The Good Father Read Online Free PDF Page B

know only as That Bastard. There are no photographs of her that I have ever seen; I’m pretty certain there are none in existence. I imagine that she was a bottle-blonde, that she laughed a lot and wasn’t afraid of my father. So not like me at all, then.
    There was a time in my childhood when I thought about her a lot, even imagined that she would soon come back for me. But even then I knew I was only making up stories for myself, like the story I invented where a wealthy-looking, handsome man helped her into a fast, fancy car. The man was That Bastard, of course, and he was about to whisk her away.
    I wanted my mother to be film-star bright and daring when I was a young child. Later, I didn’t want her to be anything at all. She had left me and wasn’t worth thinking about. I remember feeling sullen when I decided it would be best to forget about her, as though I was stubbornly refusing to apologise for something bad that I’d done, knowing that it would weigh on my conscience. But that feeling didn’t last. I’d started at ThorpGrammar School by then and it took all my concentration, all my energy, just to pretend to be normal enough to fit in.
    This morning, I worked in the garden. After all the quiet respectfulness of the last week, I felt that I needed to do some hard work in the fresh air, work that would make me ache with weariness so that I looked forward to going to bed rather than dreading the sleepless night ahead. I dug out the old roses that had grown so leggy and spotted with mildew; I made a bonfire of last year’s leaves and thought I could toss into the flames some of the rubbish that had accumulated in the house – the old bills and bank statements and such that my father refused to throw away. As I watched the smoke drift into the sky, I heard my name being called, and turned to see Jack, Martin and Stephen. The boys ran to me, almost knocking me off my feet. Jack said, ‘Oh, steady you two,’ as though he was terribly exasperated with them both. I looked past him, wanting to see Hope following him into the garden, but they were alone and I made myself smile through my disappointment.
    Martin said, ‘Can we go and play in the tree-house, Uncle Peter?’
    They didn’t wait for my answer, but ran off towards the oak tree with its trailing rope ladder. Jack gazed after them. After a little while he said, ‘Monkeys. It’s just like living with a pair of tireless monkeys.’ He turned to me. ‘Listen – I’m so sorry about yesterday, terribly sorry –’
    â€˜It’s all right. You explained on the phone, there’s no need to apologise.’
    He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, hunching his shoulders a little as he does when he feels awkward. Watching the bonfire spark and smoke, he said, ‘I suppose letting one’s friends down is just another consequence of being a damn wage-slave.’
    The boys came down from the tree-house having found the pop guns, holsters and cowboy hats I’d left there for them, and began to chase each other around the lawn making shooting noises. Jack turned his attention on them, frowning. ‘I don’t remember being so noisy when I was their age. But then I suppose there was only one of me.’
    I laughed, patting his shoulder because he looked so weary. ‘Come on in. I’ll make you a cup of tea.’
    *          *          *
    In the kitchen, as I busied myself making tea, Jack stood at the window and watched the boys run around the bonfire. I have known Jack Jackson since we sat next to each other on our first day at Thorp Grammar, listening to our new form master telling us how we were to behave. The form master – Mr Jeavons – had a wooden leg with which he would threaten to bash our stupid heads in; he was a veteran of the First War and scary as a devil. He knew my father – they had