‘Told them you’re going away.’ ‘Why should I, none of their business,’ he says. ‘Don’t you give them a set of keys when you go away?’ I ask. I know he doesn’t, I’m just pretending I don’t to relieve my irritation. ‘’Course not!’ he says indignantly.‘I don’t want them coming into my house nosing around while I’m away.’ ‘I should think they’d have better things to do at Christmas,’ I sneer. We are getting off to a bad start.
Before we leave I knock on the front door of the adjoining semi. The Barkers are not the most charismatic couple in the world but I rely on their goodwill to keep an eye on Dad and to phone me if they have any cause for concern. Mrs Barker opens the door. ‘Oh hallo!’ she says in a high-pitched whine, and giggles. It is a nervous giggle which punctuates all her speech.‘How’s your Dad?’The bulky shape of Mr Barker looms in the hall behind her, in shirtsleeves and braces, a cordless power drill held like a weapon in his hand. I tell them that I’m taking Dad to spend Christmas with us (‘Oh, that’ll be nice for him, won’t it?’ - giggle), and that I’d be grateful if they would keep an eye on the house. ‘There’s a leaking gutter on the side of the roof that needs attention,’ says Mr Barker.‘Is there? Thanks for telling me,’ I say. ‘I’ll get it seen to after he comes back.’ The Barkers’ house is in immaculate condition, its upkeep being Mr Barker’s chief occupation in retirement, and I know that the relatively scruffy appearance of Dad’s is a sore point. ‘Well, we’d better get going,’ I say. ‘Have a nice Christmas.’ ‘Yes, same to you!’ Mrs Barker giggles. Her spouse returns to whatever DIY operation I interrupted, but so barren of incident is Mrs Barker’s life that she stands at the door hugging herself against the cold, and watches as I escort Dad out of the house and settle him in the front seat of the car. She simpers and waves to us as we drive away.
The traffic in central London was even worse on the way back, and we had to stop at the first service station on the M1 for a late lunch, with the larger part of the journey still before us. The fog slowed the traffic, there were frequent hold-ups on the motorway, and I began to see that we wouldn’t reach home until well into the evening. Dad was garrulous at first, advising me on the route across London (‘Don’t go through Camberwell and Victoria whatever you do, it’s the land of a thousand traffic lights’), criticising other motorists’ driving (‘Did you see that idiot? Not even a signal! Diabolical!’), asking me to convert the price of petrol by the litre displayed at the garages we pass into gallons (‘What, four quid a gallon? You must be joking!’), recalling epic car journeys to play at hunt balls in remote rural venues: ‘Hills? You’ve never seen hills like they have in Wales. The whole country is hills. There was the time Archie Silver - he was a bass player - dead now - he had five of us in his old Wolseley - all the instruments in a trailer - going down this hill like the side of a mountain and the brakes failed . . .’ Surprisingly, he didn’t seem worried by the fog. I think he attributed it to the cataract in his left eye. After lunch he fell asleep and I drove on in blessed silence. But when he woke up he wanted to pee. I had just passed a service station, and the next one was at least thirty minutes away. ‘Did you put that bottle in the car?’ he said, groping under his seat. ‘What bottle?’ I said, with a sinking feeling. I had forgotten all about my suggestion weeks ago that he should have a bottle with him for such an emergency. ‘The milk bottle, in a brown paper bag, in the hall by the front door. I told you to put it under my seat, when you took out my things.’ ‘I didn’t hear you, Dad,’ I said. I had driven to London without wearing my hearing aid and didn’t insert it until several minutes after my arrival, during which time he must have mentioned the bottle. Or possibly he mentioned the bottle later, when I was wearing my hearing aid, but in