“We’re thinking, Dad... We’re thinking of moving.”
Christine watched her father’s hands as he washed the cups. Suds clung to his fingers as he lifted the dripping cup from the bowl and rinsed it under the tap. His wedding ring glinted through the bubbles.
“Oh are you?” he said, taking another cup and running the dish-mop around the inside. “Well I hope you’re not going too far.”
She felt a cold grip around her heart.
“You need to be in striking distance,” he said, “so I can keep an eye on you, eh.”
“Perth, Dad.”
“Perth? What do you want to go there for? Can’t say I know it really. Your mother and I stayed a night there on the way up to Orkney that year, but I can’t say I... we didn’t see much of it really, you know, just went to the b’n’b and straight off in the morning...”
“No, Dad...”
“We went for a stroll by the river - that was lovely actually, but more than that... Why? Has John got work up there or something?”
“No, Dad, it’s not...”
“I mean it’s not close but, well, I suppose it’s on the train line up through, eh... I mean Scotrail was pretty good, I seem to remember, but...”
“It’s not Scotland, Dad.”
“What..? Course it is, it’s what... fifty miles north of Edinburgh, isn’t it... something like that. We were driving then of course. I wouldn’t drive it now mind, not with my back...”
“It’s Perth, Australia, Dad. Western Australia. John’s family are...”
“It’s what? No, no, no, it’s definitely in...”
She saw the realisation cloud his eyes as he looked at her. He looked back at the bowl of bubbles and the cup slipped from his hand and splashed back into the bowl. Soapy water splashed onto the front of his shirt.
“Damn! Damn fool thing!” he said.
Christine reached for a tea towel from the radiator and tried to wipe at the wet shirt.
“Here, give it here,” he said, “I can do it.” He snatched the tea towel from her. “Damn fool thing!”
Christine grabbed the roll of kitchen paper and tore off a length. She squatted to mop at the pool of water on the floor.
“What are you... Leave it, will you, just leave it!”
“Sorry, Dad, I was just...”
“Leave it. I’ll get the mop in a minute. I’ll do it... Just ... Just... why don’t you go through. I’ll bring the tea in a minute. I won’t... I won’t be a minute. You go in’t room, I’ll bring it through. Do you want a biscuit?”
“No thanks, Dad.”
“I went to the VeeGee, John’ll want a biscuit... I bought a pack of... You go through and make sure he’s not mucking up the settings on the TV. I’ll be through in a minute.”
Christine popped the pedal bin open and dropped the kitchen towel into it. She turned and slipped out into the hall. She felt the tightness in her throat. Her cheeks burned red beneath her eyes. She couldn’t face John straight away. He was happy enough flicking through the channels on the television.
As she reached the sitting room door she stopped.
“I’m just popping upstairs a moment, love. I won’t be a min... there’s something I’ve been wanting to find.”
John was sitting on the sofa. He didn’t respond. She watched him for a moment looking from the TV to the remote and back again. He pressed a button and suddenly the volume boomed for a second before he found how to mute it again.
“John? Did you hear me?”
“Yeah... sure... whatever.”
She started to move towards the stairs but he hissed to stop her.
“Hey, Chrissie,” he whispered, “did you tell him?”
“Yes.”
“Is he, you know... how did he take it? Is he ok?”
“I don’t think...”
“He’ll ... give him time, he’ll get used to it. Did you mention ... you know...?”
“One thing at a time, John. One thing at a time.”
She climbed the stairs and was instantly engulfed in her childhood. While Mum and Dad had made many changes to the house downstairs - the kitchen extension, the French doors from the dining room - since Mum died nothing had changed. Upstairs they hadn’t even redecorated. The brown stair carpet, the textured wallpaper on the landing - the very air of the house felt unchanged, still, thick with the memory of dust and central heating. The towels hanging on the landing banister to dry - that slight odour of moisture from the bathroom, not damp but... used. The afternoon sun threw a certain glade of orange light from the frosted bathroom window out through the door and onto her bedroom door. Here was the ceramic plaque bearing her name that Dad had put up on her sixth birthday when she and Cicely finally stopped sharing and she got her own room. “Christine” in black cursive writing on a pink background with little primroses and bluebells framing the word. She fingered the dent in the door that Dad and Uncle Kev had made moving her new bed into the room. How mad Mum had been.
Christine stepped into her bedroom and cast her eyes around the familiar shelves: her childhood books; her collection of ceramic animals; the peacock feather in the heavy-based glass specimen vase. She glanced at the shade on the lamp, decorated with teddy bears dancing and hugging each other; the string of fairy lights strung across the wall above the bed; the array of stickers gleaned from her youthful magazines and stuck randomly across the headboard. She sat on the bed for a moment, felt the strange silence of memories crowding through her heart.
A noise from outside broke in upon her consciousness. She stood and walked to the window and drew back the curtains. Her father was stood in the garden, his hand resting on the bike shed. She couldn’t see his face but, silently, his shoulders were shaking.
prompt: baby thoughts
