By the Time You Read This. Lola Jaye

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       Hello Lowey,

       Hope you’re sitting comfortably.

      I sat back against the headboard and shoved the one-eyed teddy onto the floor.

       First off I have one thing to say.

       I’m sorry.

      I am so very sorry for leaving you. It was never my intention. You were only five years old at the time, remember? You probably don’t, unless you’re one of those rare and ultra genius kids, which I very much doubt considering the collaboration of the Bates/Morris genes (only kidding). One thing I totally saw, every time I looked at you, was this beeeeeautiful, vivacious, chatty, smiley little girl, who liked Cheesy Wotsits and running around the living room like a short-legged Olympic runner. This massive sports bag full of potential; a Motown lyric just about to be sung at an open-air concert to thousands; an unfinished portrait, waiting for that last flick of a brush to complete the artist’s beautiful vision.

      I wasn’t ready to go, but I had to. And I’m sorry that by the time you read this… I won’t be around anymore.

      But this is your time, your beginning. And I want to guide you as best as I can on your journey. Be a father, a dad, a pops to you even though I’m not around any more.

       Question: will you let me?

      My sobs returned. This time, a little deeper.

       Now, let’s go back a bit.

      I always thought I wanted a son first. To play footie with, argue the mechanics of a car, play-fight and share my old Scalextric. But all that floated through the hospital window the very first time I held you as you tried to open your eyes, an hour after your beautiful mother pushed you into the world. You were so soft and you smelt so… oh, I can’t explain it… you smelt all fresh, like the bubble bath section of the supermarket… like only a baby can. Blimey, I was hooked and I knew as I looked into your eyes, I was finished. No longer Kevin Bates, sometime Jack the Lad, joker of the pack. But Kevin Bates, Daddy to Lois – and nothing would ever be the same again. I was in your power for ever and ever. My little girl.

      I turned the page, feeling sad. Then happy. Scared. Excited. This yo-yoing of emotion felt so strange to me.

       I knew we were going to call you Lois.

      Because a few weeks before your birth, I’d persuaded your mum to go and see Superman, where I had to summon superhuman strength to lift her out of that cinema seat! Huge! And that night on the way home from the Coronet, you kicked so much I thought I’d have to pull over and deliver you myself!

      And even then, I knew. Had never seen your face, never heard your voice, but even then, I knew what you, Lois, would mean to me.

      I stifled a smile. At last, explanation for my horrible and weird name.

      While Philomena’s kids were noisy, you were a quiet baby. Only really grizzling when you were hungry or needed a nappy change (two good reasons in my book!).

      I loved looking at you. How your forehead would crinkle anytime you didn’t get your own way or as you perched on your knees in front of the television deep in thought (something you certainly never got from me). How your eyebrows arched at the thought of something really important, like ‘Why does Big Bird have a funny voice?’

      You, my baby, were a shy little thing. But on odd occasions you’d allow your mum and me the privilege of being a part of your world – especially if you needed our help for something really important, like whether or not you could watch Button Moon – or you’d ask for my opinion on one of your many artistic creations (like that drawing you did of the three of us, with rainbow Mohican haircuts).

      Our times together were great, Lowey. Kissing you on the forehead as we slouched on the settee, watching The A-Team (which, by the way, is the best show on earth). You’d giggle up at me and I’d feel this little lump in my throat as well as this surge of strength and then weakness for the cutest little girl I had ever seen. The way your eyes were so trusting as they looked to me – plain old Kevin Bates – for some type of reassurance that I’d always pro¬ tect you. Be there for you. Comfort you.

       Wow.

      And then I’d kiss you on the forehead again, Lois, just because… just because I could never resist that smile of yours. I’d like to think you’d still let me do that if I were there – you know, kiss you on the forehead as you snuggle up to watch TV. Or would you squirm away and tell me ‘I’m a bit old for that, Dad’? Well, you don’t have a choice because I will be kissing your forehead every night before you go to sleep. For the rest of your life – whether you like it or not.

      In a nutshell, I need you to know that your daddy loves you soooooo much. With stars on! And although I’m kind of gone, I will NEVER, EVER leave you. I’ll be there with you, for you and around you. Don’t ask me how, just know I will be and especially through this manual, which I hope you will keep for ever and ever. And as well as your birthdays, I want you to open it up whenever you feel con fused, lost, lonely or even happy! Yes, Lowey, when you are happy too.

      I wiped the fresh layer of snot from my nose with the back of a trembling hand, and for a good ten minutes I didn’t move or think of anything. This was all too much to take in. So unexpected. I suddenly felt ancient – at least eighteen. And while I ached to turn the pages, devour everything my dad had ever written to me, I knew doing so would mean nothing left for later. Next week. Next month. Next year. I needed this manual. I needed my dad and nothing would tempt me into jeopardising any of that – even if it meant reading a sentence a day for the rest of my life.

      I re-read that first page around a hundred times, ignoring Mum shouting up from the kitchen, ‘What are you doing in there, Lois?’ and ‘Dinner’s ready! Wash your hands first!’

      I wasn’t hungry for mere food, but sat down to the meal with the same old plates, same old knives and forks, same everything. Only I had changed. Something inside wasn’t ticking the same any more. I’m not saying I was suddenly a grown-up. I just didn’t feel like a little kid any more. And I certainly didn’t feel like sitting at the table listening to the Bingo Caller and Mum talk about a load of rubbish, while upstairs in a Tesco bag was the bestest, most important thing I had ever read.

      ‘The fish is lovely,’ enthused the Bingo Caller, carefully tucking into Mum’s trademark snapper and rice.

      ‘Our first meal as a family! Well, you know…since we got married,’ giggled Mum, sounding like a little girl. Equally, the Bingo Caller gazed at her the way a toddler does at a lollipop.

      ‘This is a lovely СКАЧАТЬ