Love doesn't need words.

Love doesn’t need words.

My father never said he loved me.

Dad came crashing up the cellar steps, negotiating his way through the doorway carrying something hefty hidden underneath an old coal sack.

He never slept, my dad. From early mornings he worked long hard shifts in the local foundry, then spent the nights crashing about in the cellar on one project or another. This project involved a lot of sawing and hammering late into the night. Dad was unaware of the level of noise he was making. It disturbed the neighbours on account of our little back-to-back houses all being interlocked, but they never complained. They understood.

He knelt and put the ‘thing’ on the hearth rug, waving and beckoning for me to come and look. He put his arm around me and waved his other hand about, inviting me to uncover the surprise. I smiled broadly at him and kissed his cheek. I grabbed the coal sack from the top and whipped it off in one swoop. I slapped my hand over my mouth and gasped. Dad never heard me, but he was watching. He felt my delight and he shared my joy, demonstrating how all the little windows and doors of the dolls house opened and closed. There was a button at the back which switched on tiny lights. And, unlike our own humble little house, this one had an inside toilet. After a time, he ruffled my hair and left me to play as he dozed in his favourite dilapidated chair in the corner. That was likely to be the only sleep he had, and I usually interrupted it by climbing onto his lap and snuggling in. The bright blue vest he wore bore the dusty remnants of the foundry and smelled like bonfire sparklers. I breathed in deeply. That smell will always remind me of my dad, and the blue of his vest will forever be my favourite colour.

He snored as he slept. The sound soothed me to sleep and in my dreams his snoring turned into words I couldn’t quite grasp.

Saturday mornings almost always ran the same way. We stayed in bed late, and the coal fire wasn’t lit until nine thirty to save money. Warming our clothes in front of the flames we got dressed on the hearth rug then had a breakfast of cereal sitting at the yellow larder cabinet on a stool that wobbled just a bit too much for comfort if I didn’t sit still. Dad always sneaked me an extra sprinkle of sugar. After washing the dishes under the cold tap…the only indoor water supply, dad helped with my coat, checking the toggles were fastened in the right order and hanging my little cross body bag over my shoulder. It contained a couple of pairs of pants and socks and at least one nighty. Right outside the door, he swooped me up onto his shoulders and we made our way to the corner shop. He got his wage packet on a Friday night, so Saturday was treat day.

Dad jiggled me up and down on his shoulders, winding around lamp posts and dodging pigeons, whilst keeping a grip on my ankles to stop me falling. I giggled. Dad didn’t hear me, but he felt my laughter and continued to jiggle and dodge. Under the weight of me, he grunted and groaned as he walked. I lowered my head, so my ear was in line with his mouth, and I relished the sounds. I tried to piece the sounds together and imagine what his voice would sound like if he spoke. Then I wrapped my arms tightly round his neck and hugged him. “I love you dad” I whispered. He didn’t hear me, but he knew.

The bell over the door tinkled as we entered the tiny shop. Mrs Cooper smiled and gave dad a wave, then she brought out the penny tray and laid it before me. I took ages choosing from the toffees and chews but dad and Mrs Cooper didn’t mind. They were engaged in some kind of conversation, dad silently signing, and Mrs Cooper signing slowly and uttering every other word out loud as though she needed to remember where she was in her own side of the conversation. Dad never rushed me. He understood I needed time to make up my mind, although I always chose the same thing in the end. Unnoticed by me, dad chose and treated us both to a small chocolate bar, which appeared as if by magic when we left the shop.

We walked hand in hand to the zebra crossing which took us over the road to the public baths. The big blue doors of the entrance felt welcoming to me. In the entrance hall with its white tiles floor to ceiling, there was a tiny kiosk. Dad smiled and nodded at the lady behind the counter. I kept a grip of his hand. Although I loved this place, I found the echoey sounds a little creepy. The lady held up a folded white towel. Dad held up two fingers indicating that I needed one too. She passed the towels over, along with two tiny pieces of hard white soap and pointed to the nearest door.

The ceiling was high in this room, and it was still slightly warm from the previous user. Up against the wall in the corner was a large, deep iron bath, and on the other wall was a fixed shower head. Dad turned the shower on for me and fully opened the taps on the bath to quickly fill it for himself. Bathing was time limited, and people wanted as much hot water as they could get. I wasn’t brave enough for the bath. Dad beckoned for my little bag of concealed laundry and held the contents under the shower, rubbing them with the soap before rinsing, squeezing, and returning them to my bag.

 After fifteen minutes or so, the lady banged on the door and flicked the light on and off for dads’ benefit, to let us know that time was almost up. Dad dried himself quickly but paid more attention to tickling me and making sure I was dry between my toes and behind my ears, giving my hair a quick rub with the towel.

Back at the kiosk he handed the towels over and they were swapped for two paper cups filled with steaming beef stock. We sat huddled together on a wooden bench, relishing both the stock and each other’s company. The feeling of ‘clean’ was wonderful but also made outside feel even colder.

Back home the fire was stoked, and my illicit laundry was hung up to dry. Dad settled in his favourite chair for a snooze, and I climbed onto his lap into his open embrace to join him.

I said "I love you dad".

My father never said he loved me.