Читать онлайн «Ten Things I've Learnt About Love»
Автор Сара Батлер
For Anne and Dave
‘so here I am homeless at home and half gratified to feel I can be happy any where’
John Clare
Contents
Ten things I will say to my father
Ten ways other people might describe me
Ten things I know about my mother
Ten things I’ve found that spell your name
Ten foods that stress me out
Ten things I own
Ten reasons to hate my sister (Cee)
Ten reasons to hate my father
Ten things about my father’s house
Ten things I’m frightened of
Ten inappropriate thoughts during my father’s funeral
Ten jobs I’ve held down for more than a month
Ten things in my father’s shed
Ten places I’ve spent the night
Ten things I’m frightened of
Ten things I will say to my daughter
Ten things people say to you when your father dies
Ten things I thought I’d do with my life
Ten places I’ve had sex
Ten things I’d say about London
Ten things that happen when you sort out your father’s house
Ten reasons I loved your mother
Ten things you shouldn’t do
Ten times I’ve wanted to die
Ten things I’d rather forget
Ten reasons not to jump
Ten reasons to stay
Ten things I will say to my father
1) I met a man in Singapore who smelt like you – cigarette smoke and suede.
2) I remember that holiday in Greece – endless ruins, and you having to explain the difference between Doric, Ionic and Corinthian columns again and again.
3) I wish you’d talked about Mama. I wish you’d kept something of hers.
4) I still have the book you bought me for my tenth birthday, when I wanted to be an astronaut –
5) I know you always hoped one of us would be a doctor, like you.
6) I have a recurring dream. I am standing outside your house. There’s a party; I can hear people talking and laughing inside. I ring the doorbell, and it takes you for ever to answer.
7) It was me who stole the photograph from your study.
8) I used to spy on you – watch you gardening or sitting in your armchair, or at your desk with your back to the door. I always wanted you to turn around and see me.
9) I’m sorry I haven’t been about much.
10) Please, don’t—
My father lives on his own in a haughty terraced house near Hampstead Heath. The houses round there are smug and fat, their tiled drives like long expensive tongues, their garden walls just high enough to stop people from seeing in. It’s all bay windows and heavy curtains, clematis and wisteria.
I queue for a taxi outside Arrivals and smoke three cigarettes while I wait. When it’s finally my turn, I duck into the car and find myself dizzy and sick with the nicotine. The driver plays Mozart’s Requiem. I want to ask her to turn it off, but I can’t think how to explain, so I stretch my legs into the space where my rucksack should be, rest my head against the door frame, and close my eyes. I try to remember the exact colour of my bag: it’s a sort of dirty navy blue – I’ve been carrying it around for years; I should know what colour it is. Inside there are jeans, shorts, vest-tops, a waterproof coat. Ten packets of Russian cigarettes. A pair of embroidered slippers for Tilly. Mascara. A lipgloss that’s nearly finished. An almost perfectly spherical stone, which I’d picked up to give to Kal, and then cursed myself for crying. An unused
