In Living Memory

2 - Good Deeds, Bad Deeds

2 - Good Deeds, Bad Deeds

I remember one thing my mum told me when I was younger. I was about thirteen, and Carmen was eighteen, totally in love with the idiot, Adam. She was following him to St Andrews, just for him, though I know she could have gotten into Cambridge or Oxford. I was so confused, angry, and annoyed. She was going up to Scotland, I just didn't understand why she would want to be away from her family, who she loved.

Mum said, "Of course it doesn't make sense now. But in the future it will all become clear. For now, smile through all the confusion, and make the most of all the time with your sister. You'll get it someday."

I remember snorting and walking out of the room moodily, thinking she was mental. Completely and totally mental.

-

I'm meant to be washing Reverend Harvey's car for him today. I was awake until around four in the morning and then suddenly, I remembered.

I detest that feeling.

The feeling of wishing you could go back in time, when you remember you have to do something which you would rather dive into the freezing cold sea in this dreadful English weather than do.

Yet when I drag myself up out of bed and pull back the curtain, this dreadful English weather is non-existent. Instead, I see that the wooden pathway leading down to the beach is wet, yes, and some of the blocks are scattered a little, I know. But the sun's rays are like golden syrup cutting through the fluffy, pearly white clouds which hang in the sky looking like blobs of thick crème fresh, splattered onto the blue sideboard in the kitchen after one of my mother's food experiments.

Even though I can see that the breeze is still playing with the branches of the trees in front of our house, I've never seen the sky so clear since last summer.

Oh, last summer.

After I stand there at the window for ages, my hands grasping the blue, soft curtain absent-mindedly, I draw my eyes away from the sight outside.

It doesn't take me long to have a rushed, cold shower and brush my teeth, before getting dressed into some clothes suitable for cleaning a car with. They're going to get full of soap and water and God only knows what else. So I decide on wearing some old denim shorts and a faded pink vest top, pulling a hoodie over the top. I tie my half-wet hair up into a messy bun, then grab my phone and take a deep breath, before opening the door and heading downstairs.

Dad is sat at the table when I enter the kitchen, and as usual, the morning paper obscures my view of his face. As I walk more into the room and get to his left side, I look over at him. His hair, black and thinning, with some small streaks of grey in there, yet still curly in a fluffy way. His eyes behind the rimless spectacles, hazel and warm with spots of yellow, moving back and forth across the newspaper's text. His skin, sun-marked and golden brown, freckles on his face. My dad looks the same everyday. As I've grown up I never noticed any changes in him. With mum, I watched her get older. I could spot changes. But with him, I have to look at pictures from different times to realise that over the years he has changed, and I just haven't realised.

"Morning, dad," I say, strolling over to the toaster. I hear a rustle of the newspaper and he clears his throat.

"Morning, darling. You okay?"

After popping some bread in the toaster I turn around and look at him, then nod and push myself up onto the counter, reaching to the left to open one of the wooden cupboards where the cups are kept. If mum sees me doing this she goes ballistic, screeching as if I've actually harmed her. But my dad doesn't care.

My dad goes to work at the youth detention centre at eight this morning and on a Wednesday and Friday he has to do overnight duty. He keeps going on about how any day now he'll get moved up to a higher rank and he won't have to do the overnight things. I really hope he does soon.