Man and Boy. Tony Parsons

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       nine

      Things hadn’t quite worked out how my dad had planned. Not with his home. And not with me.

      When my parents had bought the place where I grew up, the area had been countryside. But the city had been creeping closer for thirty years. Fields where I had roamed with an air rifle were now covered with ugly new houses. The old High Street was full of estate agents and solicitors. What my parents had thought would always be a living, breathing episode of The Archers started being swallowed by the suburbs from the moment we moved in.

      My mum didn’t much mind the changes – she was a city girl, and I can remember her complaining about our little town’s lack of shops and a cinema when I was a kid – but I felt for my dad.

      He didn’t like the army of commuters who clogged the railway station on weekdays and the golf courses at the weekend. He didn’t like the gangs of would-be yobs who drifted around the estates pretending they were getting down in South Central LA. He hadn’t expected to be so close to crowds and crime this late in life.

      And then there was me.

      My parents came to the door expecting to see the three of us arriving for dinner. But there was only their son. Bewildered, they watched me drive past their gate, looking for somewhere to park. They didn’t get it.

      When I was a kid, there were no cars parked on this street – one garage for every family had been more than enough. Now you practically had to give yourself a double hernia looking for a parking place. Everything had changed.

      I kissed my mum and shook my dad’s hand. They didn’t know what was happening. There was going to be too much food. They were expecting Gina and Pat. They were expecting happy families. And what they got was me.

      ‘Mum. Dad. There’s something I have to tell you.’

      The old songs were playing. Tony Bennett live at Carnegie Hall was on the stereo, although it could just have easily been Sinatra or Dean Martin or Sammy Davis Junior. In my parents’ home the old songs had never stopped playing.

      They sat in their favourite chairs staring up at me expectantly. Like a couple of kids. I swear to God they thought I was going to announce the imminent arrival of another grandchild. And I stood there feeling the way I so often felt in front of my parents – more like a soap opera than a son.

      ‘Well, it looks like Gina’s left me,’ I said.

      The tone was all wrong – too casual, too glib, too uncaring. But the alternative was getting down on all fours and weeping all over their shag carpet. Because after yesterday’s trip to the park and a second sleepless night in a bed that was far too big for just me, I was finally starting to believe that she might not be coming back. Yet I felt I was too old to be bringing my parents bad news. And they were too old to have to hear it.

      For a few moments they didn’t say a word.

      ‘What?’ said my father. ‘Left you where?’

      ‘Where’s the baby?’ my mother said. She got it immediately.

      ‘Pat’s with Gina. At her dad’s place.’

      ‘That punk rocker? Poor little thing.’

      ‘What do you mean she’s left you?’ the old man demanded.

      ‘She’s walked out, Dad.’

      ‘I don’t understand.’

      He really didn’t get it. He loved her and he loved us and now all of that was finished.

      ‘She’s buggered off,’ I said. ‘Done a runner. Gone. Scarpered.’

      ‘Language,’ my mother said. She had her fingers to her mouth, as if she were praying. ‘Oh, Harry. I’m so sorry.’

      She came across the room towards me and I sort of flinched. It would be okay if they weren’t kind to me. I could get through it if they didn’t put their arms around me and tell me that they understood. But if they were going to be kind, I didn’t think I could take it. I knew it would all get clogged up inside me. Luckily, the old man came to the rescue. Good old Dad.

      ‘Walked out?’ my dad said angrily. ‘What – you’re getting a divorce? Is that what you mean?’

      I hadn’t really thought about that. Getting a divorce? Where do you start?

      ‘I guess so. Yes. That’s what people do, isn’t it? When they split up.’

      He stood up, the colour draining from his face. His eyes were wet. He took off his glasses to wipe them. I couldn’t stand to look at him.

      ‘You’ve ruined my life,’ he said.

      ‘What?’

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