In Defence of the Act, page 8
I think Freya felt the same way too that day. It may be partly why she hasn’t seen him since, and why she helped me select this sheltered community and interview the carer who visits him on the days I don’t without too many complaints. Although of course, as expected, her promised financial contribution to said carer never materialised. My dad is a shadow of his former self. He has shrunk. And his newfound docility, his confusion, his compliance, his helplessness, it’s sometimes all too much to bear.
Is it because of love that it hurts so much to see him this way?
I don’t think so. Or at least love is too broad a term for this particular thing.
How can the same word be used to describe what I feel, what I felt, for Jamie, and what I feel for my dad? No, it’s not love, not that same love anyway. It’s a far less conditional, far more animal tie. It’s the primal pull of family, of shared genetics. It’s the fact his features are my features, his blood is my blood. It makes me feel things that my brain, with all its knowledge of my dad and the things he’s done, can’t comprehend. But it’s ok. Whenever this maudlin mood strikes I simply look up, breathe deeply, bite my bottom lip, and console myself in the certainty that I’ll soon swing back to resentment.
And sure enough, I always do.
When I’m done in the kitchen I place the bowl next to him on his tray, nudge his shoulder and take my place in the other armchair. He wakes, nods acknowledgement to me and eats the salad in silence while we watch the sport highlights. I detest sport, so does everyone in my family apart from my dad. I think this is precisely why everyone else hates it, because he loves it, but it’s a difficult theory to prove. No point hypothesising what you cannot test. I blankly stare at the screen, refusing to take anything in. I impress myself with my will. So often in my life I have sat in a house with sport commentary blaring from a TV or a radio nearby, and yet I proudly cannot answer one single sports question in even the easiest of pub quizzes. Quite an achievement, I’d say. So, we sit together as he eats a dinner he hates and I watch TV I hate. When we’re done eating I clear our plates and read while my dad continues to watch TV and snooze. I forgot to bring my book today, so instead I pick up one of the magazines the carer tends to leave lying around. I rarely read women’s magazines anymore, and I’m surprised anew by the number of ways it is possible for a woman’s body to be wrong. Of course, the tone has changed somewhat since my youth. We’re into self-love and body positivity, now, right? But it seems we’re also into shaving our faces for extra smoothness, contouring until we’re unrecognisable, and tackling underboob sweat head-on. And of course, we still like gawping at those women who’ve had the audacity to undergo too much self-improving weight loss or plastic surgery.
I’m reminded that it’s absorbing, the self-hatred thing, the picking-apart-women’s-bodies-to-evaluate-them thing. As an evolutionary researcher I know it’s a natural part of being human, evaluating oneself, evaluating potential mates, evaluating the competition. The literature even suggests a worthy note to the endeavour, as some have shown the same part of our brain that judges moral ugliness, judges physical ugliness too. No wonder I become so engrossed in the magazine’s ethical revulsion to celebrity crow’s feet and tips on how to apply eyeliner to achieve the noblest effect. Before I know it ninety minutes have passed and it’s nearly time for me to leave. Except, damn it, I remember the regular carer is away for the week so Dad likely hasn’t had a bath since the weekend. Fantastic.
‘Dad,’ I shout, jolting him from a snooze, ‘time for a bath.’
He groggily reaches for his frame on wheels and slowly pulls himself up. My dad can barely walk now, his knees and ankles apparently having been worn away from years of fanatical exercise and angrily terrorising a house full of his nearest and dearest. To be fair to the man, have you ever tried angrily raging while standing completely still in one spot? It’s incredibly difficult to do, although it might be worth a try if you rage regularly and value your knees. He had a hip replacement three years ago that was supposed to at least help with some of the pain, but it didn’t quite go to plan, and after infections, detachments, and bone erosion, on balance the hip is worse today than it was in his pre-operation days. He can still, mercifully, usually bathe himself, especially as the flats in this complex all come equipped with handrails and walk-in tubs as standard. Except currently his ankle is in a cast after a nasty fall. He can’t get the cast wet and showering or bathing without getting a cast wet requires a nimbleness he lost long ago. So, I think, as I help him into the bathroom, it’ll probably have to be a sponge bath. I haven’t had to bathe him since just after the first hip operation and back then he was so out-of-it it wasn’t terribly awkward. Or maybe that’s just how I feel in retrospect – I think bathing your own aged father must always be a tad awkward – but this is the moment I’m in, and so this is the most awkward moment, of course.
After a lot of ungraceful shuffling about, I hit upon a plan. I help him out of his clothes, open the walk-in-bath’s door, and ease him into a position where most of him is in the bath apart from his cast leg which is trailing on the bathroom floor side. I then wet and soap a sponge in the bathroom sink and hand it to him to wash the areas within his reach. This includes, thank all that is good, the most problematic area, which as I stand focusing my attention elsewhere, I am sure I can hear flopping around while it is cleansed. Everything has shrunk with age, apart from his earlobes, so imagine the sound of a very small fish, maybe a goldfish or an anchovy, slapping against a rock.
I wonder why I feel such shame in this moment. Sure, when I imagine stabbing him with an expensive Japanese knife, I know it’s something I would never do, but why can’t I use this moment to take out some measure of revenge? Why don’t I shame this little old man who has been the largest evil in my life? I could surely do that? Pay him back for the shame he brought on me. Have you read Caitlin Moran’s How to be a Woman? She discusses the notion that most females first realise they’re crossing or have crossed the bridge between girl and womanhood because some random man shouts sexist abuse at them in the street. Nice tits love, and the like. That idea of the threshold to womanhood being a slap in the face really rang true to me, except I wasn’t in the street, I was at home. And that man wasn’t a stranger, he was my dad.
I was a rather early developer. I started my period when I was ten, and my breasts and pubic hair started appearing a couple of years before that. I later learned this was no chance occurrence, as studies have shown early-life stress is associated with early menarche. And lucky me, early menarche is associated with early menopause, increased rates of breast and ovarian cancers, depression, substance abuse, sexual risk taking and teenage pregnancy – although I guess that last one never posed too much of a risk for me personally. So imagine me at eight. I’ve come home from school and have run up to my room to change into my home clothes before heading back down to watch Saved by the Bell, my favourite show. I open my drawer and am happy to find my favourite pyjamas have been washed. They’re a blue and purple patchwork matching t-shirt and shorts with a grey bear on the left breast’s pocket. I’m overjoyed I can wear my favourite PJs, so I pop them on, even though last time I wore them the top button had been lost. My mum said she’d have to sew on another one, but I’m not too bothered by that, it’s a pretty warm day. I’ve got my PJs on and I’m running down the stairs and as I near the bottom my dad appears and starts to ascend. He does that thing he does where he doesn’t let me pass, but today I can tell he’s in a dark mood and is doing it in the aggressive way not the funny way.
‘What the fuck are you wearing?’ he says.
I’m relieved because this is an easy question to which I know the answer, and I’m pretty happy about said answer too, so I tell him that I’m wearing my favourite cuddly bear pyjamas.
‘Are you trying to turn me on you little slut?’ is his reply.
Now, in many ways I am a relatively clued up child by this point. To my benefit, and my detriment, my parents’ unpredictable and disordered household is one where I can stay up late and watch adult shows whenever I want. Therefore I have a healthy fear of strangers based far more on the real-life crimes I have seen reconstructed on Crimewatch than on the rather catchy tune about saying no to strangers our teacher plays us at school. I also have a remarkably mature vocabulary, which teachers refuse to believe I acquired through the wonders of television and not through reading. So, I know what being turned on is, and I know what a slut is, but I really can’t understand why these things are being said to me, a kid in pyjamas, by my dad. But as I enquire, he just keeps repeating the same questions, getting angrier each time. Eventually my mum finds us like this, and…you’ve guessed it, she tells me off for wearing my t-shirt before she has fixed it, and sends me upstairs to get changed.
That was when I realised I’d grown breasts. Breasts which had appeared so rapidly I hadn’t noticed. And I guess that was my first taste of being a woman: receiving sexist abuse, and then being told I was asking for it because of my sartorial choices.
Thanks Dad.
But even as the old arsehole washes his old arsehole with a sponge in front of me, I still can’t muster up the…the what? Courage? Animosity? Venom? Energy? The whatever-it-takes to shame him back. I simply continue to hand the old broken dog the re-dampened sponge over my shoulder until he’s done. I help him get dressed and I leave without saying goodbye, feeling grateful that at least we won’t have to do that again for a while.
He looks smart as they wheel him in, all in black. I chose those clothes. I bought them especially. None of his suits fit anymore. They belonged to the bigger him. I went for black everything: a black suit, a black shirt, a black tie, a black pocket square, black socks, black shoes. Black is how this feels. All light absorbed. For some reason I wanted to be the one to dress him and although it was frankly rather inconvenient, I rushed over beforehand to be involved.
I thought I’d still be angry. Angrier than ever. But I wasn’t. I’m not. I seem to have let it all go, even if I hadn’t wanted to.
‘Why do you do it to yourself?’ Jamie always asks. Meaning, why do I continue to visit this person I apparently have nothing but ill will towards, instead of coming home early and enjoying only good will with her?
I don’t know the answer.
Jamie asks a lot of questions. She wants to get to the bottom of everything. In a different way to me. She wants emotions. She wants change. She wants personal analysis, and more importantly, she wants personal development. She wants evolution, not evolutionary psychology. And she wants to make plans. She wants to look ahead, not backwards. I guess opposites attract.
Our first meeting is at a terrible gay night full of sweaty bears with their tops off. As two of the very few women in the club we are all but forced to at least briefly notice one another. Which works massively in my favour, as she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen and I have no doubt she wouldn’t even deign to look at me if there were any other options around. Our gazes graze and my heart skips. She is wearing all black. But not in the way I frequently wear all black for ease of washing, coordination, and blending into the background. She’s wearing all black with purpose, with flair, to court rather than escape attention. Her outfit is sleek and deliberate, simple and androgynous. It’s a statement. It’s an identity. Each time I clock her dancing with her friends I feel my pulse quicken and make a mental note of the hottie. I then of course leave that mental note right where it is – in my mind – without ever dreaming of speaking to her or even mentioning her to my pals, for fear they may force me into awkward stranger danger. However, in room five of the five-room bear pit, she inexplicably starts dancing towards our group. She’s on her own now and although she’s playing it pretty cool, she is gradually but definitely getting closer. I assume she’s heading over for Laura, as everyone heads over for Laura because Laura is a tall, blonde, boyish femme with effortless I-just-washed-and-went hair, who doesn’t wear a bra and doesn’t care if you know it. Laura’s a bit of an obvious choice for such a mysterious and glamourous woman in black, and a totally understandable one at that. But if she is into Laura, why is this girl repeatedly making eye contact with me, forcing me to look away with embarrassment each time? Is she doing that thing where you include all the ugly friends in the group so your real target doesn’t feel too targeted? I’ve never tried it, having never knowingly pursued a target before, but I’ve heard about it and can imagine it to be an effective technique. I decide that must be her game but then when I glance back over, I think if that’s really her strategy shouldn’t she be looking at Laura at least a little bit? And also at the other uglies in our group too, who are of course not actually ugly in the slightest but, like me, are also no Lauras. It’s becoming clear this woman in black is looking directly at me and at very little else. As she gets nearer her stare is so intense I feel my face becoming warm and I have to subtly dab at my top lip to keep it dry. Everyone else in the group has now started to notice and they are giving me totally unashamedly conspicuous nudges and winks, further exacerbating the perspiration situation. She sidles over so there is only one person between us and continues her fixed gaze, and when that person decides to go to the bar, leaving nothing but sweaty smoke-filled air between us, I find it all so excruciatingly awkward I am compelled to speak first.
My voice squeaks as I nervously vomit out a ‘Hi’, but I soon learn there’s no need to be nervous. She’s a pro. She puts me at ease as soon as she opens her mouth, her affability immediately rendering her beauty less intimidating. She introduces herself, poses lots of questions, and as we move to lean against a wall in a quieter area she seems genuinely interested in the answers, in me, in my work, in the crappy area where I live, in my friends and in my plans for the future, of which I of course have very few. I find I enjoy talking about these familiar things with her, seeing myself reflected anew in her eyes, but I’m hungry for information too. I find out her name. It's Jamie. I think the way it’s gender-neutral, and the fact it also sounds vaguely French, suits her. I like the way the name feels in my mouth. She works sourcing and supplying props for films, but her real passion is art. She’s a painter. I can’t imagine anything more exciting, but in the way creative types sometimes do she seems to find my scientific work far more glamorous. Of course I love that. We stand there talking for ages, completely ignoring our respective friends as they walk back and forth trying to catch our eyes. I’m so engrossed in our conversation, so keen to hear more about her, that it surprises me when she leans forward and asks if she can kiss me. I can’t believe that she, this glorious creature, is asking permission for anything, let alone me. Of course I wholeheartedly give it.
The world disappears. Her mouth on my mouth is everything. Her hand in my hair is everything. Her body against mine is everything. But when she pulls away and asks if I will go back to hers I have a familiar moment of panic. I haven’t prepared for this. My legs and armpits are hairy, my bush untrimmed, and I’m pretty sure I’m wearing underwear with cartoons on them, and socks with holes that expose my big toes. Why do I never prepare for this eventuality, for getting lucky? I guess it’s because when I do, I fear my presumptuousness will jinx things. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t. More important than my untended bush or nerd pants, I haven’t had sex in ten months. What if I’ve forgotten how to do sex? What if I make the woman in black laugh, not in a good way? On the other hand, what if I don’t get this opportunity again for another ten months, and then I really will forget? As if she can hear the argument raging inside my head, Jamie assures me she hadn’t been expecting this either, and we can just go to hers for a drink and see how it goes.
I follow her back to her place in Haggerston, looking forward to a no pressure drink and trying not to objectify her completely as she climbs the stairs to her apartment in front of me. Her place is unsurprisingly as gorgeous as she is. Clean and tidy but full of unusual items she tells me she picked up to use as props but loved so much she kept them for her flat. She asks if I’ve seen a particular arthouse film she worked on that featured her drinks globe. The film’s far too cool for me to have even heard of, let alone seen. I resist the temptation to lie to impress her and instead simply tell her I’ve always wanted a drinks globe. Her book collection is astounding. It covers two of the living room walls from floor to ceiling, running across the top of two doorways, and is organised entirely by colour.
I peruse the bookshelves while Jamie fetches our drinks. In the orange hued section I find that bible of our people, Oranges are not the only fruit, and I pull it out and finger through it. It’s been a long time since I’ve read it. Over ten years. I’m engrossed in the words when I feel Jamie’s hands slip around my waist and her warm breath in my ear as she reads the lines over my shoulder.
