a lovely relaxed way with somebody other than Dad. Someone who didn’t know her – it keeps her feeling real to me.
‘My pleasure, dear. I’ve enjoyed it. And, Georgie, thanks for insisting on a hotel, love,’ she says, patting my back. ‘You know how stubborn your father can be when he has his mind set, but honestly, it’ll be far better for him than being squashed up in here.’ She motions to the back of Daisy. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’ve really enjoyed our adventure, touring around and feeling the sun on our backs, but you know me, I’m a home bird at heart.’ She chuckles. ‘Better not tell your father, though; he’d be devastated to think I wasn’t as enthused about us “doing Europe” as he was.’
‘Ah, don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.’ I squeeze her hand. ‘But I have to say that I’m a bit surprised. You seemed so excited, that day, when Tom and I called in for an impromptu lunch.’
‘Yes, well, if truth be told, I think I got a bit carried away with the romance of it all. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve loved the trip but I’m really looking forward to getting back to some normality now. I’ve actually missed our cosy little flat, the weekly bingo, putting the rubbish out on Tuesday mornings, listening to the
Archers
omnibus while preparing a nice Sunday roast lunch with all the trimmings – we had paella last Sunday, which was nice too, but it’s just not the same. Not to mention Dusty – I miss her terribly. I know she’s really George’s dog, but I’m very fond of her, and when she’s not here, well, it’s like a part of me is missing … Silly, isn’t it?’ Nancy shakes her head.
‘Oh Nancy, I had no idea. Have you said anything to Dad about how you feel?’
‘Oh no dear. This might be his dream, but it really isn’t a hardship for me to join him in it. I’ve had a wonderful time, but I do like my home comforts.’ I nod, thinking of my bedroom at home. I know exactly what she means – the Manhattan mansion was awesome with the princess-and-the-pea bed, but it just wasn’t the same as my bed with the fairy lights around the wrought-iron frame or my Art Deco dressing table with all the memories it holds. ‘But I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t looking forward to getting home. Back to Mulberry, it might be a bit mundane, but it’s
our
mundane, and I actually like the familiarity of it. I reckon a couple of weeks in the hotel will be fine, and then we’ll be on our way home. Now that’s something lovely to look forward to.’
‘Indeed it is,’ I say, giving Nancy another hug before reaching for the door handle. But a guy wearing a sandwich board with a cartoon picture of a guillotine on next to some French writing pokes his head through the window instead and proceeds to babble, animatedly, in French.
‘Err,
pardon?
’ I start, quickly racking my brains in a desperate bid to excavate some schoolgirl French. ‘Um …
parlez-vous anglais, s’il vous plaît?
’ I cave in.
‘Ah,
oui
,
un peu
,’ he shrugs, nonchalantly. ‘No aeroplanes today!’
‘Whaaaat?’ A horrible sinking feeling comes over me.
‘The airport is closed. The noise, it is a … how you say?’ I crease my forehead in frustration thinking,
you tell me
. On second thoughts, I’m going in. I’m not taking the word of an overanimated French man wearing a sandwich board with a picture of a guillotine on it. Besides, I have to get home. I’ve got a regatta to launch in precisely one day, a boyfriend who is massively pissed off with me, and a best friend who I abandoned when she needed me the most.
‘I won’t be a minute, Nancy. I’ll just whizz and see what the noise is about and then I’ll pop back out to say goodbye properly,’ I say, trying to keep calm.
‘Right you are, love. See you in a minute.’ And she pulls out her knitting, which for some reason makes the French man crack up laughing. He then starts jumping around and pointing to his sandwich board with one hand, while doing freaky chopping actions at his neck with the other. Oh, I get it: didn’t old women sit knitting while people had their heads chopped off in the guillotine? Ha-ha, very funneee. Not.
Once inside, and the place is chaos. There are people milling around everywhere, but more ominous are the electronic departure boards – they are all blank, completely lifeless. And the whole airport is filled with the deafening sound of the drums. And I immediately see why. In the middle of the check-in hall is a group of men and women with the same sandwich boards as the guy outside; some are holding up placards too. Others are handing out leaflets. I take one, but it’s no use, it’s all in French, so I run over to what appears to be an information desk. A woman with two enormous wheelie suitcases and a sun visor on her head is pounding her left fist on the desk.