Single Father, Better Dad. Mark Tucker
Читать онлайн книгу.
I apologised to her for being so mean. I explained that I had to learn how to run the house properly, that it was going to be hard work until I got used to it and, if I got cranky, it would be because I was frustrated with myself, and not because I was cross with her or her sister. She didn’t say much apart from “I love you Dad”. I felt my heart break and wished that I had my shades with me because I could feel my eyes welling up (and I can still feel the tears all these years later as I write this).
We walked back to the car hand-in-hand. This had been the first real conversation I’d had with my daughter for a long time. It wasn’t just my world that had been turned on its head—her world was also on its head. What she needed most of all was not a clean house and a nicely mown lawn, but some time with me where we could talk or just sit together sharing a Boost. Come to think of it, that was what I needed too. As we walked I resolved that the girls would come first, before anything else, and that my prime purpose as a father would be to make sure they had as normal and as happy a childhood as I could possibly give them. It put everything into perspective—and I didn’t even get a parking ticket. I took this as a sign that God was on my side.
Back home. Time check: Lunchtime. Where had the morning gone? Rethink required. The three of us had lunch together. I couldn’t remember the last time we had done this, and it was fun. We made toasted sandwiches, trying to outdo each other with the number of fillings we could fit in and the most imaginative mess that we could make. The girls even put their dirty plates in the dishwasher, unfortunately in a slightly disorganised way that required some significant re-packing, but it was a start.
A quick cup of tea and I was ready for the big afternoon push. I loaded the entire family of girls and dogs into the car; dropped off the two-legged members at dance; walked the four-legged members in the park; got back home; checked the fridge and set off to the fruit shop and butcher. Very efficient. I rewarded myself with a small, Tim Henman-esq, fist pump.
“You miserable, lazy bastard,” I heard myself muttering, not loudly but not quietly enough. I was standing outside the butcher’s shop looking at his sign that informed me that his Saturday opening hours were 8.30am to 12.30pm. Why? Did he think that he was doing the community a favour by sacrificing part of his weekend and deigning to open on a Saturday morning? What about all the poor sods who only got the chance to do their shopping at the weekend? This was Saturday afternoon, peak time—why not think of the customer and close on Monday instead, you selfish bugger?
Down the street to the fruit shop. Same story. Shutters drawn, no official opening hours displayed, but obviously the greengrocer had had enough of today as well and was probably now having a nice sit down and a well-earned beer with the butcher.
A little old lady walked past me towing a fat Corgi. She had obviously overheard my muttering about the selfishness of my local purveyors of fresh meat and vegetables and gave me a look that seemed to say “young people today”. For a moment I actually thought I was going to have a major melt down and apply my right foot to the rear end of her waddling pooch.
But there was no point taking out my frustration on a geriatric dog or its geriatric owner, I had work to do, and besides, I had two dogs that I could kick later in the privacy of my own home if I needed to. There was an hour before dance pick up. Could I get to Coles, shop, unpack and be at dance within an hour? It would be tight, but if I didn’t go now there was a real danger that I was going to run into dinnertime.
Back in the car and off to Coles. Saturday afternoon shopping is very different to the late night or Sunday morning dashes to pick up some milk or bread that I was used to. Normal y it’s easy to park at Coles—but not on a Saturday afternoon. Round and round I went looking for a space. Level 1, then Level 2, then Level 3—still no success. Time was running short. I was incapable of rational thought. Why did all these people have to shop now? Should the Government force people to shop in their own suburb? Why didn’t Coles have executive parking as they do at the airport? Why did people dawdle so much?
My frenzied thinking was interrupted by my sudden emergence from the darkness into the light, not metaphorically but literally, the top floor of the car park was in the open. I had never been this far up in the car park before and I was temporarily in awe of my discovery—wait ‘til I tell my friends about this, I thought.
Unfortunately, my brief moment of wonder was shattered by the realisation that the downside of being on the top of the car park was being further from the actual shop itself. I ran to the lift and pressed the button. A little old lady smiled at me. I pressed the button a few more times on the basis that this would make the lift come more quickly. The little old lady smiled at me again. Still no lift. Bugger it, I thought—time for the stairs. Down I ran. I was quite impressed by my ability to keep up a good pace and dodge all of the dawdlers who were making their way both up and down. Did they think I had lost it? Had I lost it? After all, I only needed to get some weekend groceries; it wasn’t a life-threatening event. I would have to do this on a regular basis so I couldn’t continue with the stress of my own version of extreme shopping forever.
Out of the stairwell. Dodged a few people studying lettuces at the market stall and on to Coles. At that moment I knew that, if I hadn’t lost it before, then I had now—officially—lost it. As I saw the neatly lined up shopping trolleys, I was certain that my chances of having a $1 or $2 coin to secure the release of one of their number were slim. I hate this system. We don’t have it in England and I was often caught out and annoyed by it in Australia, even when I was in a good mood. It doesn’t make any sense to me. Does it really stop drunken students from using a trolley to get one of their fallen comrades home after a hard night of active service? I knew that I didn’t have any change and I also knew that I didn’t really have time to go shopping anyway.
I felt tired and useless. The failure to get any shopping suddenly felt like a symbol for my failed life and took on a significance out of all proportion. Standing outside Coles I felt totally alone, and the despair of my situation washed over me. I felt like giving up. I hung my head, took a deep sigh and turned to go back to my car.
As I looked up, the little old lady from the roof top car park passed me, dragging her personal shopping trolley. She smiled at me. It was a sad smile, not like the look I’d received from the previous little old lady with her corgi outside the fruit shop. I smiled back. She knew that I knew, that she knew, that I was a tosser. I imagined that she was a widow, struggling with the recent loss of her husband, the onset of old age and the deterioration of her body. Life was probably hard for her yet she was still smiling, and it looked as though she was coping better than I was. I had to do better. If she could do it then I could do it—thank you, you inspirational little old lady! I went home for a nice cup of tea. I even managed a smile when I was charged a dollar for my five-minute use of the car park.
By the time I had picked up the girls from dance and got back home I was in no mood for a return trip to Coles. Shopping would have to be added to the Sunday list, along with the lawn mowing, cleaning, ironing and potential dog walk. Wasn’t Sunday supposed to be the day of rest?
The girls were hungry and it was now time for dinner, but because of my shopping failures the menu choices were a little limited. I remembered my wife used to knock up a tuna and pasta combination as a meal of last resort when she was back late from the gym or ‘somewhere’. I didn’t really want to think about the gym or the ‘somewhere’ but at least the memory had given me an idea for dinner. I wasn’t sure of the specifics but I reckoned that if I cooked some pasta, opened a tin of tuna and stuck the contents on top, I would be 80 per cent of the way there. Fifteen minutes later it was done. It didn’t look too flash to be fair but, fortunately, I had a creative MasterChef-style brainwave and added some grated cheese to the mix. Although this didn’t do too much for the presentation, at least it added an additional food group to the concoction.
Dinner was served! On the one hand I felt good that I was providing nourishment for my children, but on the other, I recognised that the combination of warm pasta topped with cold tuna and cheese did not make for a great meal. The girls said how much they enjoyed it—bless them. One even went beyond the call of duty and further demonstrated her enjoyment by having a second helping. But the sad truth was that my wife’s meal of last resort had become my Saturday night signature dish. I added cooking