Frederick slunk down in the chair feeling completely out of place. He didn't like these fancy restaurants, with their cutlery set out on the table in precise positions, napkins folded on a little plate that he didn't know what to do with, a single, artificial looking flower, looking sorry for itself in a small, glass vase in the centre. He preferred fast food places, where people talked and could mess around on their phones. Places where all kinds of people came to eat and wandered away as soon as they had finished.
Here, all he could hear were quiet murmurs and the tinkling of knives and forks against plates. He looked around and couldn't see a single face that made him feel welcome. Not one ounce of colour to any of the faces of the other customers, except his own, his mum's and his dad's. His dad. All the way from London, sat across from him in a cheap suit and wearing a strained grin as he tried to catch Frederick's eyes.
"You're looking good, boy. Have you grown?" His dad knew very well Frederick hadn't grown at all. "All this Northern air's doing you good, eh? Got any new mates? Girlfriend?"
"Don't badger him, Anthony." Mum sat straight-backed, legs crossed, pointing away from Dad, hands clasped in her lap. "Sit up straight, Frederick. Don't give anyone a chance to stereotype you."
Reluctant, Frederick adjusted himself on the uncomfortable chair and looked down to his own lap. He knew what his mum meant, of course. He had seen the eyes of everyone pass across all of them while the other customers thought they weren't looking. It wasn't something new to him, or his mum, or his dad. They didn't belong here and he felt that thought press upon him every second from the moment the young woman had looked them all up and down as she led them to the table.
That same look had passed the face of the other young woman who had brought water and breadsticks and the same look had crossed the face of every person who worked there as they moved around the restaurant dealing with the other customers. That look that screamed that they wanted to know what people like them were doing in a place like this. They made it obvious while trying so very hard to not appear obvious.
He wished he could say it was because they were up here, in the north, where the only people with colour in their skin were Asians or Middle Eastern. There were so few black people, Frederick couldn't remember the last time he had seen anyone like him. Not since he and his mum had visited the last motorway services all those weeks ago. It wasn't only here, though. He had seen the same kinds of looks even in London, where, sometimes, you could only see black faces on some streets.
"Your menus." The young wait staff woman reappeared, handing out big, leather-bound menus to Mum and Dad and a smaller one for him. "Is there anything you need? Drinks?"
"Thanks, darling. You want cola, Freddie?" His dad grinned at the woman as though she were his best friend and Mum brushed something away on her lap. "Cola for the boy and a dry Martini for my wife. Nothing for me. I'm good with the water."
He winked at her and then at Frederick. Why, Frederick didn't know. Both Mum and Dad started looking at their menus in silence, though Dad made several glances toward Frederick's mum as he did so. Frederick's menu had all the usual stuff, with pictures, but it all looked far more fancy than he liked. Lots of plants sprinkled around the actual food. Sauces in little cups teetering on the edge of plates. Amounts of food that Frederick could eat in a couple of bites.
"I'll have burger and chips." He folded the menu, placing it on the edge of the table and caught the looks from both his parents. "What? It's on the menu!"
"Nah. It's fine, boy. You eat what you want. My treat, eh? I tell you what, that's what I'll have, too." He, too, folded the menu, putting it on top of Frederick's as he turned to Mum. "Essie? See, water. I'm looking after myself, ain't I? Doing well. Not a drink passed these lips in a month, god's honest."
"Not now, Anthony." Now Mum folded her menu, gathering up the other two and rearranging them before putting them all down again. "You said you wanted to see Frederick, not plead your case. I'm just here for him."
"Don't be like that, babe." He leaned toward her, reaching out for her hand that she snatched away. "I'm trying, ain't I? I'm making good money. Cleaned up my act. I just want us to be a family, that's all. I've changed, I swear."
And so it started again. As soon as Mum had told Frederick that Dad was coming up north to visit, he knew this would happen. He'd seen it so many times before and Dad meant it every time. Meant it with every fibre of his being. Then, day-after-day, week-after-week, month-after-month, Dad would fall further and further back. The cigarettes, the smell of booze that he denied he had drunk, the temper, the fights, the breaking of glass and the sobs of Mum.
As to making 'good money', Frederick had seen that, too. The times where, for a while, they lived like normal people. Good food in the fridge and cupboards. New clothes. New cars. But Dad's 'good money' always came crashing down. Lost to the horses, or casinos. Get-rich-quick schemes that worked at first, until the business collapsed, or Dad'a partners did the dirty on him, disappearing with everything. Frederick wasn't even sure Dad had ever had a proper job.
"I said not now!" When Mum folded her arms across her chest, Frederick knew things would get worse from this moment on. "Talk to Frederick. Be a dad. I'm not here for you and you're not here for me."
"I'm trying to do the decent thing here!" A big hand slapped the table, making everything jump and rattle, setting those eyes turning back toward them. Dad closed his eyes, took a breath and lowered his voice. "Just listen to me. Give me a chance and you'll see. Everything will be better if you just listen. I've got this new opportunity, it's ..."
"I've been fishing!" He didn't know why he said it, but it took Dad's attention back from Mum. "With this old geezer from next door. But we didn't catch any fish. Only a bicycle and the old man's doing it up. He's good with his hands."
"Yeah? What old geezer?" The look on Dad's face wasn't of interest in the fishing. He narrowed his eyes, his forehead creasing as he looked to Frederick. "And he better keep his 'good hands' to himself."
"Oh, for god's sake, Anthony! It's not like that!" Now Mum turned back to Dad, long finger, nails painted bright red, thrusting toward Dad's face. Dad hated that. "He's just a kind old man that's helping our son feel at home. You want to talk about keeping hands to yourself? Do you? Here? Because I have a lot to say about that."
Only now did Frederick notice the wait staff woman hovering a few feet away and he knew exactly what she was thinking. Aggressive, shouty black people spoiling the day for others. Mum had said not to play to stereotypes, but she and Dad had done that exact same thing. Angry black people. Shouty black people. People who don't know how to act in public.
Frederick began to slide down in his seat once again, trying to make himself as small as possible, but it didn't matter how small he became, everyone would still see him. Everyone would still hear his mum and his dad. Everyone would still peer at them from the sides of their eyes. Talk about them in hushed whispers. Frederick wished he could blame these onlookers for that, and he could, after a fashion, but he saved most of his blame for Dad, and with a fair dollop for Mum, too.
He wished he could run back to the house, knock on Mister Dibbs' little shed and watch him while he fixed a bicycle. Or to walk along with him to the allotments, or to the canal to go fishing once again, but he had ruined all that, too. He couldn't help but think that, if he didn't exist, his mum and dad would have worked through their problems. If he didn't exist, Mister Dibbs would never have had to suffer the harassment of broken windows and nasty accusations.
Mister Dibbs would still have his handkerchief and the medal, too. The old man's birthday was only a few days away, now. How Mum had even learned that, Frederick couldn't imagine, but that was mums for you. They appeared to know everything, be able to do anything, make anything right. Except, it seemed, when it came to Dad. Under the gaze of the woman waiting to take their order, Mum and Dad continued to bicker between themselves, not realising how they looked to others.
"Sir, madam. I'm afraid if you can't lower your voices, we will have no other option but to request that you leave." The woman had had enough of watching this reality tv show crap, she leaned in toward Mum and Dad, whispering loudly. "This is respectable establishment."
Respectable. Meaning that Mum and Dad, and him by association, were not. They had brought it upon themselves, repeating the same arguments over and over. Dad hadn't had a drink, but this only proved that he was angry all the time. Not to anyone else, only toward Mum and him. To everyone else, he never said a thing. Bowed and scraped, giving that stupid, toothy grin.
The chair fell backward, cracking against the pretty-patterned, polished floor and Frederick ran. He dodged between other tables, feeling accusing, disgust-filled eyes following him as he raced toward the doors. Away from Dad. Away from Mum. Away from people talking about them as though they were something less. He didn't stop running until he reached someone's car and collapsed against the wheel, clutching his knees to his chest.
It seemed nowhere and no-one wanted him.