Father Returned as a Roundabout

How it begins

My father returned on a Tuesday, as a roundabout.

He was not pleased with the signage.

"Too late," he said as I approached in the council car. "They need the warning twenty yards earlier."

I braked so sharply that the survey equipment slid off the passenger seat.

The car behind me sounded its horn.

"Don't stop there," my father said. "Honestly, Marian."

He had been dead for four years.

I took the first exit, pulled into a supermarket car park and sat with both hands on the wheel.

Then I went around again.

"Better," he said. "Though your indicator could do with more conviction."

The roundabout was new. I had approved its drainage calculations and objected to the ornamental grass, which would obscure sightlines by July.

I had not approved my father.

At the third circuit, he sighed.

"If you're looking for the station, it's the second exit."

"I'm looking for an explanation."

There was a pause.

A bus passed between us.

"I was rather hoping you had one."

That sounded more like him than anything so far: certainty about everyone else's route, astonishment at his own.

I parked safely, put on my high-visibility jacket and walked to the central island using the controlled crossing.

The grass moved in a small wind.

"Dad?"

"Yes."

I sat on the low concrete edge.

Around me, cars circled with the mild hostility of people being delayed on their way to work.

"What do you remember?"

"Your mother. The garden. A nurse with very cold hands."

"Do you remember our last conversation?"

The grass became still.

Beyond the junction, a billboard advertised the council's new road improvement scheme.

A straight dual carriageway.

No roundabout.

My father cleared his throat, though I could not imagine with what.

"There's a lorry coming too fast," he said.

I watched it brake.

For four years I had wanted one more conversation.

I had forgotten how good he was at changing the subject.