Lessons for a Sunday Father Read Online Free Page A

don’t always do that! It’s—”
    “Bye, y’all.” And I was out the door and heading down the path, a man with a mission.
Gail
    I know I ought to have said something. I ought to have told Nat and Rosie. I kept steeling myself to speak. I was getting breakfast and making sandwiches for Rosie’s packed lunch and all the time running things through my head, trying out what I could say:
    Your dad’s had to go away for a few days. For work.
    They’d never believe it. Scott’s only been away on business once in ten years and that was for all of two days at a trade fair and we all knew he was going weeks beforehand. He’s not exactly some jet-setting executive who has to fly off to New York at a moment’s notice.
    Your dad’s been called away. There’s a family crisis.
    Well, it could hardly be his parents, could it? What a tough pair—we call them the Gruesome Twosome. Granted, they’re terrible hypochondriacs, the both of them—we’ve always a few like that down at the surgery, whose only pleasure in life seems to be finding some new bit of their body to moan about. But Scott’s parents are never actually ill. Even if they were, like if someone had slipped rat poison into their tea or something—and just about everyone they know must have been tempted at some point—Nat would never believe that Scott had suddenly turned into the devoted, dutiful son. I thought of saying that Scott’s sister Sheila was ill and that he’d dashed up to Scotland but the kids love her and I didn’t want to upset them.
    I even thought about just saying it straight out, as it really was:
Your dad’s left. He’s a cheating, lying snake and he’s not coming back.
    I wanted to say it. I really did. But I stopped myself. I stood there, my hand shaking as I poured myself some coffee, the words running through my head again and again like an old scratched record. I couldn’t think of anything else, couldn’t focus for even a second. I kept opening the fridge then closing it again without taking anything out. I banged myself in the face with the cupboard door because I opened it so quickly. Knocked over the jam, saying, “Gosh, I’m being such a butterfingers this morning!” keeping my voice bright.
    Rosie prattled away when I asked her what she’d be up to today at school, then she remembered she needed her gym kit and ran upstairs. Nat sat silently at the table, his legs stretched out awkwardly, so you’d have to step over them as you passed. Normally, I’d say, “Legs in, Nat!” Honestly, I get so sick of it sometimes, I feel like I’m a prison warder or a teacher, constantly trying to get him to behave like a normal human being. If he’s really going to carry on like this till he’s twenty I’ll have to resign from the post of being his mother. The awful thing is, I see Nat the way he is and I remember how he used to be, then I look at Rosie and I know it’s just a matter of time before she’s demanding a clothes allowance and trying to sneak out the door in a top that shows her navel.
    Anyway, God, I’m getting like Scott, going off the point. I didn’t say, “Legs in!” to Nat because I felt so peculiar: sort of shaky and slightly sick, my own legs wobbly as a newborn calf. I still couldn’t believe it, you see? Suddenly, I envied Nat, mooching around, leaving it till the last possible moment to go to school. I could have happily sat slumped in a chair all day with a gormless look on my face. Then he saw me looking at him and he stopped mid-chew, treating me to a view of half-chomped toast. And I knew that he knew that something was up. I hoped he hadn’t heard anything last night. After the first flurry, we’d come downstairs and we had tried to be quiet. Well, I had. Of course, Scott’s usually gone to work by the time Nat’s down anyway, but Nat’s no fool. I thought perhaps I better say something.
    “Nat …” I started, without yet knowing what I would say, what I
could
say. The scrape of his