My Father In Reflection
03/07/1938 – 18/10/2018
Sifting through my Father’s stories is not the obsession Suze believes it has become, it is more of a quest for the Holy Grail, questions need answers and of the 100 or so profound questions l had to ask, and many of those l had asked when he was alive, so far l have had close to 75% answered. Now admittedly not all of that percentage has come through from the stories, but of the estate’s administration, bank statements, emails and letters.
It has also been acquired through other sources found in my Father’s house, as well as some of the diaries. The latter proved very hard as his writing whilst cursive was really quite awful. I cannot write cursive myself, but if it is legible and written with a smooth hand l can read it. My Mother has a very smooth hand so hers is much easier to understand, but my Father’s was also very small and untidy, but still much better than my scrawl which even at times l cannot read!
Of the stories l have here, most were/are on a disk that l used when in his house last month, alas however roughly 150 stories are only committed to paper, which means if l wish to add them, then l will have to read, copy and type out. Perhaps for another time, although his stories are shorter than many of my own due to my verbosity, so maybe they will help me keep writing instead of my arm simply locking up as it does time to time now.
This story below didn’t have a date, but l believe it to be around 1988 time, my parents were divorced in 1989, and he met Jeanne in 1990. I am oft astounded by my Father’s ‘loves’, he was desperately in love with each of his women and that did include my Mother at one time. Their marriage fell apart because of the man he was, gambler, adulterer, abuser, wife beater and the list went on.
As his Son, l am NOT mentioned many times in any of his stories principally because we didn’t like each other although l had never hated him as he penned here, l didn’t like what he done to my Mother or myself over the years. He loved nothing more than being seen as someone’s hero or savior to the day, and yet he was never any of those things to any of the family, well perhaps my Sister who thought the sun shone out of his every orifice!
But this short story just sums him up so very well, life was always about him, and right to the end of his life two months ago, it had to be about him.
He mentions the furniture and the money, all lies – he had the largest percentage of the money from the sale of the house, my Mother taking sufficient to buy herself a small property. The furniture quite possibly the biggest joke of the lot and completely bushwhacked as a notion after his death as l walked through the house and asked myself, what didn’t come from the family home with you Dad? My Mother had six pieces of furniture from the house, my Dad had everything else and in October of this year , l was astonished that the couches were not just from the family home, but hadn’t been cleaned in twenty plus years!!
He forgets why they fell out as a couple, and why he was in this position, only seeing himself as a victim, never giving one thought to the victims he tore apart for years with his mental cruelty and deviant behaviour!
But this story here is when he believes he and his Son fell out, over these years, and he was quite wrong, we fell out when l was around five and he yelled at me that l was not his Son, but that my white trash whore witch of a Mother had sired me with someone else. That’s when we actually fell out, it mattered not that l was only five, l remember that as if it were yesterday.
Nowhere To Go
It was not a good time. No, that’s wrong. It was a very bad time. At that moment, however, I believed it was the worst time in my life. Life would, in due course, have a hearty chuckle, kick me sharply in the teeth, and demonstrate that things could get a whole lot worse. But just then, back then, they were bad enough to be going on with, thank you.
As I packed the car the cat from next door came along and stopped to watch events. “What do you want?” I snarled. The cat was pretty cool about it, looked dismissively at me, flicked her ears and walked away, tail high in the air. “Where are you going, puss?” The cat went through a hedge into a garden and I lost sight of her. “Never mind the bloody cat, you dipstick, where are you going?” I had nowhere to go.
I turned back to the car, my mind a kaleidoscope of conflicting, painful emotions. It wasn’t as if we’d been married; it was worse than that, I was still in love with the lady. I checked the car, noting sadly the black plastic bin liners crowded together on the back seat, like some weird soul group on their way to a gig. “I think that’s everything.” I checked the house again, tears filling my eyes and rolling unchecked down my cheeks. This was not how it was meant to turn out. In the kitchen I washed and dried a coffee mug and automatically repositioned the two pine stools I had assembled so carefully, when, a year ago.
The wallpaper in the lounge had curled up a little near the radiator. I fetched the Prit and glued it back again. We had papered the room together before the previous Christmas, desperate to finish before her parents arrived. I didn’t go into the bedroom, simply shut the door. I didn’t see it at the time, but it was a deeply symbolic action. This was the second time in two years I had packed up and left a house and woman, carrying black bin liners. The first time it was my house and my wife, but our marriage had run its course, destroyed in the end by mutual indifference. This time it was not over for me, and so this was worse, much worse.
I locked the front door and put the keys through the letterbox. I hoped there were no neighbours watching. No net curtains twitched and even the next door car was now nowhere to be seen. The car started immediately and purred quietly, as if anxious not to intrude. Goodbye Leatherhead, hello Epsom
I was fifty, divorced with an ex wife who hated me, a son who hated me and now an ex lover who hated me. My former wife had the house, the furniture and most of my money. So much so that I couldn’t afford a mortgage, or a holiday. On the other hand, I had inherited all the photograph albums.
“Where are you going?” Physically only as far as Epsom, but in life terms, I had no idea. I was lost, going nowhere. The one bedroom flat in Epsom was everything a one bed roomed flat was supposed to be. Very little. All the neighbours were either young couples out at work, or old ladies hiding behind the nets. I still had my job, thank God and the BMW, but no sense of purpose or direction. I hated that bloody flat, hated it with an intensity of feeling.
Things went downhill from there. Eating was done in pubs, Pizza Hut or McDonalds’s. Drinking was done everywhere. Whiskey became by best friend and worst enemy. Did I want to live like this? No. Could I do anything about it? It sure as hell looked like I couldn’t.
I went to the doctor. “You’re depressed.” Christ, it takes five years at University to diagnose that? He prescribed Prosac. “I can’t sleep.” Temazapan.
What a lethal mixture, Prosac, Temazapan and Famous Grouse. It nearly killed me; it certainly turned me into a zombie. There were times when I thought of ending it all, but they were impostors, such thoughts. I knew I didn’t have the balls for that. Eventually the tablets were flushed down the toilet and the whiskey finished and not replenished. I had eighteen months of this half-life. At Christmas 1990 I met Jeanne. Almost at once I realised that I knew where I was going and the certainty lasted for five years. Then life, as it has a habit of doing, decided to replay the past again.
Written by BM