She was feeling so cranky and weary by the time the train squealed into New Street that she got a taxi rather than wait for a bus and blew sixteen pounds on that.
‘Ey up.’ Her father took one look at her. ‘It’s Rudolph! What a conk; you could light your way home with that.’ The very first thing he said.
‘I’ve got a cold,’ Emma said.
‘Never!’ he said sarcastically. ‘Come on, bring your bags in, don’t stand there like a sack of potatoes.’
Her mother usually tried to smooth things over, to cajole him, but he always had the upper hand. One time he’d derided Emma’s choice of winter coat.
‘Makes you look twice as fat.’
‘It’s padded, that’s the style,’ her mum had said. And she had got black, not the white, which was nicer but less practical. Black was meant to be slimming.
But he wouldn’t stop. ‘Marshmallow Man!’ he crowed. ‘Like in Ghostbusters.’
‘Roger, please!’ her mum scolded. ‘Stop going on at her.’
That made it worse. ‘What? I’m not allowed to comment on what my hard-earned wages are spent on?’
‘If you can’t say anything nice…’ her mother started, but there was a pleading quality in her voice.
‘I’m not going to lie to the girl. I don’t know what you were thinking of. She looks a bloody sight.’
He would often laugh as he said these things. Not the sort of laugh that was infectious. A cold, barking laugh so you’d see his teeth, but his eyes looked furious. One time when he told her she couldn’t learn piano because it was a waste of money and she’d as much musical talent as a tone-deaf ape and they’d no piano to practise on anyway, Emma had gone to her mother. Rounded on her really, the wildness coming out of her and saying awful things about him: I hate him, I wish he was dead.
‘No you don’t, that’s silly talk.’ Her mother had calmed her down and Emma stopped crying.
‘Why don’t you tell him, Mum? Make him stop.’
‘Look. He loves me, and he loves you. He never swears, he’s never violent. He’s never laid a finger on me, never would. He’s a bit sharp-tongued now and again, but that’s just how he is. Que sera sera. There’s a lot worse men, I can tell you. Now, go wash your face and I’ll make us a drink. Can you manage an eclair? There’s still two left.’
On the rare occasion that Emma did look to her mother for a sense of shared grievance, of solidarity, it was always the same: her mother quick to mollify her. ‘It’s just his way; he loves you, he doesn’t mean anything by it.’ Did he love her? Of course he did, she knew he did, and she loved him; she just wished he wasn’t always finding fault.
Other times, he pretended he was only joking. He’d accuse Emma and her mum of having no sense of humour, of not being able to take a joke. Usually it was Emma he picked on, but sometimes it was her mum. Her mum would go very quiet and then just disappear upstairs, if she could, and Emma thought she had a cry, but when she came back you couldn’t tell. She hadn’t got red eyes or a husky voice.
Emma liked it best when he was out and there was just the two of them, like on Sundays when he played cricket and his Tuesday practices, or Wednesdays when he played darts. What was weird was they talked about him even when he wasn’t there, passing on things he’d said, sharing his views on this and that, but it was like talking about some rare species. Observing its mannerisms and habits as though they were fixed and a fact of nature.
He should have been a critic, Emma thought. One of those people who write scathing, bitchy columns in magazines about films or celebrities or restaurants. Hatchet jobs. He’d be good at those. Because his disdain wasn’t confined to immediate family; he’d carp on about neighbours or workmates or politicians with the same acid tongue. The difference was he did it behind their backs, not to their faces. And he’d entertain his friends at the pub with his put-downs and send-ups. Roger was known as ‘a good laugh’. He could have been a stand-up comedian.
* * *
Her mum made a fuss of her and they had her favourite tea: lasagne and apple pie and cream. It would ruin her diet, but there was no point trying to stick to it over Christmas – and not when she was ill as well. She’d start again in the New Year.
