From chapter: ‘The Only House on Croft Street’ On Saturdays, Mum went to work. And if Dad was going to be busy in the garage, as he almost always was, I was meant to be outdoors entertaining myself. What would happen is, once I had eaten my breakfast, Mum would carry my chair, with me still in it, from the kitchen table over to the back door, then tip me out into the garden. It was our little routine and it made us both laugh. In spring, I would march all the way across to the pond and check on the tadpoles. I liked to imagine that I was some official on important business, like a scientist or some kind of detective, taking detailed notes on their progress. I would catch one and hold it up to my eye, turning it over and saying to myself, “Hm, yes, legs coming through, eyes are visible. All right, maturing a little late this year, but things are coming along nicely now.” That’s what being an only child is like! When you’re alone, you invent characters to spend time with. If it was summertime, I might go looking for blackberries, and then I was a gentle roaming bear. I also liked to practise my aim, and then I was an athlete. I would throw stones at a skinny tree, dreaming up higher stakes and bigger prizes for every attempt. In autumn I would throw conkers; in winter, if I was lucky, snowballs. I would sprint the long length of the garden, timing myself in my head. I believed I could count precisely and stop my imaginary watch just as I got to the fence. If it was 12.89 seconds one day, I would get cross with myself if it was 12.93 seconds the next! But no matter how many of these scenarios I dreamt up for myself, I would always end up standing by the garage door, listening to the distantly masculine clinks and clanks emanating from Dad’s workbench. Those noises were bracingly real, and I felt silly playing imagination games whenever I heard them. Sometimes there would be a huge crash and he would storm out moments later, greasy and furious. I was never afraid of him, just awestruck. He was like an enormous force of nature. I trusted him entirely, but we didn’t speak a lot, and he didn’t make himself easy to know or understand. One day, a miraculous thing happened. At the very moment I was listening to him tinker away, wondering what he was making, he called my name. He would have expected me to be deep in the garden, so he called at the top of his voice. The sound wave rattled in my chest. When he came out to look for me, he was surprised to find me already at the door, rooted to the spot. He smiled a little, I think, and beckoned me in. I eagerly followed. Up on his workbench, in a dusty beam of sunlight, was a boy’s bicycle. My first thought was that it was strange seeing a bicycle so high off the ground, and that he must have been so strong to get it up there. But soon, his hands were under my armpits, and I was placed up on the workbench too, and he was explaining the uses of tools that he was putting into my hands. His voice was so steady and casual that at first I didn’t even realise I was being given a gift. He had me grease the chain, and he demonstrated what would happen to ungreased metal by sparking and chipping two old nuts against each other. He showed me how to adjust the saddle and the handlebars to my height. He told me what each part of the bike did and what they were all called. I still wasn’t excited about the bike like as if I’d just unwrapped it. I was trying to muster up a more mature feeling – a sense of responsibility. Dad tested me on everything he’d told me, and I was desperate to answer correctly. When he told me to go out onto the driveway to try it out, I pedalled methodically, tuned in to any imperfections, and I called out if I felt something not quite right. When he went inside to make lunch, I stood looking at the bike. And my heart began to dance. In time, it became my favourite possession. I remember every inch of that bike. Every weekend, I took it into Dad’s garage to get help with repainting it or making repairs. Those Saturday mornings are my favourite memories of him.