Dan The Man
By Mike Murray
It’s Sunday, 1 PM, and the British Grand Prix is about to start. I’ve been a Guardian-reading, tofu-eating vegetarian since I was sixteen, so I fully understand the stupid cost and environmental damage of the sport. I ride a bicycle, and petrolheads love nothing more than cutting me up and forcing me into potholes. I’ve no idea how I got into this sport or how Megan, my youngest, fell into watching it with me, but it’s become our thing. My other daughter, Emily, isn’t bothered. She usually sits with us, barely lifting her eyes from her phone, but she’s away this weekend. The summer rain is belting down. We watch it through the patio doors. It makes us glad to be in, but seventy miles south of Derby, the track at Silverstone is bone dry. Rain makes any race more interesting. Sharon has a loaded basket of ironing ready, the board pitched, and the iron heating to a steam. We’ve got our snacks out, chocolate and satsumas, and I have promised to make a brew once the first round of pit stops are done. Since Lewis Hamilton won the World Championship three years ago, it’s all been about Sebastian Vettel and nobody else. Fleetwood Mac’s The Chain plays on the TV, their finest moment (and that’s a hill I will die on). If Hamilton can hold pole position he may yet manage a title challenge. One hundred and twenty thousand people are in the stands, and millions more are watching on global TV. The cars complete the warm-up lap, their tyres are now track temperature, and the V8 engines are revving. It’s five, four, three, two, one, the lights blink red to blue, and it’s go, go, go!
The V8’s shriek as they are unleashed. The sound is of burning fossil fuels; you can almost smell the climate damage from here. Hamilton enters Abbey Corner with Vettel hot on his tail after moving up from third. Webber and Grosjean make contact behind them, they spin, and it’s all a beautiful bedlam. This is the race we want.
Then someone knocks at our front door.
‘What the feck!’ Megan and I share a quick glance and agree to ignore it.
‘I’ll go, shall I?’ Sharon holsters her iron and stomps off to see who it is.
‘Whoever it is, tell them to feck off!’ Megan’s silence confirms she agrees with me. We hear the door open but stay glued to the screen. Sharon raises her voice, ‘Hello,’ she bellows, all surprised, ‘Dan.’
‘What’s he doing here?’ I ask and Megan shrugs as she doesn’t know.
Dan is Emily’s first proper boyfriend, and it’s the full teenage experience. There’s a lot of hand-holding as they take long walks around the local roads. If I spot them, I slow down and start chatting. They part hands and utter single-word responses until I ride on. Sharon has told me to stop it, but I can’t, and I know it amuses her too. Megan thinks it’s hilarious, but she’ll see things differently when she begins courting and I do the same to her.
An appropriate word to describe Dan is gormless, and there’s nothing attractive about the lad. He’s beanpole tall, sickly thin, with turkey legs, but he is always unfailingly polite. His acne has subsided, but he retains the sallow skin. He lacks charm, wit and intelligence and isn’t into movies like our Em is, so we can’t figure out what they talk about. He’s not into music, so I struggle to connect with him. As far as I can see he’s not into anything, and that makes him the simplest kind of life form. He just exists. All this, of course, is another way of saying the thing all Dads think when their daughters bring home a specimen scrotum — he’s not good enough for my girl — but I’m not allowed to protest, rail against him or share my conclusion aloud.
Sharon tells me it’s adolescent love; I shouldn’t be so quick to judge. But I know that she knows, so we both know (and Megan knows best of all) our Em can do a lot better than him. The thought of this lad being what she settles for turns my stomach. I’ve been warned, so I won’t interfere, but I can’t quite bring myself to welcome him. I have even been known to sometimes be rude.
‘Oh, you’re all soaked. You must come in and dry off.’ Sharon’s voice rises to an even higher pitch. Megan and I are aghast. What do you mean, come in? Feck off. Deal with the ballbag at the door. We’re watching the Grand Prix here. Hamilton is still ahead starting the second lap, and there’s sixty more laps to go. It gets worse; he says, ‘Yes.’
I know the rules, we’ve got company, I drop the volume using the remote, but I refuse to turn it down completely. In he slides, the slithering fool. Sharon’s hanging his coat up, and he’s oblivious to the lack of welcome. Megan and I share the sofa, the ironing board blocks off the other one, so he stands. ‘Sit, Dan, sit. These two can move up and make room.’
Dan walks in front of us as we shuffle along until he squeezes in at the far end of the sofa beside the TV. We both Gruffalo a ‘Hello’. The dork doesn’t hear just how much we don’t mean it. He looks at the television and sees it’s on, so surely he must understand this means we’re watching it. It means nothing to him. I mean, seriously, it means nothing to him. ‘Do you watch Formula One?’ I ask.
He shakes his dandruff and mumbles, ‘No.’ There’s an air about him, he’s even more uneasy than normal; he wants something. He perches on the cushion edge, blocking our TV view.
Sharon takes him through the small talk, and we must patiently wait. ‘How are you? How is your mum? You haven’t forgotten Emily’s away for the weekend. Would you like a cup of tea?’
To the offer of tea, he says, ‘Yes, please.’ But answers nothing else.
Megan springs to her feet. ‘I’ll make it,’ and runs, the coward, to the kitchen. I hear her fill the kettle, click it on and then see how she hovers by the door where she can see the TV, monitor the kettle and still take in proceedings with laddie here.
Dan tries to engage me. ‘Are you well, Michael?’
Feckin’ Michael he calls me now. I don’t remember telling him he could do that. I know I terrify him, as I should, it’s what fathers of girlfriends are for. We’ve all been there: it’s a ritual every boy must endure. Being the father of two daughters I can say and do anything, be as blunt as I like, and no boy who wants to return can snipe back. The power could go to my head, but I try not to let it. I’m learning how to maximise the joy of it.
Sharon answers for me. ‘Michael’s fine.’ But she too is keen to move things on. ‘So, Dan, what can we do you for?’
Dan slowly rubs his palms together and keeps his focus upon them.
I wish he’d sit back; I can’t see what’s happening in the race. It could be lap three, maybe four, and Hamilton still has the lead, but with the great, useless lump sitting there, nothing’s certain other than Vettel not being able to find a way through. I pick up the remote, click the subtitles on, and the words scroll across the bottom of the screen, but I see only an occasional word. Good lad Lewis, nice and steady, nothing rash, he tends to try and over-impress, can cut a corner too close, and rip the rubber from his tyres.
‘Do you want tea, Mum, Dad?’ Megan says from the doorway. She throws a grin at me, but I can’t forgive her for abandoning me.
‘Yes, please, Munchkin,’ Sharon confirms.
‘Might as well,’ I scratch my arse and then remember we have company.
Dan is rubbing his palms together like he’s trying to start a fire.
‘Dan?’ Sharon attempts to prise an answer out of a clam.
‘Tea, er, yes. Please.’
That wasn’t what she was asking. ‘You’ve popped around for a reason?’
I see a lump move up and down in Dan’s throat, and then he speaks, falters, and tries again until finally, his reedy voice rises from him. I hear the nerves. ‘As you know, Emily and I have been dating for some time.’ On hearing this, Megan reappears in the doorway. I briefly look at Sharon, whose face has frozen. We share a fear of what he may say next. ‘I have very strong feelings for her.’ Dan takes a moment. I need a moment. Sharon makes a kind of ‘uh-huh’ noise to encourage him. I’m not sure I want to hear more. The iron is in her hand, and I wonder if she’s aware it’s there or maybe she has it ready to use on him. ‘I can reassure you both that I treat her with the respect she deserves.’ I feel like my ears have popped, and I wish I could burn them. Megan’s eyes have fallen out of their sockets, and Sharon remembers the iron; she places it on its resting station where it stands at full attention. Dan continues: ‘The utmost respect,’ pauses, ‘I’m here to ask you,’ he takes a breath, I’m holding mine, ‘I feel a duty to do so,’ he pauses again — will the fecker just get on with it. ‘To ask you both for your permission…’ Jeezus! Megan has stepped back as if an explosive blast has erupted in the room. ‘For your permission to take her away for a weekend to celebrate her upcoming birthday. I hope it’s okay for me to ask. I mean no disrespect.’
Finally, he has said what he’s come to say, but it’s not what we thought — thank feck for that. Dan sits an inch or two back, stops rubbing his hands and puts them together in prayer. I can see the TV screen, the cars are doing their thing, but I’m too stunned to assess what the image means. This is for Sharon to lead, I’m happy to be a passenger. The kettle whistles to Megan, she bolts to answer it’s call.
Wait, is that the safety car out? I lean a little further forward. Dan half turns, positions himself to face us both. In doing so, he reblocks the feckin TV from me.
‘Michael, will you turn that TV off?’ Sharon snaps at me.
It’s the kind of snap I cannot ignore. I zap the remote, and decide it’s gloves-off time. If this fecker thinks he can come round here and wind me up, he’s right, but I determine to abandon the pretence and go, go, go for it. My voice is calm and manipulative as if I’m only messing. ‘So, Dan, let me just clarify what you’re asking. You want our blessing to take our daughter away for a weekend. The two of you. Alone. Would this be to a hotel?’
‘Yes, yes, no,’ he blathers. ‘Sorry, not a hotel, a B&B, a nice one. I’ve reserved the room already, but don’t have to pay until we stay.’
‘Oh, you’ve gone ahead already …’ I hang the sentence on a hook and say nothing more for now. Sharon throws me a warning glance.
‘No, no, yes. I mean, I’ve reserved it pending your blessing.’
‘Oh, okay. Our blessing is needed.’ I drop my head and roll my eyes to capture his. ‘A B&B, you say. Would that be one bedroom then?’
At this point, Sharon intervenes, ‘Where are you thinking of going?’
Dan is inspired by her interest and drones on — this boy can drone on a lot. I don’t listen, I was enjoying my moment until Sharon rescued him. I stare the boy down, see if I can melt him under my glare. Sharon decides upon a distraction.
‘Chocolate, Dan?’
‘Or take a satsuma if you prefer?’ I say as I watch him pick up the bar.
‘A weekend away sounds lovely. You’re so considerate. I’m sure Emily will love that. How thoughtful of you to come and ask our permission. You have such good manners.’
‘It seemed the right thing to do,’ Dan says, and he couldn’t be more dork-like and self-satisfied if he tried. He breaks the seal on the chocolate and works to extract a chunk. I try to count the squares. Was that four? Two is acceptable, but four is pushing the bounds.
‘Very considerate.’ Sharon says to him and then hollers, ‘Megan, where are you with those teas?’ The kettle clicked ages ago, and Megan went but the sounds of Megan actually making the tea haven’t followed. I’d say she’s listening to all this like a drama on the radio. What about the race, Megan? That’s still going on, you know. The sooner we end this farce, the sooner we can get back to that. Get your skates on girl, you’re needed here, help me get rid of this bothersome pestilence.
‘We’ve something arranged for the weekend of her birthday. When were you thinking of going?’
Have we arranged something? I can’t recall the details, or maybe I haven’t been involved. Dan witters on; blah blah blah, until Sharon is satisfied the plans don’t cross. Dan bites into the chocolate chunks. It’s Sharon’s turn to be wittering as a clearly more relaxed Dan has named a place where we’ve been, but I missed it. I’m considering how I may restore the lad’s more unsettled state. He’s come here to ask to take our precious older daughter away for a dirty weekend. That’s what he’s done. I mean, with all civility, I should, by rights, be chasing him down the road, but no, Sharon is giving him chocolate, and I’m expected to behave. Oh, we are not allowed to call a spade a spade in this house; we have to call it a shovel. The boy is a letch, a usurper, and worse, a dullard. I can’t sit here doing nothing, watching him eat my sweets. I act. ‘I’ll go chase up those teas.’ I jump up and join Megan in the kitchen.
In the kitchen, I jiggle about with indecision and frustration. Megan fails to be my ally. She’s bent over, coiled tight in smothered laughter. As she spoons sugar into mugs, her hand shakes so much that sprinkles spill onto the Formica worktop.
‘Yours, mine,’ she says, indicating two mugs and expecting me to follow her into the living room where the drama has ended, and everything is now cordial. She gives Dan his mug first. Sharon takes hers. I hand Megan hers. We sit down and look at Dan and then the chocolate left on the table. Eight chunks of chocolate are gone. The greedy bastard — for this act alone, the boy can never be forgiven. I hope he doesn’t think he’ll be getting biscuits with his tea. I sit back, hold my mug, and bite my tongue. Eight chunks gone, he has no idea who he’s messing with.
‘So, we’re good then, are we, Michael?’ Sharon says with a tone to her voice that I’m familiar with.
Yes, Dan, yes. Take Emily away. Have some more chocolate and take a satsuma. Somehow, I find myself saying, ‘And are you taking precautions?’
A relaxed Sharon is letting the clothes see the iron again but has to stop, stunned by my indiscretion. She recovers herself and takes back control. ‘Ignore him, Dan, we know you’ll drive carefully. How is the driving going? Still using your Mum’s car? You did so well to pass your test.’
I smile at Dan; he knows that isn’t what I meant. I sip my hot tea and sit quietly, like a good man. I stare past the irritant and look beyond the TV, adopting a passive expression; I’ve had my run of fun.
Sharon and Dan go on and on about nothing. The weather, his walking here in it, and all that. She shares her mobile number so he can call if he ever needs to. I’m not giving the boy mine. This goes on and on, eternally. I look at Megan, and she looks at me. We are both wondering how Hamilton is getting on in the race. I know I said I was done, and I am, but I could try something else. I sip my tea, turn to Dan, give him a generous smile, and say, ‘So, Dan, don’t you like the Grand Prix at all?’ Dan is taken by surprise by my attempts to engage. He shakes his head, so I try again, ‘It’s an exciting race today. Hamilton secured the pole…’
‘It’s British Grand Prix Day,’ Megan joins with me, ‘The biggest event in motor racing in the UK each year.’
Sharon cuts us short. ‘Dan’s not interested in Hamilton’s pole.’
No, I want to say, the only pole he’s interested in is his own.
‘These two, Dan,’ she gives a click to her tongue and attacks my shirt with the iron. ‘The pain I endure watching the blooming racing every week.’
‘It’s every two weeks,’ Megan corrects her, but is ignored.
Sharon and Dan continue their wittering, and whatever is happening in the Grand Prix continues to be a mystery. Even when the boy has drank his tea, they still carry on. Megan and I can only sip our tea, eat a chunk or two of chocolate and look at our feet. At one point, Megan gathers the empty mugs and takes them to the kitchen.
That was a hint, Dan, but the boy’s so thick he fails to heed it.
Megan can be heard loading up the dishwasher, then we hear nothing, she’s in there doing nothing. Looking through the patio doors, I speak, ‘I think that rain has eased off. You’ll be dryer walking home.’ Dan and Sharon look as well. It hasn’t technically stopped raining, but it might at some point.
‘You wouldn’t send a dog out in that,’ Sharon says dismissively.
No, I wouldn’t, but I would send Dan out in it. I turn back to continue staring the boy out, hoping to mind-melt him into taking the hint and feckin’ leaving. Dear God, make him go. I promise I’ll be nicer to him in the future but let me get back to my Grand Prix. Awkward moments follow as even Sharon runs out of inanities, and irons in silence. Dan stares at the rain. I scramble my brain for an emergency strategy, a plan, a way to end this.
‘What are you up to for the rest of the day, Dan, now you’ve visited us?’ Even Sharon wants him gone. I groan as Dan answers with unnecessary detail. I take none of it in. I hear Megan run up the stairs and enter her bedroom. I know what she’s doing, putting on BBC Radio 5 Live for the race commentary. I wonder how I can escape to join her. I itch to move but stay still.
‘Well, it’s been lovely to see you.’ Sharon tries, ‘Thank you for visiting.’ She holsters her iron and gently places the last of the pressed clothes upon the top of the to-be-put-away pile.
Finally, the boy stands as if he’s a man.
‘I’ll see you out,’ I say, jumping up. Sharon falls in behind me. I kindly rush forward and open the front door for Dan, but he stands there, looking out at the weather. ‘See, it’s easing off, you’ll be grand.’
Sharon helps Dan with his coat, and I give him a little shove but then she waivers, ‘You can’t walk home in this, Dan.’
He can, he can. ‘Can we lend you an umbrella?’ I smile, offer him a hand to help him over the threshold.
‘No, you’re alright,’ he knocks my hand back, pulls his collar up and looks scornfully at the moody sky.
‘Michael, grab your keys and give Dan a lift. I can’t let him walk home in this.’
Seriously? Let the drip drown for all I care, coming round here, asking to shag our daughter, and wasting my time when the Grand Prix is on. Sharon retrieves the car keys for me and then pushes me out of the door. Dan follows only after I’ve got in and started the engine, and then takes an age saying goodbye, and Sharon indulges him.
Even as I drive, he witters on. It’s a ten-minute journey but a lifetime passes.
I’ve turned the radio coverage on. All I can make out is the sounds of engines being pushed to their limit, brakes squealing, increasing and decreasing speed and commentators going ballistic. No one is offering clarity on where Hamilton is, and Dan’s ponderous drone overlays everything. What is happening?
I pull up outside his mother’s house. He thanks me; the boy has manners, I’ll give him that. He asks again if he did the right thing by coming around, and I assure him that Sharon appreciates his efforts. He finally walks to the door, wet rain drips from him, he’s a murky puddle that blends with the dreary weather.
I three-point turn, pump the radio up and head home. I drive slowly, delay getting back, determined to know where we are in the race. Feck me, Hamilton’s out. He had a tyre failure on lap eight. Vettel then took the lead and has held onto it ever since. I might as well catch the last ten minutes back at home, but Vettel winning again, it turned out to be a donkey race.
As soon I’m in the door, before I can put the TV on, I get the treatment I expect. Apparently, I was rude and Megan only slightly less so. ‘She ran away,’ I exclaim. That may be true, comes the reply. She has been spoken to, and it’s not a defence for my behaviour. Finally, the dressing down done, Sharon returns to putting the freshly ironed clothes away and I can turn the TV on. The race is over, and the endless panel discussion has begun. Vettel didn’t win. A gearbox went on him, and I missed it all.
Dan came to our wedding when Sharon and I finally married the following year. He was Emily’s guest, not mine. In the photographs, he’s on the edge of the family line-up; Sharon insisted he be included. Hamilton went on to win the F1 Championship a number of times, but his best driving days are now behind him. Where once we had to endure Sebastian Vettel, now we have the tedium of Max Verstappen, Formula One is back to being blisteringly boring and I’ve stopped watching it, as has Megan. My latest phone upgrade has an app that erases unwanted items in a picture, and it’s one of the joys of my mature life that I can finally delete Dan as if he never existed. Emily moved on and proved herself brutal in cutting him out of her life. He married some other victim. She lives with Tom, a movie buff, who knows better than to interrupt us when we’re busy. I quite like him. Recently, at a fancy wedding, he asked if he could marry my daughter. I said he could marry both of them. He appreciates my wit, replying, ‘No, thanks, Emily’s enough for me.’
Emily’s now his. Which just leaves Megan. She has this jack-the-lad travelling companion. She pops home every now and then, but comes alone, leaves him at a baggage drop to pick up later. I’m looking forward to meeting him.
Mike Murray was a winner of the Irish Writers Centre Novel Fair in 2022. His work is published in Envoi, The Honest Ulsterman, The Cabinet of Heed and Here Comes Everyone. He was the winner or placed in competitions run by IHG, Curtis Brown, Exeter Literary Festival, Parracombe Prize, Fish Memoir and Writing East Midlands. He lives in South West England, but is London/Irish born.