Dr Senner were the only ones who knew and at first it wasn’t a problem, since Dad kept fit and super-healthy and ate his rabbit-food. But over time things started to slip. Mum says she saw the changes after Grandma died – Dad complained of headaches and his moods went up and down. Eventually Dr Senner persuaded him to have some tests. They said Dad needed insulin, which wasn’t good. He hit the roof, and that’s when he threw the TV out.
Mum says Dad wasn’t ever cross with me, he was mostly cross with himself. She also says the real reason he locked himself in his study was because he didn’t ever want me to see him injecting himself.
‘You have to remember he wasn’t always so shut off from us. It was just the last few years. He didn’t cope well with his illness. He wouldn’t listen to me. He wouldn’t listen to anyone.’
(I listened, though.)
‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you but it was what he wanted. He was so proud, and only told me the half of it, in any case.’
We were on the sofa sitting side by side, and she reached out and squeezed my hand.
‘People will know soon so you should hear it first from me. They’ll be surprised. Everyone thought your father was pretty much unsinkable.’
And then Constable Priaulx arrived.
Dad didn’t like secrets but in the end his secret killed him. Diabetics have to be careful if they cut themselves, because of the danger of infection. Dad had been too busy organising the Occupation Memorial to get his bad hand seen to. Mum said the infection spread to his heart.
Of course, when I found the first bottle of whisky in Dad’s study I took it straight to Mum. She said Dad couldn’t have drunk that much since there’s a lot of sugar in alcohol. She suggested he drank a bit for pain relief, after he’d cut his hand. I thought that sounded right. Until I found the other bottles. That made me worry more. So I went and asked Dr Senner if Dad had been in terrible pain. Dr Senner told me that Diabetics don’t necessarily feel pain because their nerve endings go numb. Dr Senner said Dad didn’t realise how serious his hand was, because it didn’t even hurt.
It’s hard to know who or what to trust, but I suppose I can trust what I saw. It was the night after White Rock. Dad was in his study with the door firmly closed, and I was on the stairs. I was sitting on the very spot where I’m sitting now, in fact. I like it here, because I can see halfway into the kitchen and all the way into the sitting room, and I can listen out for the study door. I used to sit here all the time when I was meant to be in bed, hoping to see Mum and Dad touch or hug or kiss like a married couple should. I never did, and I had to wonder what it was that kept them together but so far apart.
That night, Mum had already gone to bed. She’d hardly talked to Dad since the unveiling, and she didn’t even bother to tell him ‘Goodnight’. I was worried she was planning to leave him, and I honestly couldn’t blame her. But I didn’t like Dad sleeping in his study on that rough old sofa again. I imagined myself going in and telling him so. I planned to knock on his door and surprise him and then we’d have a proper chat about important, adult things. I probably would’ve also tried to hug him, even though he’d have been appalled.
Standing up quickly I padded downstairs, but once I got to his study door I waited for a minute. Then I bent down. I know I shouldn’t have done it, and I promise you I never normally look through keyholes and spy on people.
Dad was sitting in his chair with a bottle on the desk in front of him. It was definitely whisky, and it was half-drunk already. His hair was messed up and his eyes looked red and tired. He was staring down at a piece of paper and running his fingers over its edges. Then he picked up the bottle with his good hand and took a long slug. He wiped his mouth and looked back at the paper. I knew it was a letter because it had been folded neatly to fit in