Short Story: Dan The Dad

Short Story: Dan The Dad

This piece has not been edited by the ShortbreadStories team.

It is surprising how different parents are. Dan was like many people in the North who cope day by day. Most of the traditional industries have long since died but life still goes on

‘Acer-Lee’s’ clock was recognised as a useful meeting place. The clock set 50 foot above the street guarded the entrance to a long demolished cotton mill. There is new work, if you want it, in Tesco’s. Since all main streets now have double yellow lines, supermarkets are the only place people can stop to do their shopping.

Dan remembered the small stores that once made this street busy. There are other buildings now, usually takeaways, charity shops, or betting shops. Instead of the ‘clock’ people now said’ ‘I’ll see you by the porn shop.’

A bus went past at speed. He managed to avoid the spray. Life fast in the bus lane but crawls elsewhere. When it rains, it seems to rain a lot.

‘Tropical’ came to mind, a downpour immediately followed by sunlight. Sleet taking breath for a sideways attack.

Dan took up care for Ben when his mother’s paranoia met amphetamine-induced psychosis. He savoured his growing responsibilities. Dan pictured hierarchy of his local pub. Wide eyed, bottle-feeding children in pushchairs, meandering past the social, the heavy drinkers, the alcoholics, and then the rough whiskered barn pots.

This was not for Dan, or Ben. He had to set up his own house. It was warm, and cosy with threadbare but comfortable furniture. However, the TV licence was a bill he meant to leave to next month.

He dodged the puddles on the walk to Court keeping a hold of Ben’s tiny, moist hand. They took gleeful pleasure dancing around puddles. Their giggles lost in the deluge.

Men ballooned past with cans of beer. Shaven scalps that revealed the dents on their skulls, and tattoos. Their damp trainers squelched as they barrelled past. Dan doubted that the new service industries would offer employment for many.

At Court now despite being father’s day, he was shocked when he was sent down. What would happen to Ben? He asked the Court Welfare man. I strove to answer. My words lost before the winds of such injustice.

A heartbeat later, I watched, as Ben tired of the kind but unfamiliar faces and began to cry for his Dad. Dan sat stoically awaiting the prison van in a sparse holding cell.

I eventually came to a terrace house next to a surviving cobbled street. The Local Authority did not want the responsibility, or cost, of caring for Ben. Anxiety struck my soul as I passed him to his Mother. Her shrill, chaotic grasp on reality encapsulated in the words to Ben. ‘Hah Ha, happy Father’s day for Dan the Dad. Mr responsible who does not do drugs is in prison!’

I drove away to be stuck in the evening traffic. As the engine idled away, I could not help thinking, ‘It’s surprising how different parents are.’