Dad Tax
I’m not sure how old I was when dad started collecting taxes. It was our entire lives, probably, and he just gave it a label when we were old enough to protest. “Sorry,” he’d say, taking a bite of our ice cream. “Dad tax.”
Dad tax applied to anything edible but most often to McDonalds, chocolate, milkshakes and crisps. There was nothing much we could do about it. The only thing Dad didn’t tax was our grandmas cooking. He preferred to mock it instead, asking for a straw when she served up runny lasagne and bouncing her overcooked chicken legs on the table. Max and I would be beside ourselves laughing, but no one laughed louder than our grandma.
When I was 5 and Max was 7, dad moved to Singapore to become CEO of a media agency. But we didn’t understand all that. We just knew we wouldn’t be able to see our dad every weekend anymore.
Once or twice a year he’d be sent back to London on business. He wouldn’t tell us. He’d call us on the phone as if he was still in Singapore, but I’d hear his voice echoing outside the house. In a split second I’d realise what was happening and I’d sprint down the stairs and out the front door and into his huge arms. He’d smell of rented car and Silk Cut cigarettes and wax jacket. We loved him so much.
We’d drive up to our grandmas house, playing games in the car on the way. Let’s look at the scores on the door Miss Ford. When it came to games, dad was a puppet master. The rules were invariably nonsense, but he’d deliver them with all the authority of the CEO of MEC Asia-Pacific. Sometimes he’d ask questions that I knew the answer to, sometimes Max. Sometimes he’d give me extra points for no reason, sometimes Max. He’d play us off against each other until we were mad as hatters. The end of the game would always be some manic crescendo that left one of us euphoric and the other in the depths of despair. But he’d always even it out one way or another. We were so happy, in those rented cars. We didn’t want those journeys to end.
Our grandma would greet us at the door of her cottage. Dad would have to nap because of the jet-lag and we’d miss him while he slept, but our grandma would keep us happy with card games and Fawlty Towers until he woke up again. Then the four of us would go for a long walk on the beach (it was probably short, I had little legs), and when we got home we’d eat toast and watch Blind Date and drink hot chocolate.
Once as a treat he bought us tin pencil cases, but the pencils were all made of chocolate. Max ate his right away, but I saved mine.
Weekends are short. Sunday would come. We’d hug his wax jacket goodbye. My grandma, left with two tiny, heartbroken children, always knew what to do. Let’s have a cup of tea and see what treats are in the fridge. I’d nod my sad little head. This time, at least, I had my chocolate pencils.
Dad was well on his way to the airport when I opened the tin, which was totally empty except for a note that said Sorry Al – dad tax.
