set eyes on his bicycle again. But during one of those endless hours at the hospital, my dad drove to the park and recovered Bluebell.
The bike was exactly where we had left it, on its side at the empty deep end, undamaged apart from a bent handlebar. I would have cheerfully stuck it on the nearest skip. My dad wanted Pat to ride it again. I didn’t argue with him. I thought I would leave Pat to do that.
Yet when my father took Bluebell from the boot of his car, my son seemed happy to see it.
‘I’ve straightened the handlebar,’ my dad told us. ‘It needs a lick of paint, that’s all. Shouldn’t take a minute. I can do it for you, if you like.’
My dad knew that I hadn’t held a paintbrush since I had dropped out of O level art.
‘I can do it,’ I said sullenly. ‘Put your coat on, Pat.’
It was September and the first cold snap of autumn was in the air. I helped Pat into his anorak, pulling up the hood, watching the smile spread across his face at the sight of his bike.
‘One more thing,’ my father said, producing a small silver spanner from his car coat. ‘I think it’s time that a big boy like Pat took the stabilisers off his bike.’
This was my old man at seventy – tough, kind, confident, grinning at his grandson with boundless tenderness. And yet I found myself railing against his DIY competence, his manly efficiency, his absolute certainty that he could bend the world to his will. And I was sick of the sight of that bike.
‘Jesus, Dad,’ I said. ‘He just fell off the bloody thing five minutes ago. Now you want him to start doing wheelies.’
‘You always exaggerate,’ my father said. ‘Just like your mother. I don’t want the lad to do wheelies – whatever wheelies might be. I just want him to have a crack at riding without his stabilisers. It will do him good.’
My father got down on his haunches and began to remove the little stabilising wheels from Bluebell. Seeing him at work with a spanner made me feel that I had spent my life watching him do odd jobs, first in his home and later at mine. When the lights went on the blink or the rain started coming through the ceiling, Gina and I didn’t reach for the Yellow Pages. We called my dad.
The burst boiler, the knackered guttering, the hole in the roof – no task was too big or too difficult for his immaculately kept tool box. He loved Gina’s praise when the job was completed – she always laid it on a bit thick – but he would have done it anyway. My father was what my mother would call ‘good around the house’. I was exactly the opposite. I was what I would call ‘fucking useless around the house’.
Now I watched Pat’s face bleaching with fear as my dad finished removing the little stabilising wheels from his bike. For a moment I was about to erupt, but then I kept it in. Because if I started, then I knew all the rows of thirty years would come pouring out – my laziness against my father’s can-do capability, my timidity against my old man’s machismo, my desire for a quiet life against my dad’s determination to get his own way.
I didn’t want all that to come out in front of Pat. Not today. Not any day. So I looked on in silence as my dad helped my son on to his bike.
‘Just a little try,’ my dad said soothingly. ‘If you don’t like it, we can stop. We can stop straightaway. Okay, baby?’
‘Okay, Granddad.’
My father seized hold of the bike’s handlebars with one hand and its seat with the other. Pat clung on to both handlebars for dear life, his already scuffed school shoes trailing reluctantly on the pedals as Bluebell’s wheels rolled round and round. With me bringing up the sulky rear, we wobbled past the swings and slides and across an empty patch of grass.
‘Are you holding on?’ Pat asked.
‘I’m holding on,’ my dad reassured him.
‘Could you look after Pat on Saturday night for me?’ I said.
‘Saturday night?’ he repeated, as if it were a strange request, as though I knew very well that was the night he and my mum liked to go out and drop a few Es.
‘Yes, I’m going out.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘We’ll always look after him for you. Something to do with work, is it?’
‘Nothing to do with work, Dad. I don’t have any work right now, remember? I’m going out with a girl.’ That didn’t sound quite right. ‘With a woman.’ That didn’t sound quite right either.
I thought that it might have stopped him. But he carried on in his half-crouch, supporting Pat’s bike as we made our way through the daisies and the dog crap.
‘Who is she?’ he asked.
‘Just a friend. We might go to the pictures.’
He finally stopped, rubbing his back as he straightened up to look at me.
‘You think that’s appropriate behaviour for someone in your position, do you?’
‘Going to the pictures? I don’t see why not.’
‘I’m not talking about going to the pictures. I’m talking about going out with a strange woman just after –’ He nodded at the hood of Pat’s anorak. ‘You know.’
‘There’s nothing strange about her,’ I said. ‘And we’re only going to the pictures. We’re not eloping.’
He shook his head, dumbfounded at what the world was coming to.
‘I don’t care what you get up to,’ he said. Then he indicated Pat again. ‘What I care about is him. This girl – is it serious?’
‘I don’t know, Dad. Can we get our first date out of the way before we start picking out curtains?’
I was playing the injured innocent. But I knew that if I went out with a woman it would confuse and frighten him. It wasn’t my intention to hurt him. I just wanted to show him that I was thirty years old and that he couldn’t decide when I took my stabilisers off.
We had come to a ragged scrap of tarmac in front of a tatty stage.
‘Are you ready?’ my father asked Pat.
‘Ready,’ Pat said, sounding not very ready at all.
‘I’m holding you, okay?’ my dad said, increasing his pace. ‘I’m going to keep holding you. Just keep your back straight. And pedal.’
‘Okay.’
‘Are you holding on?’
‘I’m holding on!’
They took off across the tarmac, Pat’s face hidden by the hood of his anorak and my father bent double by his side, like a little elf being chased by a hunchback. Then my dad let go of the bike.
‘You holding on, Granddad?’
‘I’m holding on!’ he cried as Pat left him behind. ‘Pedal! I’ve got you!’
His little legs pedalled. Bluebell gave a dangerous wobble as Pat splashed through a puddle, but the bike seemed to right itself and gather speed.
‘You’re doing it!’ my dad shouted. ‘You’re doing it, Pat!’
He turned to look at me and we both laughed out loud. I ran to my father’s side and he put his arm around my shoulders. He smelled of Old Spice and Old Holborn.
‘Look at him go,’ my dad said proudly.
The bike reached the edge of the tarmac, bounced once and skidded on to the grass. Pat was moving more slowly now, but still pedalling furiously as he made a beeline for the trees.
‘Don’t go too far!’ I shouted. But he couldn’t hear me. He disappeared into the shadows of some old oak trees, like some hooded creature of the forest returning to his lair.
My father