When Dad qualified as a lawyer, he and Mum moved into Cedars Close—a quiet suburban cul de sac full of twitching curtains. I’m not sure she ever forgave him for condemning her to what she always referred to as spiritual death by garden sprinkler.
Mum set about scandalizing the neighbors by sunbathing topless in the back garden. During general elections, our house was the one smothered in VOTE WORKERS’ REVOLUTIONARY PARTY posters. She also took to driving a lime green VW camper with bubble-gum pink drapes, which she always kept parked on the street. Since she was now working part-time at Fein Management, she was always there to pick me and Scarlett up from school—in the camper. The first time she came to collect us, Scarlett and I walked the mile home rather than let anybody see that the vehicle had anything to do with us.
Even now, Mum didn’t fit the Cedars Close profile. For starters, she didn’t look the part. Understated and conservative had no place in her style vocabulary. At sixty—and on the heavy side, as she would be the first to admit—she wore her hair in a severe, geometric bob, which she dyed London bus red. There was also the yin-yang tattoo on the back of her shoulder. Being large, she knew she couldn’t wear fussy styles, but she could get away with offbeat. She went for long, black, asymmetric jackets that she picked up each year in the Yohji Yamamoto sale. She wore these over palazzo pants and scooped-neck, gently fitted tunics that ended just above the knee. These “blank canvas” outfits enabled her to put her foot down on the gas when it came to accessories: massive handbags, wide hipster belts and lashings of chunky, arty jewelry that she picked up at Spitalfields market. She had drawers full of heavy gold and silver necklaces and rings with stones the size of small asteroids. When she set off for the Tube each morning, she looked about as inconspicuous as a disco ball at a funeral.
Mum always said that if she’d had the money to move to a trendier part of London, she would have sold up after Dad died. But even the rough East End neighborhoods had become gentrified now and were out of her price range. Unless she won the lottery or married a millionaire, she was stuck in the burbs.
Mum could have earned more by going for a job in a higherpaying industry. Thirty-five years after joining Fein Management, she was still there. Even though she was now PA to the veep, the money wasn’t great. Scarlett and I often asked her why she stayed so long and on such a mediocre salary. Her answer was always the same: Even though she hadn’t made it on the stage, working at Fein made her feel that she was still part of the showbiz world. She loved the glitz, the gossip, getting dolled up for the awards ceremonies, bumping into Bette, Whoopi and Dame Judy in the ladies’.
When we were children, Mum was always closer to Scarlett than to me. I don’t think that Scarlett was her favorite exactly—she would have been horrified at the suggestion—but because Scarlett could sing and act, landed the lead in all the school plays and was clearly destined for the stage, Mum cheered her on, organized after-school singing and drama lessons and generally lived vicariously through her—not that Scarlett always appreciated it. A family occasion was never complete without Mum nagging her to get up and perform. “Come on, Scar, do your Cher. What about ‘The Shoop Shoop Song’? Everybody loves that.”
Scarlett was no shrinking violet, but even she went through an awkward adolescent stage. At age thirteen or fourteen she didn’t take kindly to being cajoled by her mother to perform at family events in front of a bunch of smelly rellies. Dad would always rally to her defense and tell Mum to back off, but she just shushed him in that what-do-you-know? way of hers. When Scarlett turned bright red and refused to do her party piece, Mum couldn’t resist grabbing the limelight for herself . . .
“Does he love me I want to know . . .”
By now, Dad would be glaring at Mum, and Scarlett would be accusing her of being weird and embarrassing. Scarlett would leave the room in tears. Dad would go after her to try to calm her down. “She’s a bit shy—that’s all,” Mum would say. Then Nana Ida would add something guaranteed to put everybody at ease, like: “It’s probably her time of the month. She needs some carbs. Would she like a banana?”
If Mum lived through Scarlett’s achievements and talents, Dad lived through mine. I was the serious, thoughtful, academic one who got straight As at school. Dad took me on long walks in the park and encouraged me to talk about life, the universe and everything.
“You’re smart, Tally,” he’d say. “You could go into the law, medicine—become an academic maybe. You are capable of great things. But you have to study hard. Success doesn’t come automatically. You have to make it happen.”
No pressure there, then.
A couple of weeks before he died, we went for our usual Sunday-morning walk on Hampstead Heath. We were almost back at the car when he said something completely out of the blue that I never forgot. “I know that at sixteen you won’t have given marriage a second thought, but one day you’ll think about settling down. Don’t do it too early. First, discover who you are. That way you stand a better chance of finding the right person. It’s important you choose somebody who not only thinks like you do and shares your worldview but who also has a similar education and professional background. That way you stand the best chance of finding your soul mate.”
There was no doubt in my mind that his advice was based on his own mistakes. He was telling me that he and Mum had married too young—before he, at least, had a chance to find out who he really was. In their early twenties Mum and Dad had believed they were soul mates. A few years down the line, once Dad had his degree and had started working as a lawyer, they discovered how different they really were.
By the time Scarlett and I were teenagers, we were aware that things weren’t right between them. Mum was always nagging Dad to go with her to the movies or the theater—working where she did, she never had difficulty getting free tickets to West End shows. But Dad, whose interests had become far more cerebral over the years, wouldn’t have been seen dead at
Les Mis
or
Phantom
.
When Mum tried to engage him in chitchat or gossip, he rarely responded with more than a grunt. He didn’t see the point in lowbrow conversation. He preferred to discuss politics. Mum was happy to join in, but only up to a point. I could see her zoning out when he went on about monetarism or fiscal reform. When he accused her of not listening, she would turn on him: “Of course I’m listening. Can’t you see me yawning?” Mum was no fool, but the intellectual gulf between them was obvious—even to kids like Scarlett and me.
That day on Hampstead Heath, I had no idea how Dad’s advice—in effect his last words to me—would shape my life. After he died I was filled with the urgent, powerful need to stay connected to him. I sought his approval more than ever. Had he lived, I would no doubt have challenged his views. That’s what teenagers do. But Dad was gone. My memories of him and the thoughts he’d shared with me were all I had left. So it was that he influenced not only my choice of career, but also—with the exception of the totally irresistible Frank O’Rourke—my choice in men. There was no doubt in my mind that he would have thought Dr. Josh Eisner was perfect.
Dad died doing one of the things he loved: eating at his favorite East End curry place. It was early on a Saturday evening and he’d been to see his team, West Ham, lose three-nil at home to Manchester United.
According to Madhu, who owned the Lahore Kahari: Genuine Spicy Taste, Dad had almost finished his
saag
chicken,
tarka
dal and two rotis when he slumped forward, his face ending up in a basket of
papadum
. Madhu dialed 999 and found Mum’s work number in the small diary Dad kept in his breast pocket.
When Mum, Scarlett and I arrived at the hospital, Madhu was already there, pacing up and down, wringing his hands. I recognized him because once or twice we’d eaten at the restaurant en famille. The moment he saw us, he came rushing up to Mum and started pleading with her not to call “the authorities.” He swore on his mother’s life, his children’s lives, his own life, that his food was of the highest quality, prepared in the most sanitary of conditions—which we were free to inspect anytime—and hadn’t been the cause of Dad’s collapse. Then he promised us all free dinners for life.
Just as Madhu was handing Mum his takeaway menu, a doctor appeared and took Mum to one side. Scarlett and I watched as she broke down.
“He’s alive,” Mum said, coming over to us, tears falling down her face. “But he’s had a massive heart attack. There’s nothing the doctors can do. It’s just a matter of time.”
“You mean Dad’s dying?” Scarlett said. “Right now?” She was fourteen. She suddenly looked about three. Mum could only nod.
While a nurse led us down the corridor to Dad’s room, we could hear Madhu frantically cross-examining the doctor. Was he one hundred percent sure that it was a heart attack and not some form of food poisoning? Would he be prepared to put that in writing?
As we went into the room, Mum took a deep breath and tried to compose herself. Scarlett and I exchanged glances that I remember being more fearful than heartbroken. Holy shit. We were about to watch our dad die.
There were no tubes, no monitors, just the oxygen mask on his face. His eyes were closed. Mum sat on the bed and took his hand. After a moment or two, Dad’s eyes opened. He took off the mask and with a weak movement of his fingers beckoned her closer. She leaned in and they exchanged a deep, passionate kiss. Any other time, Scarlett and I would have blushed and told them to get a room. Standing there in that hospital room, though, we started to weep in silence.
Mum was sobbing again, begging him not to die. Dad reached out and managed to stroke her head. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “For what happened to us. It was my fault. I neglected you, but I never stopped loving you.”
Mum touched his cheek and gently shushed him. “I love you, too.”
Then he looked over at Scarlett and me. “I love you both—so much. You have been such wonderful daughters. Look after your mum.”
Mum beckoned us over, and Scarlett and I gave him a final hug. He felt warm and he smelled of Dad. I don’t think that either of us could believe he was about to die.
The nurse came in and felt his pulse. She asked him if he was comfortable. Dad smiled at her. “I make a living,” he murmured, managing a shrug. Then he looked at Mum. “OK, maybe it’s not the greatest joke in the world, but it’s the best I can manage under the circumstances.”
He closed his eyes, took one last, difficult breath and died. The smile was still on his face.
Mum managed to hold it together for the funeral, but a few days later, the strain got too much and she took to her bed. Nana Ida moved in to look after us. It was hard on her, too, because Grandpa Joe had been gone only a year or so. He’d finally had that stroke he was always promising.
Eventually Mum started seeing a bereavement counselor, which seemed to help. Plus all her friends rallied—particularly Aunty Brenda, who wasn’t our real aunt. She was Mum’s best friend. They’d known each other since kindergarten. She’d been part of our lives since we were babies, so she just became known as Aunty Brenda. In that first year after Dad died, they spoke on the phone nearly every day. On weekends Aunty Brenda would pop in for coffee or take Mum out shopping.
In the beginning, Scarlett and I were still in shock and took to sleeping in the same bed for comfort, but we were teenagers and even though the dad we both adored had just died, we had so much living to do. Despite her own grief, Mum didn’t hold us back. She said it cheered her up to hear us gossiping on the phone to our friends and to know we were still going to parties and gigs.
A couple of months after the funeral, Mum went back to work. Her job and looking after Scarlett and me were all that mattered to her. It would be five years before she started dating, but to this day, almost twenty years later, there had never been anybody serious. The way she saw it, men her own age wanted sexy, slim twenty- and thirtysomethings. “And as an older, curvy woman, I end up with all the dross—self-obsessed bores, old enough to remember when the Dead Sea was only ailing a bit.”
Besides parties and friends, the thing that kept me going was school. I’d always been a bit of a bookworm, but now I threw myself into my studies—partly because I knew that’s what Dad would have wanted me to do. Scarlett couldn’t be bothered. Not that she’d ever been very interested when it came to school.
My sister was certainly as smart as me, if not smarter, but she’d always found school tedious. Instead, she had put all her energies into her after-school drama classes and learning her lines for her latest dramatic role.
After Dad died, she seemed to lose all interest in acting. She carried on going to drama classes, but her heart wasn’t in it. What’s more, she was spending hours alone in her room watching TV. Mum thought she might be depressed and threatened to send her to a shrink.
This forced Scarlett to come clean and explain that although she was still sad about Dad, she wasn’t remotely depressed—quite the opposite, in fact. She explained that she’d been recording all the late-night stand-up comedy shows and was watching them over and over again, studying the technique and timing of people like Roseanne and Ellen DeGeneres. It seemed that Scarlett had a new ambition—to be a stand-up comic.
When she wasn’t watching videos of women comics, she was trying to write her own material.
As she got more confident, she would try out her act on Mum and me. “OK, guys, I have a new bit. Tell me honestly. Does this work? . . . I’ve been painting my room, so I got out my stepladder. I don’t get along with my real ladder.”
At sixteen, Scarlett wanted to leave school and get a McJob to support her comedy writing and performing. With echoes of Nana Ida and Grandpa Joe, Mum insisted that Scarlett stay on until she was eighteen and take her final exams.