Authors: Paul Southern
The room looked like a giant Wendy house. There was a small bed in the corner with teddies and dolls playing on it. There were toys and games strewn across the floor and a Victorian rocking horse riding across it. Two Beefeater soldiers lay beside it, fallen on hard times. Their teddy bear arms were folded about each other. There were pictures on the walls of fairy princesses and handsome princes, and a library of books that bent this way and that on wooden shelves. Some had fallen down and opened their spineless leaves while others had been heaped up on a child’s sofa chair. Most impressive of all, was a small dressing table next to the bed which was littered with pots and potions and brushes. I could see myself in the miniature mirror as the narrow cleft of the door edged open.
When my daughter first saw this room, she fell immediately in love with it. This was a scene from
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
, a child’s playground come to life, and a Truly Scrumptious surprise. Rashelle showed her how everything worked, winding up the clockwork dolls and opening every Jack in the Box till there were no surprises left. Then she opened the wardrobe doors and my daughter saw the clothes. They were neatly arranged on hangers at a child’s height. There were princess costumes, bear costumes, elf costumes, tiger costumes, and normal clothes, too: dresses and tops and skirts and hats. They were about the right size for my daughter. Her face lit up like a torch. She could not contain her enthusiasm. When Rashelle saw it, she smiled. Even then there was no bitterness. I never knew how much that took out of someone. She invited my daughter round all the time. She liked to talk to her and play with her. Or rather, she liked to hear her play. Given what happened, I’m not sure I’d have liked to have been reminded.
My heart was beating so loudly it seemed impossible she couldn’t hear. Maybe the singing drowned it out? It had started up again, softer this time. I looked above the dressing table to the window ledge. There she was, holding a doll, her face furrowed in concentration. She was completely unaware of me, but I was overwhelmed by her. I wanted to say something. I wanted to sweep her in my arms. I felt the warm air at my neck, urging me on.
‘Darling?’
There are moments in your life when your whole existence is validated. I won’t say it’s happened very often. I can think of occasions in cinemas, when a girl has given me a blowjob and something has been said on screen that made me think about my life, that I thought it got no better; or when I saw my daughter’s head emerge from between my wife’s legs and I thought I would never see anything so amazing, but they have been illusory and fleeting. They haven’t given me the sense of purpose that I craved, the justification for being here. My daughter alone has given me that. She didn’t say very much then. She didn’t need to.
‘Daddy!’
All the love in the world couldn’t fill the love I had for her, or her love for me. Her heart filled with it, so much so that I was worried she’d fall back through the window. She held her arms out, on the verge of tears. I watched her clamber on to the dressing table and run to me and I couldn’t hold my own back. No brave daddy. I felt her heart next to mine and her little head in the pillow of my neck and I wept all over her. Here was the reason I was alive.
Rashelle stood in the doorway, her face flecked with tears.
‘I’ve missed you, Daddy.’
‘I’ve missed you, too, darling.’
‘Where have you been?’
‘I had to go away, darling. To do work.’
‘To get a new job?’
I looked at Rashelle. ‘Yes, darling. A bigger one with lots of money.’
‘So we can go on holiday?’
‘Yes. A long, forever holiday.’
A smile broke through the clouds. I pushed the fringe out of her eyes and kissed her face.
‘Where to?’
My daughter doesn’t bear grudges; she forgives and forgets. It’s one of her greatest assets. I wished her mother was as forbearing. I wished I was. I suppose being shouted at is not the same as having your life fucked up, but still, it’s the same principle. You learn to hate the older you get; you learn to build up resentment and think of elaborate plans of vengeance, to take it all out on somebody else. I’m sure kids do this to a degree but it’s not the same degree, and the reason for that is they have other things to live for. If a road is closed up ahead, they take another one. There are a million roads to choose from and a million things to do. When you’re an adult, you feel you don’t have that choice. There are just two roads: dealing with shit or avoiding it. If I was her, I’d have wanted to know why the hell I’d been locked away for a week, and where the hell my dad was, but she took it all for the way of the world.
I picked her up and took her to the window and we looked out over the city. ‘Where would you like to go? Over the sea? On a plane?’
‘Blackpool.’
‘Blackpool?’
‘So we can see Chester the donkey.’
‘Wouldn’t you like to go further?’
‘No, I’d like to see Chester again.’
I smiled. ‘What if he isn’t there?’
‘He will be. The lady said.’
Now, I could have said, ‘Well, adults say all kinds of things’, or some such thing, but I was feeling a bit guilty about the lies I was having to tell her. I didn’t want her not believing me. ‘Well, I’m sure he will, but you don’t go to Blackpool for forever holidays. You go there for a bit. You can still see Chester but not now. Not today.’
Normally, she’d have insisted - she can be a right Rottweiler when she wants to be - but right then she just looked at me. She didn’t even pull a face or give out a half-hearted argh. I think she was still coming to terms with the fact that I was back. We looked out of the window and she held on to me very tightly. That choked me up, too.
‘Has Auntie been looking after you?’
‘Yes. She let me stay in this room.’
‘In here? With all these toys and all these clothes?’
She nodded. ‘And I’ve been reading, too.’
I looked at the spineless books.
‘Every night like I told you to?’
‘Yes, every one.’
She got down and fetched a giant pop-up book from the sofa chair. She opened it up and a giant caterpillar came out. She laughed like it was the most amazing thing in the world, which in truth it was. A caterpillar that size would have spawned Mothra. It wasn’t the kind of reading I had in mind; I was hoping for lines and lines of text and the odd black and white sketch every other page, the way my reading books were set out, not ‘Go, said Henry’. My mother had me on
Look and Learn
when I was young, not
The Beano
or
The Dandy
like the other kids. Education was a solemn undertaking. I understand her now; I understand the desperation to get me further than she’d been. I don’t expect my daughter to get that and, to be honest, I think she’s too young. We’ve all slackened off, all us sixties’ baby boomers. We regret it, of course - we’re all desperate to get standards back to how they used to be, or how we thought they used to be - and wracked with remorse about the state of things: the economy, schools, the rates of divorce, kids (ours and others’), the environment - but we haven’t the will to give up what we won. We won freedom, or freedom was won for us, and that’s the toughest thing in the world to give back. Even
Look and Learn
had its freedom; every fortnight I’d look forward to ‘Trigan Empire’ and co-pilot the stars with Janno. Of course you won’t get all that - you won’t unless you’ve been there - but you will understand this. I wanted my little girl to know that freedom comes at a price.
I resisted the desire to read Henry with her. I watched her turn a few pages and say a few words and knew it was enough. It’s better to be happy than clever. She put the book down and went over to the rocking horse. I knew I was going to get the guided tour but I didn’t care. I helped her up and watched her rock gently on it.
‘I’ve called him Chester.’
‘Chester?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s a good name.’
‘Do you know how I thought of it?’
‘No.’
I don’t know what kind of message that was sending out - that her father was a complete imbecile? - but at that moment I wasn’t thinking about horses or donkeys or names. I was wondering what was going on in her head and if she was okay. As she took me round the room and introduced me to Likhu and Pikhu, the Russian dolls, and Jack and Sally, the two Beefeater soldiers, it seemed scarcely conceivable that she hadn’t been as worried and sick with fear as I’d been. But children are more resilient; they accept things more readily. It was when she was older that I’d have to worry, when she could draw conclusions and opinions and understand the complexity of it. Then she’d tell me how I’d ruined her life and ask me what the hell I was thinking of. I’m still getting to grips with it myself. I hope her life is clearer to her when she’s my age.
It was then that things took a downward turn and the reality of the situation returned. It began quite innocently. I asked her if she liked it here and if she’d like to stay a few more days.
‘Yes. But I’d like to see Mummy, too. How long is she away?’
I looked at Rashelle for an answer. ‘Not long, sweetheart. She’ll be back soon. She had to go away.’
‘Where?’
‘She went on holiday.’
‘A forever holiday?’
A horrible lump appeared in my throat.
‘Kind of, darling.’
She looked at me like she knew I was lying. I picked her up and gave her a hug. It was all I could do to keep it from her.
I can’t remember when I first thought of it; maybe when she was messing around with the lifts. The idea just came to me. It seemed like such an obvious thing to happen, I was surprised you didn’t hear about it more. Or maybe you did? Anyway, it’s time to come clean. The whole thing was a set-up. I’d planned it for weeks: dummy runs, timings, the lot. I was meticulous, as I knew I had to be. It’s not every father that thinks of kidnapping his daughter: not the sane ones, anyway. Rashelle hadn’t the stomach for it. It was less the consequences for herself than for my little girl. They’d become attached in a big way. I didn’t mind that; considering what had happened to her, it was understandable. I even felt I was doing something for her. One thing I do know: without her, I couldn’t have done it.
I’m not asking for special dispensation, or even forgiveness. I just want you to know the truth. The weeks before, my wife was giving me more grief than usual. Handshaker was around a lot more. I saw his big, blue car parked up when I dropped my daughter off. My wife came to the door with a quasi-triumphant expression on her face as if to say, ‘I’m actually glad we split up now.’ It happens to nearly all divorced couples, and believe me, it’s a very liberating moment. You suddenly realise you don’t have any more crap to contend with; all the compromise and baggage and pain you’ve accumulated over the years is gone. You can let it go. For some it happens soon; for others, it can take years to drain from your system; for a very few, they never get over it. To have feelings left, to still care; that must be a pain worse than death.
‘I’m thinking of taking her away.’
‘Right.’
‘He has relations in America.’
‘Very nice.’
‘I thought so. They live in California. It’s the chance of a lifetime.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Any objections?’
‘How long?’
‘I was thinking of a month. Maybe more. The summer holidays.’
‘When do I get to see her?’
She shrugged.
‘He has business connections over there. We’ll take her to Disneyworld, make it up to her.’
‘You sound like you’ve got it all planned.’
‘I have.’
‘I was thinking of taking her away.’
She didn’t need to say anything but, you know, she couldn’t resist. Kick a man when he’s down.
‘Blackpool again?’
‘It’s got donkeys.’
I could hear Handshaker playing inside with my daughter. She looked over her shoulder, then back at me.
‘I’ve already told her.’
‘That’s good of you.’
She called my daughter to say goodbye to me. We do that at the door. I’m not welcome over the threshold. My little girl planted a wet kiss on my cheek and told me she loved me, then skipped back inside. I don’t think I’d felt so low in my life. I know I should have been thinking of America but, really, I was thinking of me.
When I got back to the flat, I went to see Rashelle. She was wearing a low-cut beige dress. With her apple dumpling breasts hung in their cups, and her ruddy cheeks, she looked like a harvest basket. I won’t lie to you; I’d imagined having sex with her many times; I imagined it was me making her moan through the wall when she was with her men. The reason I hadn’t had sex with her was more me than her, which hadn’t happened very often in my life. I’ve never been particularly choosy. I think it had something to do with my daughter. She was too close to her. I didn’t want anything to upset that. I liked the fact she had Rashelle’s playroom to go to. I liked the fact she had another female influence in her life.
‘I think she could have considered you.’
‘No chance of that. She’s driving a wedge between us.’
‘It’s only a holiday.’
‘Yes. Without me.’
‘She’s not going to stop loving you just because she’s in America.’
‘She’s already started to get bored with me.’
‘She’s growing up.’
‘I don’t want her to grow up.’
Her breasts ruffled in the beige.
‘You can’t stop that. One day, she won’t want to see you. She’ll have a party to go to or want to go out with friends. What will you do then?’
‘I’ll accept it. But she’s five. This is our time.’
‘Then you should make the most of it.’
I try not to say anything to Rashelle. I try to keep my distance, out of respect.
‘Every time I take her back, I think it’ll be the last time I’ll see her. I have to remind her to kiss me goodbye. I hate to admit it but my ex-wife has won.’
She couldn’t take away my bitterness even if she’d tried.
‘I don’t think she’ll see it that way.’
‘I don’t think you know her.’
She shrugged. Maybe I did protest too much. There were times in the past when my ex-wife said I was an excellent father and that our little girl would never want for an education, in life or learning, because of me. Women like to know their children are being looked after. They like to know they have the support. They like to see men changing nappies, playing with the kids, reading them stories. To think I was that person makes it all the harder to bear. Now I am nothing.
The weekend after I was told, my daughter came over and we went to the cinema. We watched
Enchanted
, and as often happens when you watch something unpretentious and light, the sentiment got to me. I cried like a kid, the tears streaming down my face into the nachos. Normally, I don’t approve of eating in cinemas. The sound of popcorn bags being rattled and crisps being demolished has made me walk out of many a matinee. But when you have a kid, you relax the rules. My little girl was totally captivated at the end when the couples got together. Even at such a young age, she understood the meaning of lifelong commitment. I think she even managed a sigh. You couldn’t escape the way Rashelle and I looked at each other then. Were we another couple about to experience true love’s kiss? My little girl stood up between us, staring at the screen, and all that seemed to divide us was a sprinkling of fairy dust.
We got something to eat on the way back and I remember thinking we looked like a good couple. The tables were full of mums and dads and children pitching camp before dinner time battle. I watched my daughter squeeze the tomato sauce all over her plate like someone had got shot and, for once, I refrained from making a comment. I didn’t want to make the wrong impression. Little by little, my daughter was driving us together. Maybe my wife felt the same way with Handshaker. My daughter was miraculously rebuilding our lives.
It was late when we got back. I told my daughter to brush her teeth and go to bed and she took it as a cue to play up. The coke had gone to her head. That’s another thing I don’t normally give her. I was being compromised all over the place. She thought she could get away with it because Rashelle was there, but I was insistent. I didn’t mind her trying, it’s part of nature’s grand design - see what a rounded parent I could be? - it was just the wrong moment. There are times, when I’ve had a good sleep and she is behaving herself, that I indulge her, when I can demonstrate the full capabilities of my parenthood - my patience, tolerance and understanding - and there are others, when I’m on the edge of a nervous breakdown, that I feel like throttling her. I’ve never smacked my little girl. I pride myself on that, but I won’t kid you; I’ve felt like it many times.
I’m at my worst when she does things in public. I feel like my hands are tied. I don’t like people to think I have an unmanageable kid. I think I’m better than them. My daughter hasn’t realised that Daddy is not always up to the task, that there are other things going on in my life; she can’t distinguish between good times to ask and bad times, although I think she is getting better at it. She has checked herself recently when she has seen the look on my face. Instead of asking, she has come up to me and told me she loved me. That reminds me of my ex-wife. I wonder what’s behind it. I don’t want my little girl to be afraid of me. I don’t want her to shut me out.
‘I’ll give you five. Go and brush your teeth.’
I counted down with my fingers. She dragged her heels to the living room door and looked at Rashelle.
‘If you finish your teeth, I’ll bring you something from the playroom.’
My daughter’s eyes lit up like sparklers. She smiled and ran out excitedly.
‘She’ll be up all night.’
‘I’ll bring her something to put her to sleep.’
‘I wish you’d do the same for me.’
She stared at me. Maybe things were going round in her head, then: mad things, crazy things. She came back about five minutes later with her arms behind her back. It thrust her breasts out even further. My daughter sat on the sofa with me like it was Christmas, waiting to see what she’d brought. You can’t get that kind of excitement back when you’re older; the thrill has gone. I had a friend once who worked in S&M parlours; he was a dungeon master of some repute, he said, although what kind of repute was hard to say. He had a pretty latex assortment of belts and masks and got to use whips and chains on upmarket clients who were more interested in stocks than shares. He saw how far people would go to get that kick back. No gimp mask or meat hook, or cock ring, or piss hole could satisfy them. Each visit was subject to the law of diminishing returns: the more they invested, the less they got: the very market forces they had tried to escape from. I tried a gimp mask myself one night and scared myself looking in the mirror. I couldn’t breathe. Extremes have always frightened me. I suppose it’s why people have found me safe and boring.
Rashelle sat down between us and brought out a magical zoetrope night-light. My daughter clapped her hands in amazement. So did I. It was fabulously designed.
‘Look, Daddy!’
She stared through the wooden slats, utterly transfixed. When it turned, fairies started flying through the air. I watched, too, trying to figure out how it worked. When you don’t know how something is done, it
is
magic. I’d never seen it in Rashelle’s playroom. She must have got it out specially.
‘It used to play a little tune but it’s broken now. If you turn the lights off, though, you’ll see the fairies dancing on the ceiling.’
She flicked the switch and we looked up.
It was uncanny. They were circling above us, chasing each other round and round.
‘How does it do that? Miniature mirrors?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Magic.’
My daughter nodded. ‘It is, Daddy.’
Rashelle put the lights on again. The fairies came to rest. She unfolded a pink nightie on her lap and held it against her chest.
‘What do you think?’
The fairies were dancing round her bosom, holding hands. I thought maybe the two things were part of a set: a Victorian child’s wardrobe. My daughter didn’t need an invitation. She slipped the nightie over her head, pulled it down, and flew round the room. It was just the right size. Rashelle stared at her like she was caught in the zoetrope; dead things were coming to life again. I should have said something then but I never did. People deal with their grief in different ways. What right had I to say anything?
‘Come on, fairy. It’s time for bed.’
‘Can I take the fairy lights?’
I paused. ‘Only if Auntie says so.’
Rashelle nodded.
I set the zoetrope up in the corner away from the bed. I didn’t want her knocking it over or playing with it in the night. Imagine trying to repair that kind of damage? I watched the fairies dance on the ceiling again and wondered what song they used to dance to. I think it would have terrified me as a kid but my daughter was made of stronger stuff. I left her looking up; she didn’t even say goodnight. When I got back to the living room, I was about to say thank you when I realised Rashelle had gone. The fairies had taken her, too.
The next day we were together in the lobby. My daughter was messing round playing with the button, up to her usual antics.
‘Keep away from the doors,’ I told her.
They slid back silently. I counted the seconds till they closed, then pressed the button again. Rashelle stared at me like I’d gone mad but my daughter understood: it was a game.
‘Close your eyes,’ I said. ‘Count to five.’
Her eyes shut. I watched her face intently. On six, the lift doors closed. I pressed the button again. Ping. Her eyes opened.
‘Try again.’
She was loving it. Children are not normally good clocks though they can be a reliably depressing chronometer when they want to be, marking the hours and years of your life. I didn’t need my daughter to understand quantum physics at that moment. I needed her to count accurately.
‘Try it with fairies.’
She closed her eyes again.
‘Imagine them above your bed.’
‘One fairy, two fairy, three fairy…’
Five. The doors closed. I asked her to do it again, and again the lift doors closed just as the fifth fairy passed.
I got on bended knee, gave her a hug, and kissed her.
‘Do you know what you are, sweetheart?’
She shook her head.
‘A certified genius.’