Chapter 7: Peter’s Notebook Part 1

I opened up Dad’s notebook to the first page.

There was no heading, just the date written across the top in slightly bigger letters

Peter Stone, Wednesday April 5, 10pm

I’d found the book in among a whole pile of notebooks full of Dad’s circuit diagrams and calculations. It had sat forgotten in a box up in our roof since we’d arrived from England. The year scrawled on the cover meant it was written in the year we left England.

This book could be a clue about why we’d moved out of England in such secrecy. Or it could be nothing.

I read the first sentence. Then I blinked and read it again.

Louise has persuaded me to go back to seeing a psychiatrist on a regular basis.

My jaw dropped.

I read the first sentence again and shook my head in amazement.

I rolled over onto my stomach and began reading in earnest.

This was interesting.

Very, very interesting.

Peter Stone, Wednesday April 5, 10pm

Louise has persuaded me to go back to seeing a psychiatrist on a regular basis.

It seems my previous doctor has moved to Birmingham so I find myself with yet another new psychiatrist. Naturally the new doctor immediately asked me to keep a diary. I’m convinced that getting the patient to keep a diary is step one in the textbook. Every psychiatrist I’ve ever had has asked me to keep a diary. I’ve written so many of the blasted things that I could write a book – perhaps a series of books – about my life. Not that I would want to.

I expect all the relevant information about me is already in the files but I suppose I should summarise. I’m Peter Stone, age 36. I’m an electrical engineer and I’m a partner in a company that builds and supplies portable generators. I have a sister, Penny. I’m married to Louise, who is a graphic designer and an amateur painter. I have one son (Daniel, age 14), two daughters (Tara, age 7 about to turn 8 and Rebecca, age 6, who insists that we call her Bec) and a dog (Percival, age unknown). Percival is a black lab we adopted from an RSPCA shelter when Dan was five. He was already an adult dog when we adopted him so he’s now quite elderly.

Dan is amazingly sensible and mature for a fourteen year old and I’m immensely proud of him. He’s good at rugby and works hard at school. Like all teenage boys he makes mistakes and gets in trouble from time to time but it’s only ever minor issues and I have no complaints on that score.

The two girls are quite simply the light of my life. Neither of them are perfect little angels by any means but I’m not sure if I have enough superlatives to describe them properly.

That’s enough dithering about.

I came out of that first session today feeling tired and drained. Shattered might be a better description. It’s never easy starting with a new psychiatrist. It takes me a long time to start trusting someone, but in the first session with a new psychiatrist I always have to go through what happened and why I’m there. I loathe doing that. It’s really difficult telling my story to a stranger. I get choked up or start rambling about nonsense or get sidetracked and talk about something completely different. Despite the number of times I’ve had to tell the whole story, it never comes out sounding like a story with a beginning, middle and end. My last doctor told me that was normal and that it was an ‘avoidance strategy’.

I came home to find Louise busy in the kitchen and the kids doing their homework. Perhaps it would be more correct to say that the girls had finished their own homework and were quizzing Dan about his. My girls are really smart. I know it’s traditional for fathers to say that about their daughters but in my case it’s true, especially for Bec. Tara is clever but Bec seems to make intuitive leaps that can leave me gasping. The leaps are made harder to follow because Bec is terribly shy and quiet. Often, she’ll sit there and watch and listen and let Tara ask most of the questions while she soaks it up. Then she’ll make some little comment that shows that she has not only understood everything we were talking about but has already linked it to something else.

Just occasionally, if she feels completely safe, Bec will come out of her shell and chatter away like a normal six year old. I treasure those moments. Tara is much more social than Bec. In fact, Tara really comes alive in the middle of a crowd of her friends. She’s not a leader but she’s happiest in the middle of a mob.

Percival thumped the floor with his tail when I came through the door but otherwise didn’t stir from his spot in front of the heater. I did a circuit of the room and gained kisses from Louise and the girls before sinking into my armchair.

Dan’s homework was something to do with the solar system. He was trying to explain to the girls how the planets orbited the sun but was struggling because he barely finished each sentence before being hit by at least two lots of “but why...” Apparently it was a good day for Bec because she was matching Tara question for question. I relaxed and left Dan to it. I long ago decided that it’s good for Dan to explain what he’s learning at school to his sisters – when they’re interested. They’re both smart enough not only to understand most of what he’s talking about but also to ask intelligent questions. I’m convinced he’s doing better at school because of it. They both adore him and he adores them. He loves being able to explain things to them. He gets upset and frustrated when he can’t answer their questions. I think he’s working harder at school so he can give better answers to the girls. I’m not complaining. Whatever works is fine with me. I talk to other parents from school who struggle to get their teenage kids motivated to do schoolwork and I breathe a sigh of relief that I don’t have those problems.

Eventually matters got to the point where I felt Dan needed rescuing. He was stumbling to explain how the sun, appearing to move across the sky each day, fitted in with what he was saying about the sun being still and the earth moving. I sent Tara running off to fetch a football and some Blu-tack.

While we waited, I noticed Bec staring at me with those deep, hazel eyes of hers.

“Why are you sad, Daddy?” she asked in that quiet but clear voice of hers.

I brushed her off by telling her I wasn’t sad but I was merely tired from a hard day at work. Telling the girls that I’m going to therapy, and explaining the reasons why, is not a conversation I want to have right now. Maybe, when they’re older, I’ll be able to tell them about it.

Bec didn’t challenge my response but I don’t think she believed it. Sometimes Bec can see straight through me and that can be unnerving – she’s six years old, for heaven’s sake. Seconds later she was sitting in my lap and hugging me. Immediately I felt the panic start to surge through me. I lifted her off me and set her down on the floor beside me, giving her the old lie about how she’s too heavy to be climbing all over me. Isn’t that enough of a reason to need therapy? I can’t even get a hug from my daughter without panicking. That’s pathetic. And as the girls have been getting older, it’s been getting worse instead of better.

Bec clung onto my hand like a limpet and leaned against my leg. I could tolerate that, and I felt the panic sinking away.

Tara returned with the football and a lump of Blu-tack. We switched the light off and used a desk lamp to represent the sun. The ball became the spinning sphere of the Earth and a little lump of Blu-tack became us in sunny Preston on the surface of the Earth. With the visual aids in front of them, the girls quickly understood the concept. Of course, that led to other questions about seasons and stars and planets and the poles and the North Star. I made sure Dan didn’t get out of explaining the things he knew but it was a good conversation and I think Dan ended up with a better understanding of his homework, so I was happy. The girls’ minds are like sponges that soak up everything if it’s given to them in a form they can understand.

Bec

I stopped reading for a moment and let all that sink into my brain. I don’t have any distinct memories of that particular night, but I remember lots like it.

First there was the psychiatrist. I’d always known that Dad was hiding some terrible pain deep inside himself. I hadn’t realized that it was so bad that he needed to see a psychiatrist – lots of psychiatrists. For the longest time, I thought his constant rejection of my hugs was something to do with me. It had built up this huge seething hurt way down deep inside of me. I was convinced that he didn’t love me enough to hug me. Slowly, very slowly, I realized that it wasn’t about me. What Dad had written more or less confirmed that.

It was weird to read Dad’s description of me. It made me feel strange in my head. The little Bec in my brain that always stays back and watches had been nodding and saying “That’s what I see.” I felt bad about making Dad uncomfortable because I sometimes understand what he’s thinking. Sometimes I guess and my guesses turn out right. Sometimes I get it wrong. In all this time, Dad has hidden from me that he’s seeing a psychiatrist. I never guessed that. I don’t know if he’s still seeing a doctor or not. Maybe he’s stopped and that’s why I didn’t notice anything.

I thought about Dan. It had never occurred to me that Dan had worked harder at school just to stay ahead of us. I remembered any number of conversations about Dan’s homework that Dad had joined into. I had always thought that Dad was joining in because he wanted to. The Bec from way back then had never noticed that Dad was rescuing Dan from questions he couldn’t answer. I guess it never occurred to the younger Bec that there might be stuff Dan didn’t know about.

I still sometimes have those sorts of conversations with Dan. I get him to explain what he’s learning about. I think Dad over-estimates how much I understand. I don’t always understand everything. I like spending time with Dan and talking about his school is a way of doing that.

Peter’s Notebook (continued)

Throughout the evening Bec clung to my hand. Tara saw what was going on and soon I had a barnacle attached to each side of me. I can’t tell you whether Tara picked up on the same thing Bec did or if she saw what Bec was doing and her competitive nature meant that she had to do it too. Either way, their simple child-like attempts to comfort me were oddly effective. By the time we sat down for dinner, I was feeling much more like my same old self.

In honour of the homework discussion, after dinner I put on a video of an episode of Cosmos, narrated by the sonorous voice of Carl Sagan. I had to endure some complaints from Dan because he wanted to watch some other rubbish so I gave him the choice of watching Cosmos or going upstairs and watching his thing on the old set in our bedroom. I tried to hint that I would prefer him to watch this because it would help with his homework but my hints fell on deaf ears. I suppose he’s fourteen and he needs his space. I don’t want to be one of those oppressive fathers one sees on television.

Louise is always far too enthusiastic about joining any conspiracy to push my comfort zone as far as my dealing with the girls is concerned. Sometimes she’s subtle about it and sometimes she’s downright blatant. Tonight after dinner she literally forced me to sit in the middle of the couch instead of in the safety of my usual armchair. That way the girls could position themselves each side of me and squeeze themselves up against me. I was uncomfortable but happy.

I seem to be in a continual battle with myself – to hold them close and share their simple affection, or to keep them as far away from me as possible. I try with all my strength not to push them away. Louise has explained to me countless times, sometimes very forcefully, that to do so would devastate them. It took all my will power to sit there calmly rather than jumping up and leaving the room. The strain of sitting still left me trembling. The warm pleasure of being able to sit and have my girls cuddled up against me almost had me weeping.

Louise then proceeded to curl up in a chair opposite us and sketch while we watched the program. I suspect a fair amount of it went over the girls’ heads but I’m sure some of it stuck. I don’t dare try to predict exactly how much either of them understood.

After the video finished, I read to the girls. Tonight I went for an old favourite: The Sleep Book by Dr Zeus.

The news just came in from the County of Keck,
That a very small bug by the name of Van Vleck,
Is yawning so wide you can look down his neck.

Maybe the girls are getting too old for Dr Seuss but they still love having me read it to them. That makes me happy because I have fun reading those stories. The idea that such fun children’s stories existed was a revelation for me when I became a father. It’s enormous fun to read them out loud and let their rhythms and rhymes roll around on my tongue. I suppose the girls will let me know when they think they’re too old for Dr Seuss. Then I guess I’ll be reduced to reading the stories to Percival. Mind you, Dan told me loud and clear when he was finished with Dr Seuss, but I’ve noticed a few times that he’s cheerfully picked one up and read it to the girls with a great deal of relish.

I finished the story with a huge yawn which set the girls off yawning as well. Louise was still engrossed in her sketch so I told the girls they would have to go up and get ready for bed. I received a brief fluttering kiss on each cheek as my reward and they scampered off up the stairs.

Percival seemed a bit extra sluggish when I ushered him outside so that he could spend a penny. I think he might be getting arthritis or something equally nasty.

The girls weren’t in bed the way they should’ve been. They’d changed into pyjamas and were now both wrapped in their dressing-gowns and kneeling on the window-seat with their noses pressed against the double-glazing.

I coughed loudly – hinting that they weren’t where they were supposed to be. All the girls did was glance at me and then stick their noses back against the glass. Percival heaved himself up onto his place at the foot of Bec’s bed and did a tired half-circle to trample the covers into shape before slumping into a curled up ball.

I walked up behind the girls and looked over their shoulders. They were looking up at the sky. A break in the clouds had revealed a thin scattering of twinkling stars.

“So Daddy, if there are only clouds and stars up there, then where is heaven?”

That caught me by surprise. Tara asked the question but it sounded like a Bec question to me. That probably meant that Bec had asked Tara and she didn’t have an answer. Bec was then happy to let Tara ask me. That type of teamwork is fairly common between them.

The first thing out of my mouth was harsh – too harsh. “There’s no such place as heaven.”

I realised that I’d made a mistake as soon as I said it. Two little faces crumpled in front of me and four little eyes suddenly filled with tears. In a frantic attempt at a save, I winked at them and laughed – trying to turn what I’d said into a joke. I don’t think it worked.

“But when Grandma Stone died in the car accident, you said she’d gone to heaven to be with the angels,” said Bec in the soft little whisper-voice that she uses when she’s upset – or anytime she’s in public.

“Yes, I did. And I meant it,” I said.

“So where’s heaven then?” whispered Bec.

I sighed. “Sit down, girls. That isn’t an easy question to answer.”

They sat side-by-side on the window-seat while I carried a chair over so that I could sit in front of them. I sat with my knees almost touching theirs and held out a hand for each of them to grasp – which they did. Percival watched me from his post on the bottom of Bec’s bed without lifting his head. He just rolled his eyes to keep track of me as I moved around the room.

I have to admit that all of the above was simply a stalling tactic. I had no idea what I was going to say. Why do Bec’s hardest questions always catch me by surprise? Nobody warned me that becoming a father meant having to answer the hardest questions right when you want to sit back and put your feet up. There should be warning signs in the maternity ward at the hospital. Except that by the time you get to the maternity ward, it’s far too late.

So this was my answer. I have no idea whether it was the right thing to say or not.

“There are the places that I know because I’ve been there and seen them with my own eyes. I can point to them on a map and tell you about things I did or saw when I was there. Places like Nana’s house and Manchester Cathedral and the Lake District and London.

“Then there are places that I’ve never been to but I’ve talked to someone who’s been there or read a book by someone who’s been there. I can point to those places on a map and tell you about things other people did or saw when they were there. Places like Peking and New York and Australia and Iceland and the Moon.

“Then there are places that nobody has been to but we know they are there, or were there, because of telescopes or archaeology. Places like Mars and Alpha Centauri and the places where dinosaurs lived and the palaces of the Pharaohs of Egypt.

“Heaven doesn’t fall into any of those groups. It isn’t anywhere that people can point to and nobody has been there and come back to tell us about it. A lot of people believe heaven exists because their religion tells them so or because their parents told them it was there when they were children and they’ve never had a reason to change their minds.”

Bec was looking at me suspiciously. “Do you mean it’s like Santa? Is heaven just a story for little children?”

I smiled at Bec. My first clue that either of the girls had worked out the truth about Santa had been three days before last Christmas. Only a week before, the two of them had cheerfully written letters to Santa and shown them to me so I could check their spelling before gleefully running down the street to the post box. Then three days before Christmas, the rugby club had a Christmas party with carols and a Santa and all the bells and whistles. The girls had happily queued up and sat on Santa’s lap and received their little gifts along with all the other kids. Naturally, Tara chatted away with Santa quite cheerfully. When Bec had her turn, she sat there with a smile on her face and didn’t say a word but only shrugged or nodded in response to Santa’s questions. Nothing unusual there.

A little bit later, Ethel Gallagher found herself standing next to the two girls and decided to do her version of being friendly. Ethel Gallagher is far too full of herself. She expects everyone else, especially children, to be in awe of her majesty. Ethel tapped Tara on the chest to get her attention and demanded to know what she was expecting from Santa. Tara had muttered something about a new pair of sneakers which was enough to satisfy the old crone. Ethel then turned her attention to Bec, poking her in the chest and repeating her imperious question. I think Bec must have been off with the fairies because the poke in the chest caught her by surprise and it obviously hurt her. She gaped at Ethel and rubbed her chest where she’d been poked.

I felt a flare of anger race through me. There’s an enormous difference between tapping a child to get their attention and poking them so hard that it hurts. That woman had hurt my little girl and I was furious. Burning with rage, I started across the room towards her.

Ethel Gallagher poked Bec again, “I asked you a question, child. It’s very rude to ignore your elders.”

Bec’s eyes flashed and she planted herself in front of Ethel Gallagher with her fists on her hips – every inch the image of an angry six year old – every inch a miniature version of her mother.

“If you poke me with that finger again, I’ll bite it. You think I’m rude? I’m not the one poking people with her bony old finger.”

I was awed to hear my shy little Bec barking at the woman so ferociously. I was half-way across the room. My fists were clenched so tight, my nails were digging into my palms. I fully intended to discover if the witch knew how to fly.

Suddenly, Louise appeared in front of me. She planted her two hands on my chest and stopped me dead. Her eyes were cold with fury.

“Let me!” she hissed. Then she turned and headed for Ethel.

Louise’s intervention allowed me to get my temper under control. In hindsight, that was probably a good thing.

In the meantime, Ethel had backed off from Bec with a shocked expression on her face. “Well I never!”

“And as for Santa Claus,” continued Bec. “Everyone knows Santa’s just a story made up for little kids. Well, I’m six years old now. I’m not a little kid anymore. So don’t treat me like a baby by asking stupid questions.”

Ethel drew herself up to her full height and raised her finger imperiously. At that moment, Louise stepped up behind our two girls, with me towering over her shoulder and glowering.

Never being one to let a good threat go to waste, Louise glared at Ethel.

“If you so much as point that finger in my daughter’s direction, Bec WILL bite you. What’s more, I won’t do a thing to stop her.”

Ethel turned rather white at that. I’ll never know how she was going to respond because Louise immediately launched a verbal assault at Ethel that would blister paint.

I snaked a hand around Bec and edged her back out of the combat zone. Louise didn’t need any help from me when she was fired up like that. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dan copy me and pull Tara out of danger.

Ethel was actually physically backing away. Then she got broadsided from the other side by Bridget, Bec’s Nana, who arrived from the kitchen where she’d been helping serve tea through the hatch. Now Ethel was being double-teamed by Louise and Bridget. Having been on the receiving end of that pair in full attack mode, I was tempted to feel sorry for the woman. But then my arm around Bec’s chest felt the rapid fluttering of Bec’s heart, racing wildly after the brief encounter, and any temptation to feel sorry for Ethel completely vanished.

The slanging match was conducted in such broad Lanky accents that I could barely follow half of it. I’ve lived in Lancashire for over 20 years and I still can’t follow Bridget when she gets angry. I could swear that half the words she uses don’t exist outside of the village she was born in. Louise is nearly as bad, but I think I’ve been a good influence on her. Her accent has softened a lot since I first met her.

Faced with overwhelming odds, Ethel had little choice but to retreat and she fled the clubhouse. I suspect she’ll think twice before attacking other people’s children in the future – even if originally she was trying to be friendly. She’ll probably go back to ignoring all children everywhere – something I’m sure the children will be grateful for.

Bec didn’t utter a word for the rest of the evening. She sat herself astride my hip, wrapped her arms around me and hid her face in my chest, leaving me to assure the steady stream of well-wishers that Bec was fine. Somehow, my overwhelming urge to protect Bec, combined with her desperate need to be held, allowed me to overcome the usual strangeness I feel when holding her.

The two of us spent the rest of the evening flanked by Louise and Bridget. They were both wearing identical relaxed faces and half-smiles that many people mistake for friendly. If they knew what those smiles really meant, most sensible people would run screaming from the room.

Tara stuck to Dan like glue for the rest of the evening. I could see him in the corner of the room, sitting on the floor with a group of his friends. Tara sat right beside him, securely hanging on to his arm. But she sat upright, with bright eyes, and looked as comfortable and confident with Dan’s friends as she does with her own. It was good to see that Dan’s friends appeared to accept her presence there without complaint. Boys that age aren’t always tolerant of younger sisters hanging around.

Bec

I smiled quietly to myself. Reading Dad’s account had brought back some clear memories of that night at the rugby club. I didn’t think that I’d been quite as ferocious as Dad described. I remember being frightened witless by the lady suddenly looming over me and poking me. Part of the problem was she kept demanding that I answer a question I hadn’t even heard. I know I said the stuff Dad wrote about, but I didn’t think I’d been that – I don’t know – dangerous. I think that really dangerous version of me is a more recent development.

Peter’s Notebook (continued)

The next morning at breakfast, I asked Bec what made her think that Santa wasn’t real. Bec and Tara had looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders. Finally Tara explained that Bec had worked it out from watching a couple of Santa movies. Bec had asked Tara and Tara had admitted that she’d heard it at school from some older kids.

“But in all those movies, Santa is real!” I exclaimed.

“Yes,” said Bec, as if that explained everything.

I still have no idea how she worked it out. I guess I never will. Sometimes, Bec isn’t very good at explaining what’s going on inside that little head of hers.

“But you wrote letters to Santa.”

They both rolled their eyes at me in that ‘Dads are so stupid’ sort of way that always leaves me feeling uncomfortably – well – stupid.

“That sort of stuff is really fun,” said Bec.

“We made sure we showed them to you and Mum before we posted them,” added Tara. “There’d be no point in writing them, if we didn’t.”

Two days later, we’d been woken well before dawn by excited squeals as the two girls discovered what “Santa” had left for them. Later that morning both girls had taken turns to breathlessly describe to Nana and their aunts what Santa had given them and how some of it was exactly what they’d asked for. They knew it was a game, but they were playing anyway.

Sometimes I worry about Bec. She appears so shy and fragile that I worry about how she’ll survive in the world. But then, every once in a while, things like her encounter with Ethel Gallagher remind me that Bec has inherited a full dose of her mother’s fiery nature. She keeps it hidden most of the time but her shyness and fragility is a cover. Scratch the surface too hard and you end up getting burnt.

Tara seems to have learnt that. Tara is about the only person Bec will fight with. It doesn’t happen all the time but every so often, they have a blazing screaming row about something or other. I suppose it’s to be expected occasionally, with two girls sharing a room like that. Louise and I try to let them go as much as we can in the hope they will learn to sort it out themselves rather than rely on us. I’ve noticed that Tara is becoming better at putting us in a position where we have to intervene, or she turns the fight into one of long, glaring sullen silences before Bec gets to the point of really showing her claws. Tara has learnt that it’s a bad idea to push Bec too far. Fortunately their fights usually end and after a short truce they go back to being sweet with each other.

I seem to have wandered off the point. Where was I? We were upstairs in the girls’ room. I was talking about heaven and Bec was looking at me suspiciously.

“Do you mean it’s like Santa?” she asked. “Is heaven just another story for little children?”

I smiled at Bec. “Not really. I doubt if there’s a single adult anywhere that thinks Santa is actually real, but many, many adults think heaven is a real place. If someone we love dies, I think it’s comforting to think they end up in a happy place. It makes us feel better and that’s what’s important.”

Bec looked at me with those penetrating eyes. “But you don’t think heaven is real.”

I was tempted to lie to her but it was far too late for that. Besides, I realised that she had made that a statement and not a question. All I could do was agree with her and leave it at that.

Once the girls were safely tucked into bed and the light switched off, I was stopped from leaving the room by a quiet whisper.

“Daddy?”

“What is it, Bec?”

“I’m glad you’re feeling better from before. You never told why you were sad.”

I shrugged at the shadowy shape on the bed.

“Sometimes I just get sad. There isn’t always a reason.”

There was a silence and I realised that Bec was lying there in the dark, looking up at me.

Finally, she rolled over in the bed, putting her back to me. Apparently I was dismissed – judged, found wanting, and then dismissed.

I scratched Percival under the ears a couple of times and let myself out of the room.

I joined Dan in my bedroom and spent a very enjoyable twenty minutes watching the last half of an episode of that ‘Seinfeld’ show from America. It’s very typically the American style of humour but it’s better than the usual tripe that gets passed off as comedy, and I had a few good laughs before it was over.

When it was finished, I sent Dan off to his room and sat down to write this. So that was my day.