The Other House

Dad came to collect me on Saturday without asking whether I wanted to bring any repairs.

I noticed. He noticed me noticing and said, “Tess has confiscated the blanket until we learn to use an order book.”

I smiled a little.

Ollie had gone to a friend's house, so it was just me. The car felt different without his commentary. Dad turned the radio down and left it down, which meant we could hear every small silence we put into the space.

“I heard about Thursday,” he said.

“Everyone has.”

“Only the people who were going to ask how it went.”

I looked out at the passing shops.

“I didn't miss it by accident.”

He waited.

“I had ways to get there. I didn't use them.”

“That must be difficult to say.”

“It would be more helpful if it hadn't been necessary.”

He nodded. We stopped at a light. A man on a bicycle beside us balanced a bag of bread on one handlebar and seemed much calmer about it than I felt about anything.

“Do you remember the evening course I started when you were about ten?” Dad asked.

“The one with the spreadsheets?”

“Yes. I stopped going after two months. I said work was too busy. It was busy, but I also hated being the last person in the room to work out what to ask.”

“Did you go back?”

“No.”

I turned towards him.

“I wish this story had a better ending for your convenience,” he said. “It doesn't. I wish I'd gone back.”

At the house, Tess was taking Pip out for a walk. She asked whether I wanted to come. I said maybe later. She accepted the answer without turning it into a test of whether I liked my sister.

Dad made tea. He remembered where the mugs were. I still didn't.

The smaller bedroom had a bed I sometimes used, a desk with his old printer on it and a cupboard partly occupied by baby supplies. I stood in the doorway while he fetched the tin of Grandad's notebooks I had forgotten on my earlier visit.

“What?” he asked, seeing my face.

“Nothing.”

He put the tin down.

“I'm trying not to accept that one too quickly anymore.”

I sat on the bed. The cover was clean and unfamiliar, chosen to be neutral enough that it didn't look like anybody's room in particular.

“I don't want you to keep everything exactly how it was,” I said. “I know you live here now. I know Pip needs space. I just don't like feeling as if I should leave everything tidy enough that nobody can tell I came.”

He looked at the cupboard.

“I called it your room.”

“Yes.”

“But I filled half of it with things you have to move.”

I nodded.

He sat beside me, leaving enough space that I didn't feel required to lean on him.

“I'm sorry.”

“I don't want a huge room makeover. That would be weird.”

“What would help?”

The question was so simple I nearly answered with something that would be easy for him.

Instead I looked at the desk.

“A drawer that's mine. And you coming to see me sometimes without it being about delivering something or collecting us. You did come on Wednesday. I liked that.”

“I liked it too.”

“Then do it again.”

“I will.”

I wanted a promise large enough to cover every time he might forget. What he had offered was smaller and more useful, provided he kept doing it.

We moved the printer. Not dramatically. It went into his actual office corner, where he said it should have been months earlier. I chose a drawer and put the spare notebook from my bag inside. It looked insignificant on its own. I left it there anyway.

When Tess returned, Pip had fallen asleep with one sock missing. Dad carried her upstairs. Tess stayed with me in the kitchen and ate a biscuit standing over the sink.

“He's learning,” she said.

“Is that your official assessment?”

“It's my assessment of most people, including me.”

I looked at the hallway where the pushchair stood.

“I don't hate being here.”

“You don't have to prove that by loving every minute.”

“I know.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Sorry,” I said. “I've been told I use that as punctuation.”

We laughed. It was an ordinary laugh, not the beginning of a magically perfect new family. I liked Tess more when I didn't feel I had to decide what liking her said about Mum.

After lunch, Dad drove me to Gran's rather than home. We had arranged to collect the remaining papers on Sunday, but she was there and said she would put the kettle on. He asked whether I wanted him to stay.

“Just help with the tin,” I said. “Then I've got things to ask her.”

He carried it to the door, kissed my cheek and left without making me responsible for whether he felt included.

Gran watched his car pull away.

“Your father looks tired.”

“He's got a baby.”

“So did I once. It explains things. Doesn't solve them.”

She took the tin from me and led the way inside.