Chapter 2

Time passed and July became August. Sometimes in Britain, that means the end rather than the middle of summer, but that year, apart from the odd thunderstorm, we had good weather; truthfully, a bit too hot for me. I slept under a single sheet wearing just boxers and woke early thanks to the bright sun. As usual, I emptied my bladder, cleaned my teeth, padded downstairs and made coffee.

Walking into the front room I nearly tripped and deposited the life-giving fluid in the middle of the futon which I had not expected to be spread out over the floor, any more than I expected to find a slight figure curled up on it.

The figure uncurled, stretched and rolled over to face me, sinuously, with feline grace.

"Hi, Dad," it said, sleepily. "Sorry I couldn't let you know I was coming."

"Em! It's good to see you, kitten."

"I smell coffee!"

I snorted, "what else? There's another mugful in the jug and I can make some more."

"I needs it, I needs it. I got," she looked at her watch, "four hours sleep after travelling for twelve hours and being awake for over twenty-four. You take it black, no sugar still?"

"You know me; some things never change."

"Can I have that one, then?"

I handed the mug to her, bent and kissed her cheek. "Welcome home, kitten."

"I'm back for at least three weeks. Possibly longer. We may be withdrawing temporarily in view of the unsettled political situation. A couple more workers were snatched last week."

"I'm ... just glad you're safe for now, kitten. I wish..."

"I know, Dad ... but ... a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. Why don't you go get your morning caffeine since I've nicked your mug ... again?"

By the time I returned she'd rolled up the futon and was curled up on the sofa sipping coffee. We sat companionably in silence until the first mugs were empty then adjourned to the kitchen for breakfast and second mugs which I'd set to brewing having emptied the jug first time round.

"You're looking better than last time I saw you, Dad."

"I suppose I am. Still missing your mother, but," I paused, thoughtfully, "it's getting a little easier."

"You ought to be getting out, meeting people."

"Oh, I do."

"Really? Anyone special?"

"Not ... really. I mean, I'm not really looking for a relationship, you know."

"Why ever not? Come on, Dad, you've got years ahead of you yet. Frank and I feel guilty we don't get to see you more anyway. We'd be much happier if you had, er... company."

"And what makes you think I want company?"

She looked at me in the way only a woman can look at a man who's just betrayed his total lack of relationship sense. "Duh! I read the stuff you post on line, Dad. It's pretty good, by the way. I often jill off to it."

That was more information than I really wanted to hear from my daughter.

"Seriously, Dad, you wouldn't be writing that stuff if you weren't still interested."

"Well ... maybe. Trouble is, kitten, I'm a bit old to be looking for love."

"Bullshit!"

"Emily!" She'd taken me aback ... but then I remembered using the very same expression to Hazel. Emily saw my face change.

"Gotcha!" She stated triumphantly. "And you know it, Dad. Right. First of all, you loved Mum ... didn't you?"

I didn't respond immediately, but realised I couldn't, didn't want to, deny it.

"How did you know?"

"It was obvious to anyone who knew you. Frank and I were as close to you, our parents, as anyone could have been. You loved each other. You held hands, touched each other as you passed, looked at each other and communicated with your eyes, smiled at each other. You were in love. More to the point right now, Dad, you don't just stop loving and having love to share. I bet Ms. Sanders would jump at the chance of a date."

Jocelyn Sanders was a neighbour, a divorcee, a year or two older than me but ... glamorous. She went skiing in Aspen, spent weekends in Paris ... that sort of thing. I shuddered at the idea of cocktail parties, modern art and vapid conversation. Emily could see from my expression what was going through my head and laughed gaily.

"It'd be an experience, Dad."

"Not one I'd enjoy, I think. Besides, you're a one to talk, thirty-five and still no husband."

She shrugged. "Who needs men? 'Sides, not much chance of meeting one I'd want, that isn't already taken."

"Anyway, did you have any plans for today?" Hoping to get the conversation on a different track.

"Yep! I want a hot shower and clean clothes, put some washing in the machine ... and I want my Daddy to take me to the park to feed the ducks."

Now that sounded good.

When Emily reappeared after her shower, I was not quite so sure. She's better looking than her mother, or me, for that matter, not that it would be difficult. Not spectacular, but quite definitely feminine, she moves with a smooth, graceful confidence that explains our nickname for her – 'kitten', and she was wearing what I think is called a halter top, which didn't meet her very brief shorts. I looked her up and down, from her light-brown hair bleached to a dark blonde by the sun, over her lithe figure to her shapely feet in sandals.

"Are you going to put some clothes on, kitten?"

"Oh, Dad. Don't be a -stick-in-the-mud. These are clothes. I've been covered up for months and I want to loosen up a bit."

I gave up, never having been any good at arguing with my daughter ... or my wife, and we walked in the sun to the park. It was warming up rapidly and if Emily hadn't been hanging on my arm, I'd have rolled my sleeves up. Whatever reservations I may have had about my daughter's mode of dressing, I have to admit the glances she got from the men we passed did my ego no harm. What? You think I ought to have worried about her virtue? Her main hobby from the age of about seven had been oriental martial arts; I never managed to remember all the forms she'd explored, but I'm quite sure any man that made unwanted approaches would be taking his life in his hands...

But I'm getting off track. We'd beaten the rush, and the ducks had had a night to get over the previous day's over feeding, so we had fun tossing scraps of stale bread into the water. In one or two cases, taking bread from our fingers. I gave that up when the first beak tried to take part of my fingers as well as the bread. No damage, but it hurt.

When all the bread had gone, nothing would do but a visit to the café for more coffee, for two reasons, I knew. Certainly the caffeine was part of it, but mainly it was revisiting a favourite childhood place.

We sat outside at a table in the shade of a tree. She'd ordered a bacon sandwich so we were waiting for that to arrive with our coffee.

I saw Hazel coming, still in that wheelchair, and enter the café. When, after several minutes, she still hadn't emerged, I excused myself from Emily and went looking for her; I found her sitting at a table inside.

"Do you not want to know me today?" I asked, then, "or do you just want to be out of the sun?"

"Oh ... hello," she said. She seemed rather subdued. "No, I just saw you had company and didn't want to intrude."

"I'd like you to meet my daughter," I said, "she turned up out of the blue last night and I didn't know she'd arrived until I tripped over her this morning."

Her expression lightened a little. "I'd like that ... perhaps you'd carry my coffee for me?"

I got back to Emily with Hazel's coffee before Hazel, who had to detour and take the ramp. She was having problems. I went up to see what was the matter; various push-chairs were lined up down the ramp, and a couple of dogs were tied up there, too. There just wasn't room for the chair. Hazel was looking helplessly at the problem and I felt anger rising, but then I had an idea.