FAIR COMMENT?

Do I know you Mr Adams? Are you, perchance, a friend of my father’s? You share the same abrasive, not to say coarse mode of delivery. I remember him speaking of a chap he met whilst working on the trawlers (gathering material for a novel). According to my father, he befriended this person (it was his first time at sea), took him under his wing, showed him the ropes (and how to tie them!). Then the ungrateful bounder jumped ship in Aberdeen. That was the last father saw of the man – and his best reefer jacket.
But, like so many of my father’s stories, it could be a complete fabrication.

But enough of this idle speculation – I have my own story to tell.

I asked father was it true that he had given power of attorney to Anastasia – our ex au pair. It was, he said, and what of it?
I replied that I thought it a bit thick to do such a thing when he had his own flesh and blood on hand to carry out such duties.
He laughed; that dry, bitter laugh I remember so well.
‘If you mean the lesbian’ He almost spat out the word. ‘You know what she can do!’
I did not care to consider the possibilities. Instead, I said ‘Father, you can be so obtuse at times. I said flesh and blood. I was speaking of myself: your son, and heir’ I raised my voice slightly at the end of the sentence; a somewhat irritating habit I picked up from an Australian. It makes a statement sound like it might be a question. I wished I hadn’t.

Father doubled up. I thought it was an attack of stomach cramps, perhaps brought on by the insulin shock treatment. But no, he was wracked with mirth. It was minutes before he could speak.
‘You? You? You are joking? Tell me you are joking.’
I must admit that I was taken aback by his reaction, and for a moment was rendered speechless.
‘Well, I am your son – you’re only child.’ I retorted, indignantly.

This information seemed to bring him to his senses. At least he stopped laughing.
‘Sydney, that is something I have never been really sure of. I wanted to have a DNA test done when you were six months old, but I didn’t have the money. And then, as you grew up, well, I suppose I bonded with you. And when your dear mother left us…’ He rolled his eyes skywards, and I felt bound to point out that my natural mother was not dead but living in Brighton with an amusement- arcade proprietor.
‘Do not mention that man’s name in my presence.’ He shouted.
‘But father, I don’t know his name, you would never tell me.’

Silence. He stared at the floor.

Suddenly, he looked up, and gave me a crafty smile. ‘Besides, you’re not my only son and heir’.
‘What do you mean?’ I was bemused.
‘You may be my only son but you’re not my only heir.’
‘Father, please explain yourself.’ Now I was truly alarmed.
‘Sydney, you have a little sister.’
‘WHAT!’
‘Well, technically a half-sister: Georgette. She’s the image of her dad.’
I was stunned.
‘Aren’t you happy for me?’
Words failed me.
‘Don’t just sit there with your mouth open – say something.’ he prompted.
I heard a voice – it surely wasn’t mine? - ‘Father, what the fuck have you done now!’

REUNION

I barely recognised him. And it wasn’t just the long dress, the shawl and straggly grey wig; his pallor, the dark rings under his eyes, the shadowed cheeks presented the visage of a spectre, such as might have been conjured up by the pen of Edgar Allan Poe.

‘My God, father – what have they done to you?’ I expostulated.
‘What are you talking about?’ came back in a voice, firmer and stronger than one might have expected from a spectre.
‘Well… I mean, just look at you…’ my voice tailed off helplessly.
‘You stupid boy. I’m in character. It’s the dress rehearsal for our production of Cold Comfort Farm; I’m playing Ada Doom.’
‘Well I’ll be buggered’ I gasped in astonishment.
'Don't say that, son - not in here. Sit down.'

‘I sank gratefully into the proffered armchair.

(to be continued)

A son speaks

Mummy has left in such a tiz woz. Honestly what is a chap to do under the circumstances? I pleaded with her, but when she gets the bit between her teeth there is no gainsaying the old girl.

Sorry if I am making her sound like a horse – I got that expression from father. She’s not a bit like a horse; she is still a damn fine looking woman – for her age - even though I say it myself as shouldn’t; me being her son and all that.

Well I know I’m not, strictly speaking, her son, but I have always called her mummy. You see I never knew my real mother. But I’m not looking for sympathy. Actually, I’m looking for the address of this hospital in which my dear father is presently incarcerated. I mean someone has got to take over the reins (Oops there I go again) of this dysfunctional family. But all families are dysfunctional – that is the very nature of families. Try reading David Cooper’s Death of the Family!

Anyway, I shouldn’t have to deal with all this trauma; I have enough problems of my own. I have always been a rather delicate, sensitive boy, with shoulders far too slender to carry such a burden. But someone has got to do it.

Luckily Carole is here at the house with me, and she stiffens my resolve when I need it. I don’t know what I would do without her. And yet we are so different: her from that sink council estate, used to living on income support and generally sponging from the state, while I – well, the product of a private school education and a good university; a man of letters, no less.

It was Carole who advised me on that tricky business with the police. Well, she has rubbed up against the boys in blue on more than one occasion. Her Garry is a thorough villain. I would not lower myself to have dealings with such a chap, and luckily I won’t have to because he is at present a guest of Her Majesty – and likely to be for some time.

Still, suffice to say, Inspector Wetherby saw fit not to proceed with any charges following the events of that awful night. When I remarked upon how lucky we had been, Carole just winked and said ‘He owes me one, sweetie’. I wish she wouldn’t call me sweetie.

I have to say – and I would not like this to get back – that I find Carole a bit coarse sometimes. I mean, her earthy language and bawdy humour can be quite fetching down the Jolly Pervert but when one has it twenty four hours a day – well it can begin to grate.

And her bedroom manner can sometimes be a little… well, boisterous.
I try not to think about the fact that she used to be father’s paramour. I mean it isn’t incest or anything – the fact that I have ‘followed where he has trod’ so to speak. It’s just that sometimes – and usually at a most unexpected moment – I sort of feel his presence. I have mentioned this to Carole but she just laughs and tells me not to be silly. ‘Don’t worry, Syd, no one comes before you - not even dear old dad!’ I know this is meant to be reassuring but it somehow makes me feel more uneasy.

Another thing mummy has left me to deal with is this thing about father giving Anastasia power of attorney. I can see me having to fly out there and have it out with her.

Anyway, must dash – Carole has promised to touch up my roots tonight. Grey hair at my age! It’s all the worry.

The highest level of courage is running away.
Arabic proverb


I believe that. I think I have always believed it – but have only just read the proverb.

I have struggled through with many ventures simply because I was too afraid to quit: ‘educational’ courses that I was not enjoying one bit, but that I pushed on with and gained a ‘qualification’; stress inducing jobs, such that I would dread Monday morning; toxic relationships that were doing no one any good, but which I was too afraid to leave because I equated quitting with failure. But often quitting is the bravest thing one can do. Of course, the trick is knowing when to quit.

I am quitting now. Running away.

I am a player in your drama, and you are a player in mine. I think George said that – or was it me? Sometimes it is hard to tell where I end and George begins – or where George ends and I begin.

Exit, stage left.