DAD WISHES he were a policeman. All security guards do.
Lives in his navy blue, V-neck security jumper, the one with the patches stitched on the shoulders, even when he’s not at work.
Polishes his shoes and irons his trousers every night.
Keeps his dark hair short and tidy, brushes it over to the left, fingers in a touch of Vaseline to make it shine.
Tried to grow a police moustache once, but got bored one afternoon and shaved it off.
For years, it was Dad’s job to protect the men and women he looks up to, standing guard outside the entrance to New Scotland Yard, home of the Metropolitan Police.
Last line of defence against Irish bombers, schizos off their meds, and any badman with a score to settle.
The police had their budget cut and Dad was forced to take a job as a security guard in a department store on the high street: hiding in the shadows, watching you slip that bottle of aftershave up your jumper, rugby tackling you to the ground the moment you stepped onto the street.
Now Dad only sees his police pals when they come to take the shoplifter off his hands, or when he passes one on the street.
“Wotcha, Arry,” he says. “Wotcha, Kev,” the copper says back.
*
Dad wears his security jumper when we go to the little supermarket to buy dinner.
We can’t afford nappies for Kiri, so Dad takes the biggest packet off the shelf and puts it in the tray under the seat of the pushchair. When no one’s looking, he opens the packet, pulls one of the nappies out, just a bit, to make it look like we brought them from home and have already used a couple.
He empties the shopping basket onto the conveyor belt, pushes the pushchair through, right under the nose of the cashier, too busy scanning the milk, bread, potatoes and mini bottle of vodka to notice the nappies in the tray under the seat.
Dad pushes the stolen goods past the security guard at the door, nods to him and says, “See ya later.”
Dad spends his days off painting at the table under the window, drinking whatever he had enough coins to buy earlier in the morning.
Little bottle of vodka. Couple of cans of Special Brew.
Puts his Bruce Springsteen album on.
When it gets to the end of his favourite song, he gently lifts the needle off the spinning vinyl, moves it back a bit through the air, places it down carefully into the larger groove at the start of the song, plays it again.
It’s a sad song that he sings along to in appropriate tone.
… I was eight years old
And running with
A dime in my hand.
To the bus-stop to pick
Up a paper
For my old man …
One rainy morning, Mum’s at work, Dad sits at the table under the window, silently staring at a black and white photo in the newspaper.
The photo shows a dark-featured, heavily bearded man in a soiled army trench coat, stained with blood and fragments of bone, lumpy and sticky, so fresh you can smell its rancid odour coming off the page.
The man is emerging from the rubble of a building destroyed by war, rifle over his shoulder, tormented eyes, one arm in a sling.
Under the other arm, the limp body of an unconscious child, as little as me, dark mop of hair on his head, his flesh escaping through the bearded man’s fingertips.
Dad lifts me onto his knee so that we can look at the picture together.
Now Dad’s standing over the table, looking down at a large blank sheet of paper spread out before him, surrounded by his paintbrushes and multi-coloured collection of acrylic paints in their little squeezy tubes.
He paints the bearded man and child in vivid colours, the bearded man rescuing the boy from the page, stepping out of the carnage directly into our kitchen.
The green of the man’s coat. The blue of the boy’s shirt, torn and hanging in shreds. Every crease on the man’s haunted face. No red paint, Dad says it would distract.
When he’s finished painting, Dad walks over to the record player, puts his favourite song on again, sits down on a chair, lifts me onto his knee and stares into the void while serenading his invisible demons, as we watch the painting dry.
… I’d sit on his lap
In that big old Buick
And steer as we drove through town.
He’d toussle my hair
And say son take
A good look ar-ou-ound:
This is your hometown …
Dad’s eyes are watery. I can’t look at him.
When the paint has dried, Dad stands up, finds a frame big enough for his masterpiece, hangs it in the centre of the living room wall.
It will never be taken down.
Illustrations by Dean Simmons. Check out his animated series The Fruitirical Show.
Ah man, I'm loving this other side to your dad. Maybe loving isn't the right word, but enjoying the complexities of his character maybe? From someone punching people on a train to someone painting, the creation vs destruction dynamic is really interesting.
Have you still got the paintings/s?