If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things

The length of his strides, and having to run to keep up.

The very cold days when he’d wrap his scarf around my face until it almost covered my eyes, and when I breathed in I could smell him in my mouth, damp cigarettes and bootwax and the same smell as his hair when he said goodnight.

I remember that once he had to take me early so that he could get to the shops before work, and I went and hid in the corner of the playground, behind the bins, with the scarf wrapped completely around my head like a mask.

I remember how safe I felt, wrapped up like that, blinded.

He didn’t say anything during those walks to school, but I used to look forward to them, I used to be secretly and ashamedly pleased if my mother didn’t appear for breakfast, impatient to leave the house.

I wonder if he’ll say anything now.

I wonder if he’ll turn away from the television, come to the phone, say something.

I listen to her talking, and I remember those times she was ill, those strange blotches on her otherwise busy life.

I remember the way it would go almost unmentioned, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

As though there was nothing to be concerned about.

I remember having to creep into her room to say goodnight, her puffed red face turning to me from amongst the pillows and the blankets, the curtains closed and a desklamp pointing up at her from the bedside table like a stagelight.

I remember trying to hold my breath while she asked me how my day had been, if I had been good, if I had done the washing up.

And her voice sounding strange, thick and slow, as though she was talking from behind a closed door, through a thick wall.

I’m not sure if I held my breath because of the smell or because I was scared of catching her germs, but I always came out of that room dizzy, sucking down lungfuls of air.

And it never worried me, because she always seemed to be better the next day, saying oh it must have just been a bug, one of those things, you know, and she’d be back to normal.

Bustling around the house, cleaning, tidying, baking scones, rearranging the furniture.

She’s still talking, and I’m still saying yes and no and I’m sure, and I’m having trouble working out what she’s talking about and I want her to stop.

I hear a mobile going off, an electronic Für Elise, and I assume it’s on the television.

She says oh that’s my phone, do you mind if I, and without me saying anything she’s pressing buttons on her new phone and saying yes, hello, yes fine, hold on a moment.

She says it’s your Auntie Susan, was there anything else? I say yes, yes there is something else, can you call me back, and she says oh, oh okay, and I hear her talking to Auntie Sue before she’s even hung up on me.

I didn’t know my mother had a mobile phone.

I make a cup of tea, and I listen to my answerphone, to a message from Sarah. She says hi again how you doing, I’ve got something to tell you, I met somebody, I need to tell you about it, call me soon bye.

The phone rings, and I’m talking to my mother again.

She says and have you been eating properly.

I say mum I’m a grown-up now you shouldn’t be asking me that sort of thing.

She says well yes of course but.

There’s a moment’s pause, I can hear the television in the background.

I say and how’s dad, oh you know she says.

Same as always she says.

She asks me about friends I haven’t seen for months and I say I don’t know I haven’t seen them.