Dad, please dont come round to ours anymore! Whenever you leave, Mum always starts crying. Sometimes she cries right through till morning.
I fall asleep, wake up, doze off again, then wake up once moreand all that time, shes still crying. I ask her, Mum, why are you crying? Is it because of Dad?
But she says shes not crying, just sniffling because shes got a cold. But Im not little anymore. I know you cant get that kind of runny nosethe kind that makes your voice sound full of tears.
Dad and I were sitting at a café table, awkwardly swirling his coffee round with a tiny silver spoon in a little white cup (it had already gone cold).
I hadnt even touched my ice cream, which sat there in front of me like something from a confectioners windowcolourful scoops all topped with a mint leaf and a cherry, drizzled in chocolate.
Any six-year-old would have been unable to resist it. But not menot Isobel. Ever since last Friday, Id made up my mind that I needed to have a proper talk with Dad.
He sat there in silence for ages. Then he finally said:
So, what do we do, sweetheart? Not see each other at all? How would I cope with that?..
I wrinkled my nosea nose a lot like Mums, a bit on the buttony side, I always thought. Then I replied:
No, Dad. I couldnt manage without you either. Well do this instead: call Mum and say youll pick me up from nursery every Friday.
Well go for walks togetherand, if you like, we can stop for coffee or ice cream. And Ill tell you all about how life is at home with Mum.
I paused again. Thought a bit. Then added:
If ever you want to see Mum, Ill take photos of her on my phone every week and show them to you. Would you like that?
Dad didnt look at me straight away, but he smiled and nodded, just a little.
Alright, lets do that, love…
A strange sense of relief washed over me. I finally took up my spoon for the ice cream. But I still had one more important thing to say, so as chocolate moustaches formed under my nose, I licked them off, sat up straight and tried to look very serious, almost grown-up.
Almost like a real womansomeone who needed to look after her man. Even if he was already old. Dads birthday was last week, after all. Id made him a card at nursery, carefully colouring the enormous 28 on front.
My face went thoughtful again. I frowned a little and said,
I think you ought to get married again…
Then, very generously, I lied:
Youre not that old, really.
Dad seemed to appreciate my generosity, and gave a wry chuckle:
Not that old, you say…
I pressed on:
Really, youre not! And look at Uncle Bernardhes already been round ours twice, and hes a bit bald on top.
I patted my own imaginary bald spot, smoothing my curls. Then, seeing Dads face tighten and his eyes sharpen, I realised Id revealed one of Mums secrets.
So I clapped my hands over my mouth, eyes wide, trying my best to look horrified and flustered.
Uncle Bernard? Which Uncle Bernard keeps popping in? Thats not your mums boss, is it? Dad said, almost loud enough for the whole café to hear.
I dont know, Dad… I really dont, I said, genuinely thrown by his reaction. Maybe he is her boss. He brings me chocolates and Mum a cake.
AndIsobel weighed up whether she dared mention thisflowers for Mum as well.
Dad sat there with his fingers tightly entwined on the table for a while. Then, as I watched, I saw him make some important decision, the sort that really changes things.
So I waitedlike a girl whos discovered that sometimes men need a little push to do the right thing. And if anyone was supposed to give Dad that little push, surely it was meone of the most important women in his life.
Dad was silent, silent for what felt like ages. Finally, he heaved a deep sigh, lifted his head, and spoke. If Id been a bit older, I might have realised hed said it in a voice like Othello pleading with Desdemona.
But back then, I didnt know a thing about Othello, Desdemonaor anyone like that. I was just learning about peopleseeing how they get hurt and how they sometimes find happiness again, all because of little things.
Anyway, Dad said:
Come along, love. Its late. Ill walk you home. Ill have a word with your mum.
I didnt ask what he meant to talk aboutI understood it was something serious. I spooned up the last of my ice cream quickly.
It struck me then that what Dad was about to do was far more important than the tastiest dessert in the world. I put my spoon down firmly, slid from my chair, wiped a sticky mouth with my hand, gave my nose a brisk wipe and looked Dad square in the face.
Im ready. Lets go.
We didnt just walk homewe nearly ran. Well, Dad ran, holding my hand, so I sort of fluttered behind him like a flag.
When we tumbled into our block of flats, the lift had just gone up with a neighbour. Dad looked around as if hed lost something. I peered up at him and said,
Well? What are we waiting for? Its only seven flights.
Without a word, Dad scooped me up and trotted up the stairs.
After mum opened the door at lastshe must have wondered at the frantic ringingDad got straight to the point.
You cant do this! Who is this Bernard? I love you. And weve got Isobel.
He swept me up in his arms, and hugged Mum too. I hugged them both around their necks, squeezed my eyes shut, as the grown-ups kissed…
Its funny how, sometimes, a small girl can suddenly bring sense to two hopeless grown-upswhen she loves them both, and they love her, and deep down, each other too, but are just too proud or too hurt to admit it…
I do wonderwhat do you think about it all? Leave a commentlet me know. Give me a like if youve ever felt the same.
