The Lost Bookshop(59)

‘It might do you good, you know?’ she said, her index finger gripped tightly by Felicity while she rocked her gently in her arms.

‘You look like you’ve been doing this your whole life.’

‘I think I’m on some kind of hormonal high. At one with Mother Earth and all that. Don’t worry, I’ll be back to my bossy self soon enough.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’

We were sitting on my mother’s couch, trying to get our heads around the fact that one minute we were kids building forts out of blankets and now here we were, grown-ups. The only thing was, I still felt like a kid. I hadn’t a clue what I was doing with my life.

‘I just don’t think I can forgive him,’ I said, taking advantage of this rare moment of openness between us.

‘You don’t have to forgive him, Henry. It’s not even about him. This is for you, to help you move on.’

‘What, are you saying I’m stuck in the past? Because I’m not. I hardly ever think about him.’

‘Look. It’s your choice, but I’m just saying that it’s helped me to see him as he is now. It’s the start of a process, or something. Acceptance, that’s what my therapist calls it.’

‘You’re seeing a therapist?’ I hadn’t meant my voice to sound so shocked.

‘So is Mum.’

‘Oh.’

‘I suppose we don’t have that macho idea that we can handle everything ourselves.’

‘Noted. Although I think that’s the first time I’ve ever been referred to as macho.’

She rolled her eyes. She was a convincing little bugger. I had to give her that.

‘What happened with Isabelle?’

‘Oh, that.’

‘I never thought you were right for each other.’

‘Easy to say that now, isn’t it?’

‘Look,’ she continued, switching the baby to her other arm, ‘the woman you’ve met in Ireland, if you want it to work out, you’ve got to lose some of this baggage.’

‘God, you make me sound like a real catch! I think this caring and sharing session has come to its natural conclusion.’





So I went to visit him and found myself in the middle of the Welsh countryside. My mother had given me the address of an old dilapidated manor, converted by some charitable organisation as a centre for recovering addicts. It was idyllic, vegetables growing in an allotment, a notice board with activities ranging from meditation to ceramics. It was not the kind of place I expected to find my father and perhaps that was why, when he trotted down the old stone stairs and into the front lawn to meet me, he looked so well. The bloated features and ruddy skin had mellowed into a healthier man, with a tan and the beginnings of a goatee.

‘Henry, son,’ he said, opening his arms to hug me, then thinking better of it. I offered my hand to shake. ‘It’s good to see you.’

I found, after a long train journey, years of resentment and a night of little or no sleep thanks to Felicity, I had nothing to say. Well, nothing amicable at any rate.

‘This isn’t a social call,’ I said, following the pathway marked River Contemplation.

There were two simultaneous emotions battling underneath my cool countenance: relief that he was doing well and bitterness that he had not sorted his life out sooner. He seemed happy, which made me want to smash his face in and also buy him a cup of tea, find out how he had turned everything around.

‘I’m going back to Ireland soon,’ I said, as if he even knew I’d been out of the country. ‘I’m chasing up a lead on a manuscript.’

‘I remember you used to love collecting books when you were younger,’ he said, as if this was some casual stroll down memory lane. As though, now that he had the time to reminisce, we could talk in a way we never had.

‘I used to collect memorabilia too. Remember when I found that letter from Tolkien?’ I couldn’t help it. How dare he suddenly claim a role in my life that he had never played.

I looked across at him to find his head hung in shame. Well, he could play the victim all he liked, I wasn’t going to get sucked in.

We had stopped walking and stood on the riverbank, both staring at the tranquil water moving slowly by. I could see the shadow of some fish treading water in the shallows. I sneaked a look at my father’s profile and saw an expression, or rather an openness that allowed me to see the man and not the caricature he had become to me. Perhaps even to himself. He looked hurt. I knew that feeling well.

‘There’s nothing I can say that will change what I’ve done.’

This was unexpected and different. Normally he was trying to manipulate my feelings, pleading and making excuses. This sounded like someone who understood the impact of his actions.

‘I am truly sorry that I wasn’t the father you both needed. I’m ashamed of how I treated you all and that’s what always drove me to drink again.’

‘So what’s different this time?’ I kept looking at my shoes, as though willing them to carry me away. For some reason I seemed to be rooted to the spot.

‘Honestly, Henry, I can’t promise that this time is different. But I’m getting good help here. For the first time I can see that addiction is an illness. Just knowing that has helped, somehow.’