Dad jokes

“Don’t come running to me when you fall out of that tree and break both your legs,” Dad would say whenever he saw me playing in the oak at the end of our garden. He never tired of that joke.

So there is some small amusement at the irony as I push open the door of the Campion Ward. I spot Dad easily, his red hair standing out among the sterile white walls and green curtains around the beds. He looks up from his magazine as I approach the bed and offers me a sheepish smile. “Hi, Susie.”

“Hey, Dad.” I look across at his legs, encased in plaster, the left flat on the bed, the right held aloft by straps attached to a metal frame. “Does it hurt?”

“Stings a bit, yeah. They’ve got me on that many painkillers though, it takes the edge off.”

I nod. Silence hangs between us, Dad waiting for me to ask, me waiting for him to explain. I crack first.

“So. What happened then?”

Dad looks shifty. “What have you heard?”

“Just what the hospital told me on the phone. That you were brought in by ambulance. That you fell out of a tree in someone’s garden. That you were naked. All sounded quite improbable really.”

Dad nods thoughtfully. “Where’s your mother?”

“She’s not coming.”

“No?”

“No. When I told her what had happened, she just said, ‘That bloody woman’ and then she said she was going to Aunt Sylvia’s. She was pretty upset. Dad, what have you done?”

He sighs and closes his eyes.

“Dad?”

“It’s complicated, Susie.”

“Is it? I was assuming you had just been having an affair. Seems pretty simple to me.” The venom in my voice surprises me.

“Susie, love, give me a chance to explain. Please.”

“Go on, then. Explain. Explain why you were naked up a tree.”

I suppress a pang of guilt as he looks at me pitifully, but I carry on glaring at him. He looks away and bites his lip. “You’re right. I have. I have been having an affair.”

I feel shocked to hear him say it, as though I was hoping there could be some sort of innocent explanation for everything. I blink back the tears and nod. “Go on.”

“She’s married. Her husband came home early. I panicked and she said to go out the window, so I did and I climbed out into the tree, but then her husband tried to come after me and the branch broke, I fell, hit the ground, and then I woke up in here.”

I let this sink in for a minute. “How long has it been going on?”

“A while.”

“How long is a while?”

“Eight years.”

“Eight years? Eight? And Mum knew?”

“She found out a few years ago. I tried to stop it. I really did.”

“I’m sure you did. Who is this woman, anyway?”

Dad doesn’t answer, just stares into space.

“Dad? Who is she? Is it someone I know?”

“It’s... it’s Valerie. Valerie Whitworth.”

“Valerie Wh-? Mrs Whitworth. Mrs Whitworth from school? Whiffy Whitworth?”

“Don’t be mean, Susie.”

“But...” My mind has frozen. Mrs Whitworth. She made my life hell for five years. My happiest day at school was when I could finally drop French and be free of her. The way she would mimic my mistakes, the way she made me stand at the front of the class repeating ‘J'ai oublié mon dictionnaire’ again and again and again. Her voice cutting into me as she shrilled, “Don’t just sit there, girl. Look it up.”

“But, Dad. She’s a bitch.”

“Susie. Language.”

“But she is. She used to pick her nose and flick bogies at us.” I’m aware how childish I sound. I stare at Dad and try to picture him and Mrs Whitworth together but it’s like trying to push a breeze block through a letterbox; I just can’t make them fit. “Do you love her? Are you leaving Mum?”

“No, it’s not like that.”

“Well, what is it like? How did this even start?”

Dad stares at the ceiling, but there’s no help there. He frowns. “It was when you were having all that trouble with French, you remember? I used to go along to parents’ evenings and talk to her. I so wanted you to do well at French, to enjoy it like I did. You know I lived in Paris for a year before I met your mother.”

“You wanted me to do well in French so you started shagging my French teacher?”

“Look, we just, Val and I..., we just got talking, you know? About France and stuff. And we got on well, and, you know, one thing led to another, and you know?”

“Alright, spare me the details, Dad.”

“You stupid, stupid man.”

I jump and spin round. Mum has arrived.

She stands for a moment, feeling all eyes upon her, framed in the doorway. She’s changed into a long black dress, which I’ve never seen before. It clings to her body then flows out around her ankles. She may even have just bought it for the occasion. I can see there’s something in her that’s revelling in the role of the wronged woman. She’s my mum and I love her but she’s the biggest drama queen I know. She looks good though.

Having made sure all eyes are upon her, she lets the door swing shut behind her and strides across the ward. I glance round at Dad. The colour has drained from his face. His weak attempt at a smile dies under Mum’s glare.

Looking from one to the other I marvel again at the vagaries of genetics. I missed Dad’s red hair, freckly skin and lumpy nose but got mum’s dark hair, cupid’s bow lips and sharp, aristocratic nose. But mine alone are my chocolate brown eyes, defying Mum’s pale blue and Dad’s light green.

“Would a sorry make any difference?” Dad ventures then winces, as if expecting to be hit.

“Sorry? Sorry? And what, may I ask, Nathan, would you be apologising for?”

“Well, for-“

“For sleeping with someone else? For lying to me for eight years? For humiliating me? Are you apologising for all that?”

“Yes, alright, please keep your voice down.”

“Keep my voice down? You have no right to tell me to do anything.”

“Hang on a minute; don’t get all holier than thou.”

“And what does that mean?”

“Well, you’re not exactly little Miss innocent, are you?”

“Don’t try and wriggle out of this, you weasel. You haven’t got a leg to stand on, and you know it.”

“Was that a joke?”

“I don’t joke, Nathan.”

I struggle to keep up. “Dad, what do you mean, Mum’s not innocent.”

“I mean people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.”

“What? Mum, what is going on?”

“One bloody thing and you never let me forget it.”

“What one thing, Mum?”

“It’s nothing, dear. Ancient history.”

“Pretty significant ancient history,” Dad sneers.

“Alright, Nathan, we’ll discuss this later. Privately.”

“Oh now, you want to discuss privately, after bursting in here making a scene.”

“I have every right to make a scene.”

“What on earth is going on here? This is a hospital, not a soap opera. Please keep your voices down.” The doctor appears out of nowhere, his confident authority shocking us into silence.

“Sorry, doctor,” Dad says, sheepish once more.

I stare at the doctor. He is tall, and very handsome. Suddenly I’m aware that Mum is staring at him too. “Mum,” I whisper, “close your mouth, you’re gawping.”

But then I see that he’s staring at her too. “Mary?” he asks.

“Do you know him?” I ask.

“No,” Mum practically shouts, then grabs my arm. “Come on, Susie, we need to go home.”

She turns and stamps to the door, almost dragging me with her. “But, Mum, he knows you.”

“Shut up, Susie. Come on.”

I turn at the door and get a last glimpse of Dad sat in bed frowning up at the doctor, the doctor who is looking after me and Mum as we pass through the door, with the strangest look in his chocolate brown eyes.