Free A is for Angelica by Iain Broome Page B

her Dad couldn’t be here,’ I said.
    ‘He’s here somewhere. He was a good man. I know he’s here somewhere.’
    ‘You think?’
    ‘You know I do. And so should you. He’s with the Lord, but he’s still watching over us. They both are.’
    ‘I know. I didn’t mean that.’
    ‘What did you mean?’
    ‘You know what people say about him.’
    I barely finished my sentence before I felt my father’s hand across my cheek. I stumbled, fell to one knee, stood back up immediately. I touched my face with the back of my wrist. I said
nothing.
    ‘He was a good man.’
    ‘Yes, Dad. I know he was.’
    I picked the last gift off the floor and slid it onto the parcel shelf. My father reached up and shut the boot. He put his hand on my shoulder and smiled at me, his breath still fresh with
smoke.
    ‘You’ve got a good one there,’ he said. ‘Make sure you look after her.’
    My father sat in the front with Georgina’s dress on his lap while my mother drove. He used his non-broken arm to smoke out the passenger seat window. I sat squashed
between Georgina and her mother in the back. The smell of almost-stale sandwiches wafting in from the boot. Corned beef and mustard. My father’s pickled onions.
    ‘Are you sure they’re not leaking?’ I said.
    ‘Those jars don’t leak,’ said my father.
    ‘They’d better not leak on my presents,’ said Georgina.
    ‘Your presents?’ I said.
    My father turned round in his seat, ‘Those jars are watertight.’
    Georgina laughed and squeezed my arm, ‘Are they vinegar tight though?’ My father laughed with her and winked. My mother cleared her throat. ‘It doesn’t matter how tight
they are, they won’t stop the smell,’ she said. ‘It’s all right for you. You don’t have to live with it.’
    ‘Not anymore,’ I said.
    We’d moved into our new house the weekend before the wedding. It meant we had to delay our honeymoon for six months. We didn’t mind though. We’d found the house we’d been
looking for. The house we wanted. Number eighteen, Cressington Vale. Kitchen, bathroom, living room. Two bedrooms. One master and one spare for when guests came, or if we ever had children. Two
gardens but no garage. A spacious loft. It would be hard work. But it would be worth it. It would be perfect. We’d have to decorate. Use boxes for chairs until we found our own furniture.
Keep frozen food in Don Donald’s freezer. Our new neighbour. The one whose wife just left him. He had plenty of space.
    ‘Next left,’ said my father.
    ‘I know where I’m going,’ my mother replied.
    She pulled the car into Georgina’s street. Georgina’s old street. We came to a stop outside what was now just her mother’s house. My father stepped out the car and opened the
back door. My mother put the handbrake on and took her feet from the pedals. She left the engine running. Mary had fallen asleep on my shoulder. I dug my elbow into her ribs to wake her up.
    ‘We’re home,’ Georgina said. ‘Gordon’s Dad’s going to walk you to the door.’
    ‘Thanks for all your help,’ I said.
    ‘Are you coming in?’
    ‘No Mum. We’re going home.’
    ‘Home? You’ve only been there a week.’
    ‘It’s been such a long day. We’ll see you tomorrow.’
    ‘It’s not your home yet.’
    ‘You can help us strip the wallpaper if you like, Mary.’
    My father grabbed her forearm and helped her out of the car. He bent down, looked through the open window and said, ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’ Georgina’s mother turned
and waved as he put his foot on the garden gate, pushed it open with his heel. We waved back at her. ‘Sleep tight,’ my mother shouted as they wandered down the path towards the house.
Georgina’s mother opened her bag, shoved her hand inside and started searching for her keys. After thirty seconds my father snatched the bag and started searching for them himself. After
another minute, he pulled them out and unlocked the front door. He opened it,