Tea is my typewriter

You have eight saved messages.

Message received at eight fifty two on the twenty seventh of December. 

Hi Dad, it’s Juno. I didn’t think you’d be awake yet. I just wanted to check that you’re okay after Christmas Day.  And just to let you know that if you wanted to give me a call, that would be okay. I shouldn’t have told you never to call again. That was a mistake and, well, I’m sorry.

You were really out of order, Dad. The way you spoke to me was horrible, it was really hurtful and nobody should have to put up with that. Please don’t do it again.

So here’s the thing, dad. I tried to tell you this on Christmas Day but you were too focussed on trying to find the nutcrackers. I was hoping this could have been a conversation, but a monologue will have to do. 

Unless you sort yourself out, Dad, I’m not coming back to see you again. I love you Dad, I always will, and that’s why I want you to get better. I want you to get some help and get yourself cleaned up. Please. Get some help with your drinking. 

You can listen to this message again when it’s done, Dad. Press 2 to repeat and press 5 to save. Maybe save it so you can listen to it when you need to. That way you can remember. 

So… I’ve got work to do this week, no Hogmanay parties for me. I’ve got a deadline for the Journal of Space Research. They approached me, which is great. In case you don’t remember from Christmas Day – I did tell you, I was trying to surprise you – the last publication, the one on creating low pressure environments for crops, well, the panel gave it four stars. World-leading research, Dad! The department are really excited. Obviously, I am too. 

So I really hope you’re at least a little bit proud of me?

Whenever I have to work and everyone else is out partying, I think about the times we used to walk by the canal on a Sunday morning when I was little, and we’d talk about the planets. It was my happy place, Dad. Being with you and talking about space, that was the happiest I’ve ever been. 

Anyway, call me if you want to talk, Dad. Or if you need any help getting… you know. 

Bye.

Message received on the twentieth of January at nine twenty two AM.

Hey Dad, it’s Juno. Calling nice and early as usual, because that way you can save the message when you get it, and you can listen to it again when you’re feeling okay.

I got a call from Myra next door and she said that you’ve been out in your lab again? Dad, you told me you’d got rid of everything. Please, please don’t start again. Unless you’re sober, and they’ve let you go back to work, please don’t start experiments again.

Hang on, have they let you go back to work? That would be amazing. Look, if you’re back at work, please phone and tell me. But if you’re back on your old plan, please, please stop. We’ve been through it so many times, Dad! 

You can’t bring Mum back. Even when she was sick there was nothing you could have done. Cures take teams and investment and time and trials and I don’t even know why I’m telling you what you already know. You’re a brilliant scientist, Dad, everybody knows that, but there was nothing you could have done. None of us could.

Did you get some help, Dad? Have you stopped drinking? Let me know. Please. 

Well… More good news at work, Dad, Next week I start as a Principal Investigator. It’s put a few noses out of joint but I’m just cracking on. The whole team is working on whether we can usefully grow crops with reduced oxygen. It’s got so many potential applications, Dad, but you and I both know what the real prize is! This is the work that could really make the difference when it comes to living on other planets.

I’d love to talk it over with you. To be honest I’d love to celebrate it with you, but we both know what your celebrations would look like. So if you want to talk, when you’re sober – properly sober, not just before your first drink of the day – call me if you’d like. Or if you need any help.

Bye.

Message received at twelve twelve pm on Friday the tenth of March.

Oh my god, Dad, I really thought this was late enough in the day for you to be awake, but no, obviously not. So I guess I’ll just have to shout at your voicemail instead.

What are you doing trying to upset Myra? She’s the best neighbour you can hope for, Dad. She doesn’t bother you, she puts up with your antisocial hours, and she’s looking out for you, Dad. And you went round and started hurling abuse at her? What did you think you were doing? 

Here I am, shouting at you again like it’s going to make the blindest bit of a difference. You’re not in your right mind, are you Dad? I might as well shout at the wall for all the difference it makes. Maybe I’ll never learn.

Dad, I know how much it hurts, I do. I stayed with you, Dad. I watched you walk round and round the hole Mum left in our lives. You tried to drive me away but I stayed with you. I only came away to university because I knew it was what you and mum wanted for me, what you wanted when you were well. You both wanted me to change the world. For the last eight years I’ve had to remind myself of that every day! 

I miss her too, Dad, I miss Mum so much. But Mum wouldn’t want you to live like this, Dad. Not being welcome at work because you’re never sober, and being a danger to your colleagues when you used to be the star of the department.

Do you know… No, you don’t know because I never told you this. When I applied here as an undergrad they asked me in the interview, was I related to John Jarman? You should have seen their faces, Dad, they were all eager and excited. I could probably have got in here just because you were my Dad, even if I’d failed all my A levels. But I lied. I said no. I said I wished I was related to a remarkable mind like yours, but all I had was hard work.

And it wasn’t because I wanted to get in on my own merits. It was because I was scared what would happen when they found out what had become of you. Because I was ashamed that when they found out you’d thrown it all away, they wouldn’t trust me.

I didn’t ever mean to tell you that, Dad. Damn. I’m sorry.

Listen, please don’t upset Myra again. She says she doesn’t need an apology but she doesn’t deserve your abuse. I know you can change, Dad, I know you can fix this. I know you can sort yourself out.

Love you Dad. Call me if I can help.

Message received at two fifty five pm on the fifth of April.

Hey Dad! It’s Juno. Another ‘press five to save’, Dad, because I’ve got some news! 

The head of department’s just left the lab and she’s asked me to put forward a proposal for – you’ve probably guessed – putting our research on the Mars mission! My research could go to Mars! I’m actually shaking with excitement here! This could be just amazing – like we always talked about! Bring on those inhospitable conditions – my experiments could go to another planet!

Remember on Sunday walks we’d imagine what the other planets were like? You’d always say that we would know by the time I was a grown-up. Well, here I am! Actually finding out! 

I think about those walks all the time these days, Dad. Every time things have been hard since I left home, I think about how exciting and inspiring it was to hear you talk about science and research. 

So, maybe you want to call me for a chat? 

Okay, I’m off to get to work on the proposal. I hope you’ve got some help, I hope you’re sober. Call me. If you need anything, I mean.

Message received on the fifteenth of May at nine am.

Hey Dad. I know you got my last message about the research because Myra called to congratulate me. So, thanks for being proud enough of me to tell the neighbours, even if you don’t want to tell me. 

Myra says you’re still out in the lab at night too. Just stop it, Dad. You’re being an idiot.

And just to keep you up to date in case I don’t have time to call for a while, you should know that I’m off to Paris. Don’t know how long I’ll be. The European Space Agency wants to know more about the research, so I’ve been invited. Just keeping you posted.

Love you Dad. Bye.

Message received on the twentieth of May at twelve ten pm.

Right Dad, I’m in Paris but Myra phoned and told me all about it. I don’t know if you’re still in the hospital, Dad, but if you are, please ask them to help you. Let’s face it, you’ve put yourself in hospital because you know you need help, you’re not that careless, even when you’re drunk. You might not be talking to me, but I can still hear what you’re saying. Ask them to help you.

They will know already, Dad. They’ll know you’re drinking because firstly they’ll smell it, and secondly, sober people tend not to be doing lab experiments in the night and blowing up their outhouses, and thirdly, the state of your liver will be a giveaway when they run any sort of tests. So ask them to help you. Please.

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that you did this when I was in Paris, Dad. I think you wanted me to come back to you. Well, I’m going to be honest, Dad, it’s you who needs to come back for me. You need to come back from this anaesthetised world you’ve created, your solitary planet where you’re full of booze where you can simply refuse to accept that Mum’s dead. When you can start to come back from Planet You, Dad, when you can stop waiting for everyone else to orbit around you, then I can start to think about… about not going any further away from you. Because right now all I want to do is run away.

So please ask for help. I love you. I want to see you get better.

Message received on the fifth of June at eight forty five pm.

Hey Dad. I really want to talk to you. I wish I could talk to you. I wish we could go for a Sunday walk along the canal. You’ve not called me back for ages. Not once this year. I feel like I’m suspended in orbit around you, Dad. I can’t keep on leaving messages and guessing what you’re thinking. It’s painful. I wish things were like they used to be. 

Something’s happened. It turns out that what I presented in Paris was good. Really good. And pending some health checks, I’ve been invited to apply to go to Mars. They don’t only want my research, Dad, they want me. I’ve got the chance to go to Mars.

God, I should be so excited to tell you this, I should be shrieking and laughing. But it feels more like I’m planning an escape than following my dreams.

This is what we both wanted, Dad, isn’t it? Going into space? I wouldn’t be doing any of this if you’d never believed in me. You and Mum, you always believed in me. All the years you told me I was good enough, all the times we dreamed about it. Thank you.

But now I feel like I’m running away. Running away from a problem I can’t fix. Because right now, growing crops on Mars looks easier than getting you to listen to me.

It’s eighteen months of training. They’re planning to send six people. And I could be one of them. I mean, I will be one of them. Like you’ve always said, Dad, once I set my sights on something, nothing stops me. Well, apart from fixing you, that is. I’ve never managed to do that.

This is me setting my sights on Mars. I’m determined. I’ll be gone for at least a year and a half on the mission, on top of the training. It’s a new life.

I think it’s time to go.

Message received on the tenth of July at seven twenty five pm.

Hey Dad. Last message. So you’d better press five, right? I’m standing in the hall, waiting for the taxi. I’m flying to Cologne and I’m not coming back unless it’s via Mars.

I wish we could have talked, Dad. I wish you could have got sober and I wish you could have called me. Even once, to say goodbye. But you’ve got me this far, Dad. The rest is up to me. 

I’m not going to phone again, Dad. I promise.

Bye.