Half-truths & White Lies by Jane Davis Read Free Book Online Page A

Simple, you would have thought. But every one
of my father's shirts seemed to hold a memory. As a
little girl, I always helped him pick a shirt and tie to go
with his work suit. Sometimes my mother would
attempt to veto my choices, but my father would go
along with exactly what I had laid out on the bed for
him. It was a question of solidarity between us.
Naturally, I was biased towards the ties that I had
bought him as presents, complete with cartoon
characters or corny slogans. 'Best Dad in the World'.
Essential for creating the right impression in a business
meeting.
    Pairs of shoes conjured up an image of him sitting on
the back step of the kitchen, all of his shoe-cleaning
equipment laid out in a neat row in the required order
on a piece of newspaper. He enjoyed the challenge of
making an old pair of shoes look shiny and new almost
as much as he enjoyed polishing the chrome of a bike
or a car. This was a serious business to him. If you think
of a doctor preparing for major surgery, you will get the
picture. My father had a deep respect for tools of any
sort and cared for them lovingly. Nothing was put away
dirty or untidily. Everything had to be just so, exactly as
he would need it the next time. When I wanted to 'help',
he would allow me to pass him the right piece of cleaning
equipment at the right time while he would whistle
to me. I learned to whistle sitting next to my father on
the back step of our house. In time, we mastered some
simple duets, but when my father launched into his
rendition of 'The Man who Sold the World' or 'Stairway
to Heaven', I stopped to listen, hands cupping my face
and elbows on knees. I thought that whistling was the
extent of his musical talents, but it was magical to me.
    Jumpers represented Christmases gone by. Nana
always bought a jumper for my dad for Christmas from
Marks & Spencer, resplendent with snowflakes and
reindeer. Most of them were rarely worn other than on
the big day itself, safe in the knowledge that we were
unlikely to leave the house. He would rip off the
wrapping paper enthusiastically, pretend to be surprised
and delighted, and strip off whatever he was wearing in
front of us all to put on the new jumper. Sometimes he
would deliberately put the new jumper on inside out
and back to front and ask, 'What do you think? Isn't it
terrific?' Sometimes he would pretend that his head was
too big to fit through the hole and battle away until I
went to help him. It was always my help that solved the
problem. Sometimes his hands would emerge through
the head hole in a digging motion followed by the top
of his head. We knew this as his mole impression.
Sometimes he would kneel on the floor, leaving the
arms of the jumper dangling with his hands just visible
from underneath the bottom edge, tensed into claws.
He would alternately blink against the light and widen
his eyes, hooting like a half-demented owl. Sometimes
he would rotate the jumper through 90 degrees, put his
head through so that his eyes were visible and his ears
were pushed forward by the unforgiving neck and wave
the empty sleeve about in front of his face, trumpeting
like an elephant.
    'Oh, that's a lovely fit, Tom,' my mother would remark
after the commotion was over, or, 'That's a good colour
on you, Tom.' Anything to avoid actually saying, 'I will
never, ever be seen in public with you wearing that,' or,
'Over my dead body will you leave this house wearing
that thing.' My mother was always very particular about
appearances. She felt that people would judge you by
what you wore.
    'I've kept the receipt in case you want to change it,'
Nana would say, beaming, lapping up all of the compliments
about her choice. In those days, I would believe
them too.
    'Change it, Brenda?' he would reply, horrified at the
suggestion. 'Why on earth would I want to change it?'
    It became more and more difficult for my father to
pretend that he liked the Christmas jumpers that hung
unloved in his wardrobe. Eventually, my mother started
to