Page 5 of The Book Swap

“If you’d only come up to visit me sometime, you’d know.” I look across at him, so at home here. “Do you ever miss it?” I ask.

Dad was a true Londoner until he met Mum. She appeared front row at one of his gigs back in 1974, and that was it. He just knew. From that moment on, wherever she was, he’d be there too. Unfortunately, within a few years, just as Dad’s career was taking off, that meant Frome—where Elliot arrived, and then me.

“Of course,” he says, waving through the window to one of the staff in the deli at the top of Catherine Hill. “But missing it reminds me of why I left, and what I have because of leaving.”

Sometimes I try to get Dad to admit the truth about how he feels. There’s no way he can be this philosophical about it all. The life he chose means he’s forever haunted by the words “one-hit wonder.” They precede his name in any article ever written about him. The man behind the title song for the multimillion-pound box-office smash Nobody Boy, who never sung again. It’s my worst nightmare, but he wears the badge if not with pride then at least without any remorse.

He shows no shame in his career going from supporting Fleetwood Mac in stadiums to donning a Domino’s uniform and delivering pizzas. No shame, even when I took my best friend from primary school, Geoff, home in the summer holidays before we started at Frome College, and he burst out laughing at the sight of my dad running down the stairs in his navy blue polo shirt, with the red dots on the sleeve, sporting a logoed baseball cap.

“I’ll bring us back some double pepperoni for tea,” he shouted, patting me on my head. I shrank away from him as Geoff followed me up the stairs, cackling.

By the time we started our first day at college, he’d told everyone. I sometimes feel that it kick-started the worst few years of my life.

We haven’t managed many of these walks, me and Dad. Until just a few days ago, Mum required constant supervision. We took it in turns. I silently berated Elliot for getting away with not helping, purely due to geography. He’s a full-time dad in New York and even if he were ever to offer—which he hasn’t—bringing three-year-old Jordan would be too much for Mum. She’d hate for him to see her that way.

We’ve gotten good at it anyway, Dad and I, over the years. He’s stopped feeling bad about asking me. I’ve started offering my assistance earlier—the moment Mum doesn’t reply to a message within twenty-four hours, or if Dad says, “holding up” when I ask how he is. It’s a slick operation, devised over time and out of necessity.

“Hopefully it’s a good, long spell this time,” I say as we pass the three-story secondhand shop halfway down the hill, which has been my main source of entertainment this trip.

Dad shrugs. “Just got to enjoy every good day,” he says. “Make happy memories to last us through.”

I look across at him, this man who’s so selflessly given up his life to care for my mum. Who never wishes for more than what he’s got. I open my mouth to say something. To tell him how admirable it is. What a good man he is. To say, The way you’ve looked after this family is nothing short of heroic. You’re the glue that holds all of us together. We’d fall apart without you. I can’t do it. His choices, no matter how heroic, contributed toward making my time at school a living hell. There wasn’t a day that went by where I wasn’t shouted at or laughed at. Spit on or kicked. Had chewing gum stuck into my hair, or an entire group of boys standing around me, ready to do awful things unless I found some way to stop them.

It also meant that several times a day, someone would come up to me and sing Dad’s one fucking song, “Do You Know Me?,” in my face.

We pass the Italian restaurant which was built three years ago. I remember, because it was one of Mum’s worst ever spells. I was back home long enough to watch the whole thing rise from the ground. By the time we reach the bookshop, the moment to say something to Dad has passed. One day though, I should tell him.

I put my hand on the door to push it open, shrinking back when I see through the glass panel that there’s a woman in there, browsing. I recognize her long, wavy brown hair, tucked behind one ear, the same way she wore it at school. She’s wearing a floor-length white skirt, with black DMs and a leather jacket. All the times I’ve been back in Frome, and not once have I seen her. Not since the day she left school. I hold my arm out to stop Dad and watch as she pulls a book off the shelf and turns it over, immediately engrossed in whatever’s on the back. I’ve been in that shop so many times, I know which section she’s in. It’s the self-help one.

“Actually, I reckon I’d prefer a pint,” I say to Dad and walk away, leaving Erin Connolly to browse in peace.

Just as I’m about to put on my fancy dress outfit, Elliot makes his daily guilt call. He does it whenever I’m back home with Mum. There was once a time in my late teens when he made no contact for two years, but that seems forgotten now—by him, at least. He calls as though it’s what he’s always done.

“How’s it going in the old mad house?” he asks, TV playing out some dramatic kids’ show in the background. It’s all creepy high-pitched voices and explosive sound effects.

You’d know if you ever came home. The words fly into my head and stop before they reach my lips. Most of the conversations I want to have with my brother happen in my own mind.

“Better by the day.”

“That’s great. Quite a short one this time?” He sounds cheerful. Upbeat. Like life’s back to normal again. It didn’t feel short when I was up with our mother until 3:00 a.m. for weeks, or on the phone to the doctor’s surgery the second they opened.

“Yeah. She’s doing good.”

“Have you hit up any of the old dirt tracks while you’ve been back?”

My chest tightens. When I was in year twelve, Elliot used to pick me up after college, bikes in the boot of his car, and we’d travel all around Somerset and beyond, finding new paths to cycle down. The rougher and muddier, the better. It’s where we did all of our best talking.

“No time, unfortunately.” I wouldn’t do it without you.

No one speaks.

“How are you?” I ask, eventually.

He sighs. “Okay. Could do without Carl spending half his life on the other side of America.”

I flinch at the mention of Carl, the way I always do. I know it isn’t fair to blame Elliot’s husband for my brother’s absence in my life, but I don’t know how to stop it. Yes, Elliot left, but Carl kept him there.

“Sorry to hear that.”

---