‘And he’s yours? Not Bonny’s?’ Bonny is his mother’s roommate. His too, I suppose. We’d spoken by phone, but that’s about it.
‘I gots him from my last birfday!’ he yells suddenly, holding up his wee hand, pinkie finger and thumb curled in. ‘When I was free!’
‘Okay, okay,’ I placate. ‘Maybe we can call Bonny, see if you can visit your . . . hamster?’ I add hopefully.
‘Dog! And I d-don’t want to visit him! I can’t sleep wivout him. I m-miss him.’
‘All right, all right.’ I hold up both hands in placation. ‘I’ll talk to her. See what I can do.’
‘Are you still in here?’ My mother tsks, appearing in the doorway. Thank the Lord.
‘That wee mite will get haemorrhoids sat on the pot for hours on end!’ Da’s voice then yells from somewhere inside the flat. ‘I’ve heard the toilet referred to as a reading room but never a meeting room,’ he grumbles, his voice drawing nearer before his head appears behind Mum. ‘Are ye’ finished, laddies?’ Louis nods earnestly in response. ‘Then let your dad wipe your arse. Come away, Stella,’ he says, pulling on my mother’s arm. ‘They’ve got to get on wi’ it at some point.’ With nothing more than a reassuring glance in my direction, she allows Da to pull her away.
I blow out a breath, long and hard, before leaning back and flipping the water on. I discreetly clean my hands under the flow before pushing the plug into the hole.
No way I’m touching his smeared arse. Not this side of a few swishes up and down a soap-filled tub first.
Parenthood is a steep learning curve. This evening, as I flop onto the sofa, shirt wet from my son’s bath, or tears, it’s hard to tell, hair askew and beer bottle in hand, I realise I’m no match for a sad child. I’d have promised him a Ferrari for his next birthday just to see him smile. To make him stop crying. I’ve also learned shite floats. And it’s almost impossible to shove down a plug hole. Using the other end of your dad’s toothbrush. I wasn’t going to use mine, was I? It’s an electric one and cost me nearly two-hundred quid. Da’s is just a supermarket buy. And I’ve some of those under the vanity. For when I have . . . friends to stay over.
I’ve seen the end of those days, I suppose.
‘What’s wrong with your face?’ Da asks without looking up from the news as the reflection of the TV plays out on the lens of his glasses.
‘Nothin’. I’m just knackered.’
‘Tired,’ he harrumphs. ‘You’ve only been a dad a few days. You’d better gird your loins, sonny—’
‘Gird my what?’ I chuckle, but it doesn’t last as it occurs to me that my loins are what’s gotten me into this mess in the first place, condoms or no.
‘I mean it. It’s only gonna get harder because your mother and I are getting the train back home on Friday.’
‘What?’ I ask, pulling myself straight. I’m not fucking laughing now. ‘Why? You can’t . . . I can’t do this without you!’
‘Yes, you can,’ he says, turning his gaze to me now. ‘You can, and you will. You’re a good man. A good son, and a good uncle, fore by. There’s no doubt in my mind you’ll make a good father, but you’re stalling. And that won’t go away as long as we’re here.’
‘Da,’ I say plaintively. ‘I’ve had three weeks to get used to the fact I have a son. Two weeks to get to know him, all while running my business. I know I’ll get there, but I can’t physically do it without help. How will I cope?’
‘The same way the rest of the population does,’ he replies, his brows drawing in. ‘Find him a school, get some childcare, but first, take some time off and get to know him. He’s a braw wee fella,’ he says, his expression no less fierce. ‘You’ll no’ get this time again.’
I take a mouthful of my beer, my gaze sliding away as Mum enters the room. She looks guilty. ‘Et tu, Stella?’ I can’t help but dig the knife in.
‘Don’t speak to your mother like that,’ Dad grumbles. ‘It’s for your own good, and you’ll thank us later. We’re cutting the strings,’ he says with finality.
‘I’m thirty bloody two,’ I reply hoarsely. ‘I haven’t been attached to apron strings since I left for uni at nineteen. Give me some credit, would you?’
‘I wasn’t referring to apron strings, son. It’s your parachute strings I’m cutting. You fall or fly on your own. But remember, you’re responsible for someone else now. Fatherhood is a lifelong commitment.’
And I’ve never committed to anything longer than a fortnight’s holiday.
6
Mac
Day twenty-nine of operation Learn to be Dad and shit is my watch word. Toileting has become easier, but the rest of my life? Flushed down the pan like a turd.