Dad's Not Home

That’s the thing about this city, bloody protests. There I was, trying to get home, and a demonstration came down Kingsway. It’s a wide road and one side was full of students shouting out objections with noise and whistles, and helicopter blades thumping overhead, as the police watched for trouble. 

Bloody kids, I thought, as I watched them and waited to cross the road. They need to find a job and shut up. Take some responsibility in this world rather than grumble. I would have put my hands over my ears if I could, but I had too much bloody shopping to get home and both my hands were full. 

And then, of course, it started raining. Feeling trapped by the protest and the weather, I became militant myself. I walked out into the march and pushed my way between the students. I was followed by howls of ‘look out’ and ‘stupid cow’ but I didn’t care. Bloody students.

On the other side of the road, pigeons fought with gulls over an abandoned bag of chips on a pavement decorated with ground-in chewing gum. The rain enhanced this dreary scene, which seemed to have been rejected by all as they’d rushed to shelter from the weather in the local Wimpy.

Space House loomed ahead, a round concrete building. No rain could ever clean its dirty sides, which looked like wire mesh caging rodents. Behind it were the old Victorian flats that I called home.

I looked for Dad’s face at his bedroom window on the fourth floor, but he was not there. That was unusual, as he loved a protest. He enjoyed the energy and it reminded him of his youth.

As I entered the estate, I saw children playing on the slide and swings in the centre of the courtyard. Near the swings, was a group of mothers chatting underneath an awning with their arms crossed firmly across their chests. I supposed their discussions were about who was doing what and who was not doing enough, as they shook their heads and frowned.

A tall plane tree stood near the door into my block, its trunk covered with patchy bark, in colours of white, grey, and yellow. 

Loaded down with shopping bags, I walked into my block and looked up. The concrete stairs went on forever. Actually, there were eighteen of them to the first landing, but my heavy bags made them seem longer. By the time I reached my front door, I was breathing heavily.

‘Hi, Dad,’ I said, as I entered the flat.

There was no answer. Maybe he was asleep. He hadn’t said he was going out.

‘Dad?’ I said again. I knocked on his bedroom door, but nothing. Quietly opening the door, I looked in. His bedroom was empty.

The phone rang and startled me. It was my sister Mildred.

‘Nora? I’m coming over to see Dad,’ she said.

‘No, you’re not,’ I said

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s not here.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Gone out.’

‘What do you mean gone out?’

‘He’s not here.’

‘Have you called the police?’

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s obviously lost.’

I could hear the exasperation in her voice at this point, and I smiled.

‘Why do you say that?’ I can keep this up all night, I thought.

‘Are you pretending to be obtuse just to annoy me or are you really this stupid?’

‘Oh, shut up.’

‘I’m coming over.’

‘No need. As I said, he’s not here.’

‘Well, I can see you until he comes home or we call the police.’

‘I don’t want to see you.’

At this point, she put the phone down.

I felt a certain amount of triumph at how the conversation went.

Walking into the kitchen, I put the shopping bags on the table and turned to the kettle. I filled it up with water and turned it on. 

Even though the kitchen was on the other side of the flat from Kingsway, I could still hear the thump of the helicopter blades. At times of demonstrations, that sound could go on until evening. It was bloody annoying.

I put the shopping away and sat down at the kitchen table with my cup of tea. It was nice and warm after the cold walk in the rain. Looking out of the kitchen window, I could see the leaves shivering on the plane tree, its bristly seed balls hung low. 

When Dad went out, he was usually back by supper. His stomach brought him home. I’d followed him once to make sure he was okay. He’d walked down The Strand towards Trafalgar Square and then turned up towards the market. He’d lived in this flat for fifty years. He knew where he was. But then there were the days when he couldn’t remember. Those days the police would pick him up and ring me. Either way, I knew he would be okay. 

I took my tea to the front room and started to build a fire in the grate. It was half past four. Dad would be home soon and then I would start supper. It would be a fish supper tonight: smoked haddock and eggs, which was Dad’s favourite. 

I’m a little preoccupied with Dad. I moved in with him about three years ago because he was having difficulties taking care of himself. Mum died five years ago and he started to go downhill from there. We were both upset over Mum’s death, so we sought solace from each other. I spent a lot of time here with him, so the move seemed like a natural progression. 

But I didn’t realize how hard it would be. My life is over. I haven’t been out on the town for ages. Most of my so-called friends have disappeared and once I tell men I live with my demented old Dad, they run. Typical really. 

The rain continued and I started to worry about him. Surely, he would be home by now rather than walking out in the rain. He might have stopped off at a café for a cup of tea. That was possible. 

When Dad first got sick, it was funny.

He would forget things. We would laugh about it. He would try to flick through his reflection in the mirror with the remote thinking it was the telly. If he noticed what he’d done, he would giggle like a schoolgirl. 

Then, he needed help remembering to take his medicines, and I would drop into his flat after work to check in on him. Then, came the day when I moved in. He needed help washing and cooking and stuff. 

Also, he became a grumpy bastard and compulsive.

For example, he’d get upset with his table because it wobbled and he’d spend hours trying to stop it. He put it against the wall. He crammed it between his bed and his bookcase. He tried to put a chair on top of it. He got angry at it. Eventually, he got a book and put it under the leg.

One day, he would love egg and chips; another day he hated them. He would choose a cheese sandwich and then be certain he had chosen a ham sandwich. Bloody contrary so-and-so.

‘I’d rather not’ became an answer for requests for him to take a bath. And then it became the answer for having a shave. If I forced him, he would scream. ‘Cantankerous old sod,’ I would tell him, and then he would cry.

I thought I was a reasonable person, but I started to lose it. He would ask me where I was going and I would tell him. Ten minutes later he would ask me again. I found my patience wearing thin. 

One day, I’d come home from work early.

Dad had been standing by his bedroom window dressed in his raincoat and wellington boots. He was looking down at the rain landing on the street below.

‘Nora,’ he said.

‘Hi, Dad,’ I said, and walked into my bedroom where I changed into my jeans.

Dad was still looking out of the window when I came down the hallway and passed his bedroom again. 

I stood at his door. ‘Are you going out?’ I asked.

‘I’d love a cup of tea,’ he said, and started to walk towards me. He shut the door.

‘Okay, Dad,’ I said to the closed door, and walked to the kitchen.

As the kettle was boiling, I heard the front door shut. 

‘Dad?’ I called out, and walked to the door. I opened it and looked out. He was outside looking down the stairs.

‘Where are you going?’ I asked.

‘Off for a walk.’

‘Do you have your umbrella?’ I asked, handing him his brolly, which he had left on the floor.

‘I do now,’ he said.

Waving at him as he limped down the stairs, I knew he would take a turn round the neighbourhood and be back by tea.

The doorbell brought me out of my thoughts. As I walked to the front door, I looked out the window. The sky was turning dark and the rain still fell. It was getting late. Maybe Dad had forgotten his keys.

But no… it was her… Mildred.

‘Is Dad back?’ she said, and pushed pass me.

‘Nope,’ I said, and followed her into the front room.

She took off her coat and handed it to me. I threw it on the sofa. She warmed herself in front of the fire.

‘Where is he then?’ she said.

‘I still don’t know.’

‘Have you called the police?’

‘He always comes home.’

‘It’s getting dark.’

‘He’s probably taken shelter in a coffee shop.’

‘Are you going to look for him?’

‘He‘ll be home by dinnertime.’

‘When are you putting dinner on?’

‘When Dad comes home.’

‘I’m starving.’

‘There’s some nice restaurants around here.’

We could do this for hours. I didn’t like her and she didn’t like me. 

When Dad got sick, I didn’t see her for ages. She moved to Manchester for about six months and then came back. She’d come to visit him and bother him, but she would never take any responsibility in his care. She just wanted to make sure she didn’t miss out on any of his money once he died. 

Mildred sat down on the sofa.

‘You making coffee?’ she said.

‘You know where the kettle is,’ I said. 

At that, she got up and went to the kitchen. I heard the kettle warm. Then, I heard her opening various cupboards. She knew where the cups were, so she was just being nosy.

‘The fire’s nice,’ she said, when she came back into the front room with her coffee. She blew on the top of it and the steam flowed away from her. ‘I like a fire. It is beautiful. Don’t you think it’s beautiful?’

‘It’s a fire. It keeps me warm. Why do you think it’s beautiful?’ I said. I got up from my seat by the fire and walked over to the window. The rain made droplets on the windowpane and the tree waved at me.

‘The way the flames and sparks dance around the coal in a pretty way.’

‘It’ll need building shortly. When Dad comes home, he’ll complain that it’s too cold. You know what he’s like. Or maybe you don’t.’ I added a few coals to the fire and sat in Dad’s armchair.

‘You got any biscuits?’ Mildred said.

‘You just looked through all the cupboards, I’m sure you know that we do.’

She got up, went to the kitchen, and brought back a packet of ginger snaps.

‘Those are Dad’s favourites,’ I said. ‘Don’t finish them or he’ll have fit.’

We sat for a while in relative silence except for the crackling of the fire and the crunching of the ginger snaps. As dusk settled down into night, I turned on the light and picked up a magazine. I tried to read, but was distracted by my thoughts.

Dad’s clock chimed six and I knew he was lost. I dropped the magazine on the sofa and grabbed my coat. 

‘Six o’clock and he’s not home,’ I said, not without a small amount of bitterness in my tone. ‘He’s probably distracted by the shops. Every time he goes missing, I’m the one that has to look for him. And what do I get for my troubles? The joy of taking care of him.’

I stopped winding myself up and called the police station. They didn’t have him.

‘I’ll come with you,’ Mildred said. I was surprised, as I’d expected her to stay there in front of the fire.

‘You stay here in case he comes home,’ I said, and left the flat, locking the door behind me. A cat was peeing on the landing.

After I reached the bottom of the stairwell, I walked out into the estate. The lights had not come on in the courtyard and, as I made my way towards Drury Lane, I stumbled a couple of times. Bloody landlord. I would be on the phone to them tomorrow about that. 

The theatre crowds were swarming as I hurried down Drury Lane to Aldwych. The Strand was no different and, as I bumped against people, I knew there was a chance I was passing him by without seeing him. I tried to walk close to the road without getting run over while looking over the bobbing heads. 

Arriving at Trafalgar Square, I circled round towards the market, and popped into the police station on the way. 

‘Mr Taylor?’ I said to the young police officer standing behind the counter.

‘He’s the old fella that comes in when he’s lost himself, right?’ he said.

‘That’s right. I called earlier, but was told he was not here.’

‘And you are Mrs Taylor?’

‘Miss.’

‘Some of our officers are out the back, but most of them have gone out, I think. Oy, Sarge! Who’s out the back?’

‘Who wants to know?’

‘I do. Miss Taylor here wants to know where her dad is.’

The sergeant came over to the counter and looked at me.

‘Miss Taylor?’ he said, and I nodded. ‘None of the officers have come across your dad so far, but the night’s young.’

‘Thank you. He’s such a pain,’ I said. ‘I’ll try to find him.'

I left the station and wandered into the market. To avoid the crowds, I walked towards the network of alleyways that ran behind the main square. If he was out there, I was not seeing him. Disappointed, I circled back home.

The flat was quiet. 

I took off my coat and shoes, and entered the front room. Mildred was asleep on the sofa. Sitting down in Dad’s armchair, I added a few pieces of coal to the dying fire. 

It was a few minutes past eight. 

Mildred snored.

Picking up the magazine, I flicked through the pages. Then, I closed it onto my lap and tried to decide what to do next.

The ringing phone startled me. I rushed over to the sideboard and picked up the handset.

‘Nora Taylor?’

‘Yes, that’s me.’

‘My name is Doctor Patel and I am calling from Saint Thomas’ Hospital. Your father Harold Taylor was brought in earlier with difficulties. Your name and number is on his ID bracelet.’

I breathed in sharply. How surreal. This sounded like the phone call, the situation, the moment, I’d been expecting for years. Mildred stood up from the sofa and came over to me making hand gestures.

‘What kind of difficulties?’ I said, ignoring her. A feeling of wooziness came over me and I put my hand on the wall to steady myself.

‘He has had a heart attack. We have him comfortable, but I do not think he will make it.’

‘Yes…’ I said. ‘Yes…’

‘What is happening?’ Mildred said. I waved her away and shook my head. She stood looking at me with her hands on her hips.

‘Does your father have any end of life wishes?’ Doctor Patel said.

That sentence covered so much. My Dad was dying. He had been leaving us for years, but now he was dying. His body was going back to dust.

‘He wanted to be kept alive if that was possible. But, under the circumstances… considering how sick he is… I think he would want to go…’ I said.

‘What’s going on?’ Mildred shouted this time.

‘Dad’s dying!’ I shouted back at her, and she burst into tears.

‘We are keeping him comfortable. It would be best if you could come now. He doesn’t have long,’ Doctor Patel said, and proceeded to give me directions to the ward.

Dad was in a room off A&E and hooked up to all kinds of machines. He was on his side and covered in a silver blanket to keep him warm. The nurse explained that he was on anxiety medicine and painkillers to keep him calm. His eyes were closed. The heart monitor was bleeping in the corner of the room. 

Mildred and I sat on opposite sides of the bed. I held Dad’s hand and told him I loved him. Mildred hadn’t stopped crying since we left home, and I hadn’t started. I still felt woozy and numb. 

I had failed. 

I suddenly realized this as I was holding his hand. I had moved in with him in order to take care of him, and now he was dying and I had failed. 

He moved slightly and coughed.

‘Dad?’ I said. ‘Dad, it’s Nora and Mildred. We’re here. We love you.’

He didn’t open his eyes or say anything.

The noises in A&E came in waves as the doors in the corridor opened and shut. While I sat watching Dad, the smells of the hospital wafted in. The rhythm of the heart monitor was strangely comforting. 

And then, Dad turned and looked at me, and the monitor stopped. Well, it stopped bleeping. It was just one long tone.