It’s his hands I remember most. Warm and bear-like, enclosing mine like the sheepskin mittens Nana had given me for my birthday. He swings me from the doorstep, all trembling anticipation in my best dress and Michelle Colby’s chestnut-brown patent leather shoes.
School’s closed for the Christmas fair and the air throbs with excitement. The big wheel circles behind the hospital. Mam never lets me go on it, she says it’s too dangerous and way too expensive. But this year it’s just me and my Da, and he’s going to spoil me rotten. He promised on the crackly telephone line from wherever he lives now he and Mam don’t talk anymore.
I tug Da along the street and the tinny music grows louder. Slade blurs into Wizzard.
‘Oh Da, look at the bumper cars! And the merry-go-round!’ I pause and try to control myself, like Mam says you should once you’re ten. We’re done with histrionics in this household. ‘And I’ve never been on the big wheel.’
This is where Mam would tell me to slow down and decide on my priorities because she can only afford two big rides and one sticky thing to eat. But I reckon that, since Da’s been away so long, he’s got a lot of catching up to do on the spending front.
And I’m right. He gives me a toothy grin, showing the gap left when he and Seamus Malone fell out. ‘So where first, little princess?’
I’m overwhelmed by the noise and garish colours and can’t decide. ‘Don’t worry, we’ve all afternoon,’ he says, though we haven’t because he was an hour late picking me up and mam says I’ve to be back for teatime.
We go on the bumper cars first. He grabs the steering wheel, but he’s much better than me at bashing into people so that’s okay. Until he and Simon Ramsbottom’s dad have a bit of a spat and the man in charge gets cross. He says they’re supposed to drive in the same direction and mustn’t use bad language because there’s children around. After that, Da lets me have a go and I try not to hit anything. You’re missing the point, he laughs.
Then he gives me a handful of coins and goes ‘to do business with a couple of friends’. I nibble the polished brownness off a toffee apple but once I’ve eaten that the bland fruit gets boring. I chuck it away and head for the penny pusher machines. Despite rolling my money where rafts of coins balance so precariously they’re bound to fall, they never tumble. I wish Da was there to help.
Jenny Sinclair creeps up behind me and whispers, ‘They’re all stuck together you know’. She watches me lose my last two pennies and we kick around together for a while. Her mum treats us to candyfloss. Frothy pink strands smear across our noses and catch in our hair. Then the sun’s going down and I wonder where Da is.
And like magic, he appears again. He’s loud and cheerful and offers to take us on the Waltzers, but Jenny’s mum says she thinks it’s not a good idea right after the candyfloss. Away they melt into the crowd. Da ignores the long queue snaking round the gangway of the Waltzer, just lifts me up and puts me into one of the cars before getting in alongside. When the man comes for our fares, Da winks at him. ‘Do your worst, Liam’.
At first, it’s not so bad. But Liam spins us faster like he’ll never stop and my head is flung backwards. I’m shaken round and round, up and down. My neck’s breaking, teeth rattling. I can’t scream because all the breath has been sucked out of my body. The sweet, acid taste of sick creeps up my throat and into my mouth. Please God, I can’t throw up in front of Da and all over my best clothes.
When it finally stops, my legs are so wobbly I nearly slip down the step onto the tarmac. Liam is laughing at me. Da scoops me into his side and I smell sweat and cigarettes and scotch. It reminds me of being on his knee at home and I feel sad and happy at the same time.
‘Let’s get you something special.’ The next thing I know he’s grabbed a rifle from the woman at the shooting range. ‘Get them ducks in a row!’ he cackles. Bang bang bang and he’s won a prize. I gawp at the stuffed toys on display. But the woman, all rouge and powder, leans across with a bag of water. I struggle to hide my disappointment until I realise the small orange thing inside is alive.
‘Big wheel?’ asks Da.
I nod, speechless with excitement. As we rise through the air I see the bright lights of Halifax shimmering below and try to spot our house. But then I remember the goldfish, and have to cradle it so carefully I can no longer look around.
*
And now here I am at the same Christmas fair, 30 years later. I turn from watching my own daughters on the Dodgems and say to Mam, ‘Do you remember when Da brought me here for my birthday?’
‘Do I ever,’ she says. ‘I could’ve killed the bastard. Par for the course, though, buggering off with his mates on the razzle and leaving you to make your own way home.’
‘No, I rode back on Da’s shoulders. He pretended to be a fairground pony.’
‘In your dreams,’ she scoffs. ‘You’d tears and snot all over your face and your shoes were scuffed beyond repair. And nobbut a dead fish to show for it.’
I stare at her and a sweet, acid taste rises in my throat. I’d remembered it so well. I’d remembered it because it’s the last time I saw my Da. But it seems I don’t remember it at all.
PAM HANLEY previously worked in Education researching different teaching approaches for under-19s. She now spends her time walking her dog, working on her allotment, editing her local cycle campaign newsletter and playing badminton. This is her first publication.
