Shattered Illusion

“Check in on your dad while I’m away love, can you?” Mum asked.  “You know what he’s like… barely knows where the kettle is these days?  Changed days from when you were little.”

“Yeah, ok.  I’m catching up with Finty on Wednesday and I can wander round after.”  I paused to sip my tea.  “Might even cook him dinner”. I added.

“That’d be great.  He’d love that.” she agreed.  “I reckon he’ll be having takeaways every night otherwise.  I’ve stuffed the freezer with things he can defrost and heat up, but I know it will all be there when I get back.” She got up from the kitchen table, crossed to the freezer and opened the door to prove the point that it was indeed packed with Tupperware containers.   “Don’t know why I bothered really” she muttered, resignedly as she closed the door.

I couldn’t help but smile.  After his heart attack a couple of years ago, Mum has kept Dad on a pretty strict diet but given the chance, he’ll head for the chippie or the local Chinese and indulge in anything deep-fried.

I know she’ll worry about him when she’s away.  She’s off to a yoga retreat in France with a couple of her friends so I’m happy to drop in and make sure he’s getting his “five a day.”  I hadn’t seen him for a while as I’d been travelling a bit for work so it would be lovely to spend a bit of time with him – just the two of us.  Like old times.

Which is why, a few days later I find myself making the twenty-minute stroll from Finty’s to my old family home in Hermitage Terrace.  I’d already been to the supermarket and bought everything required to make one of his favourites – wild mushroom ragu with fresh pasta.  Nothing deep fried about that!   I’d planned to send Mum a photo of the two of us tucking in, knowing she would approve.

The tree-lined streets near their home reminded me of an idyllic childhood with Dad very much at the centre.  Mum had been a prison warden and worked shifts.  Dad was, and still is, a jewellery maker and works from a workshop in the garden and was always around. So, it was Dad who got me up in the morning, made my packed lunches and shooed me out the door; His was the face that greeted me when I trouped back in from school or hockey practice; He was the one who supervised me practising piano and helped me with my homework.

He was also always on hand with great advice – not just for me but for my friends who all loved to congregate in our expansive kitchen.   Homework.  Boys.  Hobbies. He seemed to know it all.  He was like an uncle to a lot of my friends, and everyone was always welcome to pull up a stool around the table and be counselled by Uncle Pete!  He loved having us around, especially as his work was so solitary, and he’d usually bake a tray of cupcakes or biscuits and eagerly offer them around.  He never judged; he always treated us like adults and would always try to see two sides of whichever drama one or other of us was going through.  And I held him on a pedestal.  He was dependable.  He could do no wrong. He was funny.  He was inciteful. And I loved him. 

I was still reminiscing when I walked past his Audi which was parked in the driveway.  I still had a key and, letting myself in, I headed straight to the kitchen calling out his name as I went.

“Dad! It’s me.  Where are you? Dad?” I shouted.  

The kitchen was, as usual, immaculate save for a couple of champagne glasses sitting on the island bench.  “Odd?” I thought.  Dad wasn’t exactly a teetotaller, but I couldn’t imagine who he’d be drinking Taittinger with at 3 o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon.

“Oh, Hi love”. This is a surprise” I heard him say from behind me.

Spinning around, I saw him push the door shut and walk towards me, arms outstretched and leaning in for a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

Kissing him back in return, I couldn’t help but notice that his face was flushed, and he looked a bit dishevelled.  His sweater wasn’t pulled down smartly as usual and he wasn’t wearing any shoes which wasn’t like him at all.

“Are you ok?” I asked.  “You look like you’ve just woken up!” I joked.

“No, I’m fine, Poo!”, he replied, using the nickname he’d given me when I was a few days old. Apparently, he’d had to change my nappy three times in an hour hence the nickname.  “I’ve just been pottering about in the study.  Going through old papers.  It’s amazing the amount of rubbish that’s in there.  Anyhoo… what brings you round here unannounced?  You should have called.  Not that it’s not good to see you!” he joked.

“Just thought I’d drop in and make you dinner – get something healthier into you than sweet and sour pork and prawn crackers” I laughed but my laughter was interrupted by a thud from the hall and hurried steps on the stairs.

“What’s that?” I said heading for the kitchen door.

“Love, don’t…” he appealed.  “Just leave it.” But I was already opening the door and what I saw shocked me.  Kathyrn, the hairdresser Mum and I had been going to for years, was sitting at the bottom of the stairs picking up the contents of her handbag which lay strewn all around her.  Normally perfectly coiffed, her hair was tousled, and I could see the top button of her skirt was unfastened.

“What’s this?” I asked to neither and both at the same time.

“Poo,” I heard from the kitchen, “come back in here?  Kathryn – you’re best to let yourself out.  Poo, this way” he cajoled whilst grabbing my arm and gently pulled me towards the kitchen.

Spinning round, I faced him as he closed the door on the scene I’d just witnessed.  “What. Is. Going. On?”  I asked.

Silence hung in the air.  He opened his mouth as if to say something, but no words came out.

“Dad?” I pleaded, struggling to understand what I’d just witnessed.

He’d been staring at the floor avoiding my intent stare but now looked straight at me.  I knew he didn’t need to confirm what I already knew.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I exploded with rage.  “She’s about half your age.! How long has this been going on?  How could you? I take it Mum doesn’t know.” I spewed forth question after question.  Accusation after accusation.  He stuttered, trying to interrupt me.  But I kept on going.  “How did you meet her? Do you know she’s married?  How could you do this to Mum?”  

He tried to defend himself, but the words sounded hollow.  Over my tirade, I picked up the odd word or phrase.  “Please don’t tell her.  I’ll finish it with her.  I don’t know why I’ve done it. I love your mum.  I love you.  Forgive me.  It won’t happen again.  Don’t tell her.  Please Poo.  Please.”

He started walking towards me – arms outstretched as before.  But this time there was no warm-hearted embrace as I took a step back.  He looked defeated, his eyes avoiding mine.  The guilt and shame were etched on his face.

“Don’t!” I exclaimed.  “Just don’t”

“Poo, please!  I’m sorry.  I’ve been trying to break things off but, oh I don’t know…”, he began.  His words seemed hollow compared to the weight of his actions.  The trust was broken, and the foundation of our family was shaken.  I couldn’t shield my mother from the truth no matter how much I wanted to spare her the pain.

“I can’t believe you’ve put me in this position,” I said.  “I won’t lie for you.  You have to tell her.”

The weight of his actions bore down on me and with one last glance, I turned and walked out of the house.  To me, he now struck a pathetic and feeble figure.  He’d shattered the illusion I had of him.  He looked small, weak and pathetic.  His eyes were wet and glistening. The image of the perfect father I had built up over the years was shattered. I felt pity for him.  Pity that he’d succumbed to temptation.  Pity for Mum – for caring and worrying about him.  And pity for me that the man I had idolised since I could barely walk was now a stranger to me.

I looked back at our family home that held so many happy memories.  I knew our family had changed forever and only time would tell what lay ahead.

PS For avoidance of doubt, this DID NOT happen.