Father and son

Paul put down the book on the small mahogany side table and looked up to see his father nodding off, nestled in his window seat. The street behind him had progressively gone dark as Paul had read to him, but as the winter sunlight had relinquished its hold on the day, the lights of humanity had one by one asserted their right on the night. First, the antique shop opposite — which was always so dark to start with — then the café, with its door opening and closing to the rhythm of its customers and letting out a waft of warm, voluptuous, sweet-scented air, testament to the skilled baker that haunted its kitchens. Then, the street lamps with their somewhat ethereal orange light that reflected on the wet paving stones and in the puddles adorning the street. Shortly after that, the private houses had lit up window by window, porch light by porch light, as their inhabitants had returned home from work, or from wherever they had spent their days.

With his father snoring gently in the corner, Paul stood up, stretched his tired legs and picked up the tea tray. The delicate china clinked and tinkled as he made his way to the bookshop’s kitchenette, not much more than a glorified cupboard with a sink, a kettle and a mini refrigerator that saw to their needs during their work hours. Having washed the teapot and cups and lain them to dry on a flowery tea towel, Paul leaned on the doorframe and watched his father with a smile. In the dim light the street lamps brought into the shop — for, apart from the small reading lamp, he had not yet himself turned on the lights — his father’s slightly long, wispy hair glowed like something out of a science fiction book. He wondered idly when his father’s dishevelled appearance had stopped bothering him and become endearing instead. How he had hated that face and that very same thistledown hair as a teenager, and for a sadly long time in his adult life too.

Of course, it hadn’t been easy growing up with an eccentric father, with neither mother nor siblings to ‘normalize’ the family. His father, a quiet man with a very personal sense of style — in those days, never to be spotted out of a three-piece suit, with the most lurid and ludicrous waistcoats — his strangely pale eyes, his long, thin, flyaway hair, always forming a sort of halo around his head, and his obsession with his books and bookshop, had made Paul feel like he stood out at school. As a single man raising a child on his own, in a time where only women were deemed good enough for the job, speculations at school had been ripe as to where Paul had come from. No one seemed to know who his mother was, and it seemed like Paul had just materialized out of thin air one day; as if his father had found him between two shelves in the stock room at the back and decided to keep him as another oddity in his bookshop.

The rumours about his father being ‘colourful’ as his neighbours put it politely, or a ‘puff’ as his classmates had put it (not quite so politely), had haunted his teenage years. His father’s refusal to put the rumours to rest one way or another, or to answer any question about his mother, had quickly led to tensions. Paul had to admit that the tensions had mostly been his, his father had rarely ever lost his calm with him, or with anyone else for that matter, and had carried on answering sparingly that ‘he hadn’t known his mother very well,’ and that ‘she couldn’t look after him,’ whenever Paul badgered him with questions about his missing parent.

He had made no attempt to find a replacement either. It was absurd to think that his father had had no sex or love life, Paul was living proof of it after all — and they looked too much alike for him to consider having been adopted — yet, he had never had any reason to think that his father had ever been in a relationship. No woman, or man for that matter, had ever crossed the threshold of their flat above the shop for more than a cup of tea. Yet his father had never seemed lonely. His unobtrusive life, with his books, his son and his customers — in this particular order — in that small, quiet English town of theirs, seemed to have been enough for him. More than enough in fact, as he had actively refused to move or sell the shop on several occasions. It had irked Paul, like everything else about his father had irked him (his waistcoats!!).

In his youth, he had felt suffocated and disdainful of their small, tedious lives. Despite enjoying a good book, he had never completely understood his father’s passion for his job, to whom books were not just books, but doorways to other worlds, lifelines or lottery tickets that won you the right to be someone else for a time.

Paul had vowed to be different, he had promised himself he would leave and never come back. He had run far and wide to shake off any trace of his father. He had made his life as different as it could be from his. He had travelled the world, had been a businessman, a chef, a husband. Yet, here he was now. Living with his father, taking over his father’s business, looking after his father’s needs as his eyesight deteriorated. And he was content.

Theirs was a peaceful, fairly amiable partnership now. Not perfect, what relationship ever was (here was another dream he had had to let go, the day he decided to leave his wife)? Paul could still be too sharp with him at times — it was hard to recondition the way you interacted with the person who had brought you up — but their relationship was like that old jumper you couldn’t bring yourself to put away. It was thin in places, frayed, patched too many times, but it was also warm and comfortable and held so many memories in its woolly threads. No, you couldn’t just throw away that kind of jumper. And though he would not say it aloud, he was so glad he hadn’t, as it had been there for him when he needed it the most, when the rest of his life had crashed, and unravelled so swiftly that this very same old, ruined jumper had looked brand new in comparison; it had kept him warm and dry and safe.

It had taken Paul a long time to see his father for what he truly was. In the past, during their many one-sided arguments, his father had often calmly repeated that ‘sometimes, you had to judge people by their actions, not their words.’ And there it was. His father was a kind man. Not weak. Not vague. Not oblivious to his son’s needs. Not even that eccentric, really. Just a kind, kind man who had done his best to protect him from the reality of an uncaring mother and inject a sense of fun in what, at times, must have been a dreary life. How much the man had sacrificed for his ungrateful son, Paul guessed he would never truly know.

Now, leaning on the doorframe of the kitchenette, he swallowed and took a deep breath. He was still observing the sleeping figure. Paul’s slightly watery eyes fell on the small gap between his father’s trouser legs and his polished shoes and a smile crept up his face. The socks were a shocking mess of pink, red and orange patterns. Another sacrifice just there, glaring at him. As a teenager wanting to fit in, his father’s dress sense had horrified him. The flamboyant waistcoats had embarrassed him. He had never stopped wearing them though. But when Paul had come back to live with his father after his marriage broke down, and when it had become clear that he would need his son’s help to run the shop as his vision faded, he had quietly put the funky waistcoats away and replaced them with plain ones. Paul, although secretly glad, had protested and told him he didn’t mind, but his father had insisted; though a few days later he had started wearing these ridiculous socks instead. A small act of quiet rebellion that still made Paul chuckle.

Paul started locking the shop, tidying a few stray bits and pieces, so he wouldn’t have to do it the next morning before opening up; putting the stepladder away, straightening book piles on the display table, picking a sweet wrapper a customer had dropped. As he was placing a couple of pens back with their peers in the mug on the counter, he saw under a pile of papers a brown, padded envelope, addressed to P. Brooks. Unsure if this was for him or his father — whose name was Peter — he opened it. In it, was a new pair of brightly patterned socks with a note that read:

Saw these and thought of you. Did you get my last letter?

Love,

G. xxx

PS: you would be despicable not to answer x

Who was G? Paul didn’t have the faintest idea. He tried in vain to think of anyone, woman or man they might know with a name starting with G, but came up with nothing. Puzzled and not just a little intrigued, Paul considered his father and whether to ask him about this or not. He shook his head slightly as if to dispel the thought and picked up the book he had been reading to him. He had left it open on its front, and wincing at the thought of what his father had to say on the subject of creased spines, he promptly placed the bookmark in and shut the book. He then approached the sleeping old man, put the padded envelope on his lap, placed his hand over it so it wouldn’t fall, and gently shook his shoulder. Two strikingly pale blue eyes, one almost white, blinked up at him sleepily.

‘Come on old man, it’s time we go upstairs. I need to make us dinner.’

Yes, sometimes, you had to judge people by their actions and not their words.