Dancing Over the Hill: The new feel good comedy from the author of The Kicking the Bucket List. Cathy Hopkins
Чтение книги онлайн.
Читать онлайн книгу Dancing Over the Hill: The new feel good comedy from the author of The Kicking the Bucket List - Cathy Hopkins страница 22
Название: Dancing Over the Hill: The new feel good comedy from the author of The Kicking the Bucket List
Автор: Cathy Hopkins
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
isbn: 9780008202088
isbn:
*
Dad was sitting on a bench at the front of his bungalow when I arrived and didn’t see me at first. He was wearing his battered panama hat and a light summer jacket and was eating an ice cream with a spoon from a tub. He liked ice cream, and I had a flashback to days out at the seaside when my brother Mike and I were little, and he’d buy 99s for us, those cones with ice cream and a chocolate flake. Blackpool was his favourite place for a trip. He used to go there as a lad with his parents, then later as a young man when he was a ballroom dancer. He’d won prizes in competitions there back in the day, long before Strictly. Whatever the weather, beaches with him were always full of fun: donkey rides, ball games, squealing at the cold waves in the sea. There were always people around on those seaside trips, car-loads full of aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, all laden with sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper, bottles of Vimto or dandelion and burdock to drink. The journeys were noisy affairs with lots of banter and singing. The garden at home in summer was the same, with the paddling pool, tennis racquets, cricket bats all deployed. Dad was always first up to play, whatever the game – whether it was croquet, rounders, or running around with the hosepipe soaking us all. And now there he was, a frail old man with white hair, sitting on a bench, shrouded in loneliness. It was evident in the hunch of his shoulders and the slowness of his movements, and it broke my heart to see him like that.
I’d told him time and again that he could come and live with us, but he wouldn’t hear of it. ‘Last thing I want is to be a burden to anyone,’ was his constant reply. After Mum died, he visibly shrank, incomplete without her. He’d always had double energy, a full-time job lecturing at the university, as well as the hobbies, like making wine (my brother Mike and I called it Krudo and would pour it away discreetly as soon as we could when offered a glass). Then came the making of dolls’ houses, and after that barometers and coffee tables. I still had a table he’d made with a wonky leg, and wouldn’t hear of having it replaced with a new one. He was never happier than when out in his shed at the old family house with a hammer and nails bashing away at something. I used to love going in there, the smell of woodchip and petrol, looking at the rows and rows of tools and screws, each neatly labelled and in its place.
When we were little, he’d read bedtime stories to Mike and me and did all the voices of the different characters. He was always a great entertainer and could sing too. Bath times were occasions to look forward to when we had to pretend we were in a soap commercial and be on our very best behaviour. He did magic tricks, pretended to swallow toothbrushes, made dolly mixtures appear from the light fittings, traditions he continued with my two boys when they were young. He made life fun, with Friday night declared fizz and crisp night, something Matt and I carried on for many years, when one of us would arrive home with a bottle of bubbly and nibbles for us and lemonade and crisps for the boys. Dad was always in charge of the drinks. On the 24th of December, he’d set off on his bike to buy crème de menthe, Advocaat or Babycham for visitors, most of which stood untouched throughout the season, but seeing those bottles in the back room was part of our Christmas. Dad played piano, sang in the choir, was part of the local tennis club, until his knees let him down and partners aged alongside him or died off and suddenly he didn’t feel it was his place.
He’d kept up exercises, though, going through an army routine every morning, with his constant companion Brandy the Labrador sitting at the door watching with interest. And now Mum had gone, Brandy too, and the bungalow they retired to has grown quiet. He told me that the days there were long. Like so many of his generation, he didn’t watch TV during the day. Radio Four was permissible but not TV, despite the many box sets I’d bought him, it was only allowed after six, starting with the news. He and Mum had had their rituals: breakfast – always the same, porridge and fruit, then at eleven coffee and a biscuit, a cup of soup and crackers at twelve thirty, tea and a cake at four, supper at six. When they were younger, they’d always had a sundowner in the evening, taken with great relish, but Dad rarely drinks any more. It upsets his stomach. He could cook for himself, though it tended to be frozen meals from M & S, his once large appetite reduced to that of a bird. Despite various suggestions about sheltered accommodation, he won’t move house. ‘I’ve got my independence and I know my way round here,’ he insisted. But, to me, it didn’t seem right that such a happy and full life had shrunk to one where it felt like he was waiting around for his turn to die.
He was always the protector, the one we all went to in order to talk over options, always a good listening ear with sound advice to pass on. I adored him when I was a child, feared him as a teen when he became critical of skirts too short, telephone calls too long, but then came a softening as he grew older and I grew up. And now I knew he was lonely and a bit depressed, which was so unlike him. I knew he missed my mother, as did I. She had been the practical one who had run the house, he was the one who made the magic. On the rare occasions that she’d send him off to get groceries, he’d return with a puppy or a bike or a new gadget to try out. We’d always had dogs, but when Brandy died a year before Mum, Dad didn’t replace him, saying it would be unfair because he wouldn’t want a pup to be left behind when he died.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.