Page 62 of The Tapes
‘Why have you got a dead man’s wallet?’ Faith asks.
She’s calm but I know the tone – because, sometimes, she’s her father’s daughter. The disappointed, not angry voice. Thewhy have you let me down this timeway of phrasing a sentence.
‘Why were you in my drawers?’ I ask, knowing it’s the wrong thing to say, even as it comes out.
‘Really? That’sreallythe first thing you say?’
I’m not sure how else to respond and my daughter sighs with annoyance.Disappointedannoyance. ‘The drama trip’s in six weeks,’ she replies. ‘They want our passport numbers. I was looking for mine, when I found this.’
Of course that’s why she was in my drawer. I keep our passports and birth certificates in the same place, along with a few other documents. She knows this and I’ve told her she can retrieve her things anytime she needs them. But I obviously wentstraight to defensiveness, because that’s what I do. Somebody else’s fault, not mine.
Faith glances to the wallet, to Owen’s face, then back to me, waiting for the answer.
‘It’s hard to explain,’ I say.
‘Are you drinking again?’
‘No!’
‘I know it’s Granddad’s funeral and?—’
‘I’m not drinking.’ I somehow need her to believe this more than anything else. ‘I’mnotdrinking,’ I repeat, quieter now.
Faith waits and I’m not sure whether she believes me. She’s never had to ask this before. We both look to the wallet together.
‘You told me he killed himself,’ she says.
‘Yes. It’s… very sad.’ I pause. ‘He was one of the landscapers,’ I say. ‘I’d see him more or less every day.’
It’s only now I remember I’ve not told anyone that I walked out on my job. I was always going to be off today because of the funeral. And Faith deserves to know. Because walking out of my job is a big part of why I have Owen’s wallet.
‘I’ll explain. But first you should know that I, uh… quit my job,’ I add.
Faith’s gaze shoots up from the wallet to take me in. ‘You quit?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s sort of complicated but I had a falling out with my boss. He wasn’t talking to me very kindly and I suppose I’d had enough. I probably should’ve tried to talk to him differently but I guess it’s been a long week or two. I lost my temper.’
There’s a quiver to my voice.
‘I should’ve told you before,’ I add.
Faith waits. ‘And you’re not…?’
‘I’m perfectly capable of ruining a career without alcohol.’
I force a snigger but get nothing in response, not that I blame my daughter. This isn’t a laughing matter. ‘I had keys for the office but I’d accidentally left with them. My boss wanted them back but I didn’t particularly want to talk to him again. I thought I’d drop them off at the office but then, when I was there, I don’t know what came over me. I ended up letting myself into the office and I found that wallet in the safe.’
There’s a realisation of how bad that sounds as soon as it’s out. Faith is open-mouthed. ‘You broke into an office, then you broke into a safe?’
‘No… well… yes. But not really. I didn’tbreakanything. The safe was open.’
‘But even if the safe was open, why didn’t you just leave the wallet? And why did you go in at all? Why didn’t you just leave the keys?’
‘… I keep reading the same bit about impulse control. It says you want something, so you take it, even though you don’t necessarily need it, or even want it.’
