Plots, Fatherhood, Stories and a Date to Remember

He opened his eyes and saw the day stretching out before him like a runway. He’d write a piece this morning on, say, writing, being a dad – that sort of stuff.

A glance at his watch. Quarter past five. There’d be at least thirty minutes’ grace before the girls woke up. Maybe longer. A cup of tea, perhaps? To his right the duvet rose and fell, rose and fell, like an animation of the sea. Too risky - must do something about those floorboards.

He’d need a structure, he mused. First though, where to write it? What time were the builders due in? Not that there was anywhere to sit - would he ever get his ‘office’ back? When he did, was it really essential for the reclaimed piano to go in there with him? And the sofa-bed? It would need tuning again – not the sofa-bed, obviously. He began to imagine a sofa with a fold-out piano and stopped himself. So many thoughts. Yesterday’s invention was a sink tap that produced frothy milk. Ridiculous idea, he saw now. Unless the tap linked up directly to the fridge, perhaps…

Tick tock. Five thirty. Back to the story. He would write it in that elegant, high-ceilinged café in Admiral Park, once the girls were safely in school. A knock on the door. He shut his eyes and braced himself. Which would it be: older or younger? Slow, stealthy approach? Or clunking ‘I’m hungry, can we go downstairs?’

A sharp pain in the ribs as the older clambered over him and molded herself into the gap between him and his stirring wife. He meant this in the sense that she was moving, but let there be no doubt, all senses of the word applied. He was bloody lucky to have found her, in fact. God only knows where he’d be now if he hadn’t - probably still pulling all-nighters at the Bar, or installed in some mediterranean village, trying to eke out a living while privately training himself to hit a top C, or to play flamenco guitar, or… A voice at the door:

‘I’m hungry, can we…’

‘Coming.’ He leapt out of bed, grateful for the relief from his meandering mind, and made his wife a cup of tea.

It wasn’t perfect, he knew. But could she tell he’d accidentally put the milk in before taking the teabag out? She could. It was fine. She’d make herself another. He rolled his eyes to the heavens. One of the downlights had come loose. He’d address that later. He’d put it in a notebook. He made a mental note to buy a notebook.

‘Daddy, I’m…’

He swept the little one into his arms. They locked eyes, she giggled, and just like that, nothing else mattered.

‘That’s not fair, carry me too!’ Her sister was now standing on the bed, arms outstretched. Very carefully, then, he began ferrying them down to the kitchen. The floorboards could protest all they liked now, he mused, and twatted his head on the soffit overhanging the stairs.

‘Ffffkkkkkk’

‘Daddy, did you just say the “F”…’

‘No, no, I…’ He put the girls down and reached out a hand to the older. Her brow felt unusually warm. She’d be fine, in all likelihood; she’d be able to go to school, surely… He traipsed back up the stairs with her and presented her to his wife afresh – she was, after all, a paediatrician (and a bloody fine one at that). And there, sitting on the bedside table, was the metaphor he feared: a half-empty cup of tea.

‘Erm…’

‘No…’

‘I know…’

‘Come here, darling, let’s have a look at you.’

He stepped forward.

‘Not you.’

Could any of this work for a story, he wondered, then scolded himself. Poor little person: docile, confused, in need of comfort. Perhaps she’d sleep a bit too. And assuming she wasn’t sick or anything, they might get her back in tomorrow. More likely the day after. Long sigh. Bah - she wouldn’t need his full attention all day; one way or other, he’d get the piece written, even if it amounted to little more than an anecdote. ‘Write something every day,’ his dear mum would tell him growing up. Did he ever grow up?

‘You OK?’ she asked.

‘Course, course. Oh, you know, it’s just…’

‘I know.’ She moved towards him, her eyes tender and honeyed in the morning light from the slatted blinds.

‘I. Want. My. Breakfaaaast!’ came a boundary-pushing yell from downstairs. Divine as they are, how do little people produce so much noise?

It’ll make for a bloody boring story, his inner critic told him on the way back down. Or was he missing the point. He stopped a moment. The story wasn’t the events of the morning; it was their effect on his outlook. One thought led to another. He was destined to live in two worlds at once – little he could do about that - but must they remain at war with each other? He felt his shoulders drop and his lungs expand. He would broker peace. For what was one world without the other?

Downstairs, the little one had been sick on the floor. His wife kissed him goodbye (it increases life-expectancy, apparently) and – slam – she bounded off to clinic. Damn, she scrubbed up well, but was there something a little off about her this morning? He remembered the tea incident – she was usually more gracious about such things. Ay, grace was the word for her. He felt a rush of warmth as he remembered the first time they met, in The Island Queen - well over a decade ago now, he reflected. He had known there and then she was for him (poor lamb). Nine years since they tied the knot - almost to the…

Pulse racing, stomach convulsing, he reached for his phone. Oh crap…

When the shock of forgetting their anniversary had passed and he had finished berating himself, he measured out the Calpol, rehearsed his ‘What do you mean? It’s delicious!’ speech, and consoled himself with a thought. When time permitted, he’d write a story for her.