my bed.
‘What??!!’ I replied, totally exasperated.
‘Carla wants to know if you want to go to the sweetshop.’
I clocked the piece of plastic poking out from under the bed. ‘Erm…yes, tell her I’ll be right down…’
‘What is she doing up there?’ said Carla.
‘Nothing! I’ll be right down!’ The Manual could wait another half-hour, right?
*
I waited impatiently as Mr Tally, the bald man behind the counter, looked on as Carla picked out her ten penny sweets. Mr Tally had this annoying habit of watching us and ignoring the grown-ups who were probably busy out back, nicking a pint of milk (I’d never even stolen before, although Corey swiped a sherbet dip once).
‘I think you’ve gone over,’ said Mr Tally, and I wasn’t sure why, considering he’d always tip the tiny paper bag out onto the counter and recount the contents anyway.
‘How have I?’ challenged Carla, today dressed in a pair of very ripped jeans. The door pinged as another young customer ignored the ‘only two schoolchildren at a time’ notice slapped onto the glass door. ‘I’ve got a Flying Saucer, a Mojo, Refresher, whistle, pink shrimp and a Fruit Salad. How’s that up to ten pence?’
I sighed and glanced at my watch. We’d been at this for ten whole minutes and I was bored. I had to get back to my bedroom and that plastic bag.
‘The Jamie whistle counts for two pence,’ he said.
‘So I’ve still got three pence then! Div!’
To save on time and aggravation, I picked out a ready-made bag, hoping it contained my favourites, and we headed towards home.
‘Why don’t we go down the rec?’ asked Carla.
I opened my bag, relieved to find a white chocolate mouse. ‘I don’t feel like it today. Let’s just go home.’
‘You got stuff to do?’ she asked with a look of utter disbelief. As if Lois Bates would ever have anything exciting to do. She had a point.
‘So what’s it like with the new pops?’ she asked, her mouth stuffed with at least three items.
The white mouse and Black Jack currently being demolished in my own mouth nearly flew out as I shrieked, ‘He’s not my dad, Carla!’
‘Sooooreeee!’ she shrugged, curling her lip like they did on telly. Actually, Carla could very well be mistaken for one of those actresses or models, anything she wanted to be. She was easily the prettiest girl in Charlton – no, make that south London – and even with short hair. Tall, slim, always wore the latest fashion, fun, but an absolute whinger if she didn’t get her own way. I was relieved when she sucked on a gob-stopper, leaving me to gossip about Sharlene Rockingham and whether Mrs Codrington – our science teacher – used to be a man or not.
The hot sun shone above us, warming my insides like an electric blanket, and I could swear I felt Dad’s presence. Like he was willing me to do it; just go home and open up that Tesco bag, start acting my age and not my shoe size. I was a big girl now, after all – and, I repeat, almost a teenager.
I finally left Carla in front of her telly and came face-to-face with the plastic bag in my bedroom. I discarded the plastic and the relief was instant – followed by a stab of fear. Puke tents were suddenly pitching themselves in my tummy as the plastic fell to the ground, mercifully covering the pink dolly shoe I now used as a pencil holder.
And there it was again.
The ‘something’ my dad had left me.
The ugly green book, staring back at me.
The Manual
I opened the hard cover and immediately smiled at the first caption.
This is my (Kevin Bates’s) manual to my daughter Lois. The love of my life.
I sighed heavily, dropping the book straight onto my toes, wincing as the pain shot upwards. My body flopped backwards onto my untidy bed, shoulders colliding with the one-eyed teddy, and a single tear poured from my eye like a waning waterfall. My chest heaved up and down with the force of a silent sob, not because it hurt (and it did) but because, after all these years, I’d finally heard from my dad.
And he’d just told me he loved me.
I made myself a cup of hot chocolate and placed it well away from The Manual and inches from Dad’s picture. I sat upright on my bed, something that would please Mum as she was always going on about my posture. My face began to drip again. I wiped my eyes frantically and swiped at the snot with my hand, sniffing a couple of times, then stopped behaving like a wuss long enough to peep into the second page.
Rules of The Manual:
1 You must only read each new entry on your birthday (from ages 12 to 30).
2 This is a private manual between you and me.
3 No peeping at the next entry!
4 You are allowed to look back at previous entries. Actually, I insist on it!
5 I’ve tried to be really neat, stringing sentences together in the right way, but if you spot the odd dodgy grammar or spelling mistake – just make sure you don’t copy them next time you hand in your homework, young lady!
6 Under each new year, you’ll see that I’ve pretended you’d actually be interested in what was happening in my world around that age.
7 You can look at the miscellaneous sections any time you like – if you think they’ll help. I’ve cleverly placed these at the front, so you don’t get tempted to peep at future pages!
I frantically turned to the next page, heart beating forcefully under my T-shirt.
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