Brown paper bag

Jane got the call as she was doing the ironing and listening to
Terry Wogan prattle on about togs.

"Oh Jane, Jane something terrible has happened. You'd better come
quick"

So the old bugger had died eh? What did she feel as she left herself
into her father's flat with the key that hadn't been used in over two
years? Nothing! Absobloodylutely nothing. Normally the mere thought of
her father would bring along with it a raging temper that Mark and the
kid's would feel the weight of for the rest of the day, but now that he
had died even the anger seemingly couldn't be bothered to rouse itself.
When confronted with a death some people say that they feel numb. Jane
didn't even feel that. She had finished the last few articles of
clothing that needed to be ironed and then she put everything neatly
away. He was already dead so speed would only cause her feet to swell.
Nothing else could be gained by it.

After they had taken the body, her father, away she made herself a
coffee and flopped into the comfy armchair on the left of the
fireplace, her armchair. It was so much more squishy and soft than
anything made these days and it bore the faint aroma of stale cigarette
smoke. When had he stopped being her dad? It seemed like forever that
she had thought of him as 'father'. Farther and farther away, she mused
wryly. Even after fourteen years of happy marriage he couldn't admit
that he was wrong. Right up to the big fall out on their twelfth
wedding anniversary he had voiced his opinions about Mark being a
waster and not good enough for his daughter. And what was his dislike
based on? The fact that Mark wore his hair past his collar and worked
for the Gas Board. They had been married fourteen years now and Mark
was always telling her to mend the rift with her Father. Too
late.

Her cup was empty and there was no time like the present. She might as
well make a start. Things tend to move quickly in sheltered housing and
she knew that the warder would want the flat vacated as quickly as
possible. She didn't want the kids there when she packed Granddads
stuff away, it would only upset them more than need be.

He didn't have a lot. Everything he owned had been sold off and scaled
down when he sold the house after mum died eight years ago. Soon there
was only his chest of draws beside his chair to do and it was still
only lunchtime. Her farther was wealthy on paper, in bank and through
investment and yet he chose to live his life with very little, living
only for the monthly bank statement that would tell him he had made
another X amount in built up interest.

The old Walnut chest of draws had stood beside his chair since she was
too small to stand beside his chair. Following from house to flat
always there at his right hand. Something to hold his coffee cup and
ashtray a convenient place for the remote control. It's funny she could
never, ever remember being told that she must not go in the drawers.
But then she was never told not to smoke or spit, or swear. It was just
one of those untold laws that was to be upheld no matter what.

That's why she had left the chest until last. It was private, sacred,
taboo. It felt like a betrayal of her father's trust to be poking
around in there even after his death. But it had to be done. That's
where all his important papers and documents were kept.

It was all pretty much as she expected. A will leaving lock, stock and
two smoking barrels to her. Stocks and shares investment papers. She
was now a very wealthy woman. Slightly surprising that he had put
nothing aside for the kid's. Well at least he trusted her to put her
children's interests first, which was a surprise in itself.

Soon everything was empty and put into boxes ready to go. Just this one
last item left. A large brown paper bag with her name on it. It was
cellotaped at the top and slightly tired looking with age.

She opened the bag and pulled the contents onto her knee. A lock of her
hair tied with a small red ribbon. She picked it up and smelled it. A
flood of memories rose from the little lock of hair. Remembering the
arguments when Dad had stood her on the dining room chair and cut her
fringe. She was always the laughing stock of the school the next day
with her fringe going at a forty-degree uphill angle.

A sepia photograph of a family day out at Blackpool. She rode that
donkey like Lester Piggott and Dad said she was probably infested with
fleas.

Every school report she'd received. Oh the arguments that caused.
Always wanting her to do better, always pushing always nagging. She
picked one up at random. The reports had to be signed and commented on
by the parents and then handed back in to school. That was always dad's
job. Mum was expected to be the little woman in the kitchen this was
man's work. Her eyes skimmed over the report. Not a bad one. One A, two
B's and the rest C. She read her father's comment.

"Whether she recieves A's or a fail. My daughter will be what my
daughter will be. We as her parents are proud of her"

Nothing effusive or gushing but words that meant the whole world to
Jane. Why had he never said those words to her?

A programme from the school play. She had only had a small part but her
dad had clapped the loudest and the longest of all the parents. He
shouted, "Encore" at the top of his voice and when the curtain finally
came down he yelled Bravo! Bravo! All the kid's were laughing Jane
wanted to die. She smiled as she remembered.

Two identity bracelets from the hospital. One from the day she was born
and one from the time she had her tonsils out. Dad had been a pain
then. She just wanted him to go, to leave her with Mum. Jane was
already terrified but having her Dad yelling and shouting at all the
doctors and nurses only made things worse. He was so embarrassing
sometimes.

The last item in her hand was a second brown paper bag. This one much
smaller than the first. Written In her father's large flowing hand was
her husband's name. In fourteen years of marriage she had never opened
anything addressed to Mark, but this time she couldn't stop herself.
Inside was a single sheet of paper. It read.

I haven't made provisions in my will for you or the kid's Mark. To do
so would be an insult. I know that you don't need anything from me, you
have been a wonderful provider for my daughter and grandchildren. I was
just too stubborn to see it. And then it all seemed too late. I'm a
stupid old man Mark and though you may not need anything from me I very
much need something from you.
Your forgiveness.
I was too much of a bone-headed fool to see you for the hardworking
and loving husband and father that you are.
Look after my girls for me Son
Dad.

The brown paper bag was ruined. Big fat tears had made it soggy and
thin.

"Oh Dad." She said aloud "Why did we let it go on so long? It was so
stupid. And we are too alike."

She couldn't say "I love you." Aloud but she whispered it softly into
his photograph. Suddenly everything hurt so much.