Pushing through the market square, so many mothers sighing...

The drive to Northampton was smooth and uninterrupted and I bathed in new music from Yo La Tengo, Matthew E. White and Rick Redbeard. In my fragile emotional state, tears fed the journey like a hospital drip; melodies and phrases igniting a sense of helplessness and love. Passing by Toddington Services on the M1 released a waterfall as recollections of numerous stops to pick up flowers for mum from M&S flooded through. She is not allowed flowers on the ward, but I hope to have the need to stop there again sometime soon.

 

 

http://www.youtube.com/v/xE23Tp7-XVU&fs=1&source=uds&autoplay=1

 

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KJyjzHIgqr4

 

 

http://www.youtube.com/v/G_WcV5BSRRA&fs=1&source=uds&autoplay=1

Wearing just my beard & a smile

I’ll be around, to make up your thought
Moving on like any other man should...

Friday was a very special evening. Mum was relaxed and content, propped upright on clouds of pillows, her newspaper spread open on the bed with the TV burbling in the background.

I realised as I sat by her side that this was the first time we’d been alone together for any length of time for over thirty five years. It reminded me of days long gone when we’d cosy up with the TV after dad left for a night shift. In these halcyon moments we would watch risqué historical dramas and crime shows to detach ourselves from the war for a short time. I squeezed mum’s hand, soaking up her softness as memories broke through the waves of emotion.

I Claudius

McMillan and Wife
Casanova
The Streets of San Francisco
The Naked Civil Servant
The Rockford Files

Ø  Excerpt from a memoir

 

Dad generally worked nights rather than days. For extra money and to avoid us I suspect. He would generally eat alone and mum would leave his dinner covered in the fridge ready to heat in the oven if required. Over the years the two had fashioned a symbiotic routine that allowed them to coexist without killing each other. Frequently the tension of this tightrope would snap and explode in raised voices and thrown objects, most dramatically in the kitchen with shrapnel from smashing plates.

I have no memory of the three of us sitting together with smiles on our faces. Had I walked into a room and found mum and dad laughing together I would have been unneverved. The Daleks expressed more warmth to one another than my parents did.

Life at home was like an episode of Coronation Street without the jokes or ad breaks. It was an unscripted drama as addictive to us as neat white lines are to flaring nostrils. The daily fix of tension somehow held us together in an emulsion of habit and need. We bore little resemblance to TV families like the Waltons who would burst into our living room dripping with wholesome shoofly pie goodness. Their insistent niceness and perfect white smiles designed to make me feel inadequate and somehow incomplete. However I had no yearning to emulate their joyful harmony, instead I harboured a desire to enter their bedrooms bristling with weapons to wipe the smiles off their faces. During the final minutes as they retired to bed replete with good deeds saying their goodnights, I would be lurking in the shadows with a shotgun at the ready. The morning light would illuminate a scene of holed dungarees, bloody gingham, body parts & bible pages fluttering like angels.

Relief from the circus would come with the growl of dad’s Austin Maxi reversing out of the drive. Shoulders would slide and our stress stream away like grime under a hot shower.

On Sunday morning dad would rise early to wash and polish his Austin with a loving care and soft touch that was alien to me. Our interaction had reduced to grunts and we maintained an uneasy truce of ambivalence and avoidance. Like breeding bull seals, we were hostile if either got too close but resigned to live side by side. After making love to his car, dad would spend the next hour or so preening like a cock before emerging sharply dressed like James Bond in a cloud of Old Spice. He’d then climb into his gleaming chariot ready to step back in time to the Navy club. It was here that he felt most at home, respected and admired by his sailor chums, reliving old times on HMS Eagle where he’d been a chief engineer. ‘Remember Suez Bob? Those were the days my friend.’

Whilst dad lounged at the club, supping pints of Watneys bitter, mum would be a hive of industry and put together the Sunday roast.

Batter beaten and rested

Soaked marrowfat peas simmering
Potatoes blanched and roasting
Steam, smells and sizzles
Yorkshire rising and browning
Gravy reduced and adjusted
Roast crackled and crisped.

As the clock struck two a Quatermass Yorkshire pudding would be hauled from the oven and doused with thick brown gravy. At the same moment exercising his naval precision, dad would walk through the kitchen door, carefully hang up his blazer and take his place at the head of the table. The glory of mum’s Yorkshire would take centre stage and be followed by plates piled with lamb, pork or beef, mushy peas, roast potatoes and waterfalls of brown gravy. We would eat in silence with just the scrape of stainless steel to fill the void until cutlery was laid and the ordeal ended. I would do my best not to meet my father’s eyes as we ate. With one glance he had the ability to catalogue my failure as a human being. Some fathers encourage their children and herald their achievements, but mine took every opportunity to remind me of my failures and inadequacies. I was a source of constant disappointment, never good enough and a ‘useless waste of space.’

One Sunday stands out in my memory. Two o’clock came and went and with the passing minutes the very little patience my mum possessed. She paced her kitchen like a captain rounding Cape Horn, eyes burning like the fires of Tierra del Fuego. The Yorkshire which had emerged triumphant now sank like a deflating rubber ring in a puddle of brown gravy. ‘The bastard’ mum said as she took her place with me at the table and lit a cigarette. My ‘can we start without him?’ was shot down with a scolding ‘don’t you bloody dare.’

Three cigarettes later, just after two thirty we heard the familiar sound of dad’s car on the drive. Mum exhaled a long line of smoke, violently stubbed out her cigarette and rose from her chair, standing with arms crossed. Dad walked in breezily as usual and proceeded to hang up his blazer. The air was heavy and thick with the threat of thunder.

Do you know what the time is?

I can tell the time
Dinner’s ruined. We’ve sat here for half an hour waiting for you
It was Roy’s birthday. The club laid on some sandwiches
You had sandwiches?
Yes. Cheese, tomato, ham, all sorts
What about your dinner?
I told you, I had sandwiches
But we’ve been waiting since two
It was Roy’s birthday
What a waste
You two can have it
It’s ruined
You should have started without me
Couldn’t you have called?
For Christ’s sake Doreen give it a rest will you. Remember who pays for the food in this house
And you remember who cooks it
I’m going back out.

Mum threw the plate loaded with food across the kitchen straight at dad as he reached for his blazer. It missed its target, but with a loud thudding crack smashed into the white tiled wall by the draining board. This acted as an ideal canvas for a Pollack of browns and vivid greens. I remember like yesterday the gravy spattering across the ceiling, potatoes bouncing across the floor like tennis balls and green mushy peas with grey sleighs of meat running down the wall like Martian glaciers.  Dad was clearly shocked and taking his jacket marched out shouting ‘stupid cow’ as he slammed the door. ‘Piss off and don’t come back’ was the loving retort.

 Open mouthed I looked at the carnage. Mum was sitting with her head in her hands mumbling ‘sorry’ as she sobbed. I kissed her gently on the forehead and took a cigarette out of the opened packet on the table which I lit and placed between her fingers. ‘Thanks love’ she said as I took my place and starving began to eat my cold but still delicious dinner. ‘It’s ruined. You can’t eat that’ she said. ‘I better not waste it; look what happens if you don’t eat the food around here.’ It was good to see mum laugh. The only other choice was to cry in our house. ‘Stupid bugger’ she said.

A war of silence followed and neither made any attempt to clear up the mess. It remained on the wall for about a week and life went on as usual around the crusting brown crater. When a whole new ecosystem started to develop I decided enough was enough. Armed with brillo pads, scrapers and brushes I spent an afternoon removing pea bullets, lines of gravy cracked and dried like parchment and shrivelled slithers of meat before washing down the surfaces with hot water and bleach. Brown streaks remained forever more on the ceiling as a reminder of my mother’s master class.

My mum and dad were married in 1946 at Northampton Town Hall despite dad's drunkenness. He had spent the morning in the Angel Hotel toasting with his friends and almost never made it. He had to run from Bridge Street and got there just in time and without falling over. The reception was held in some church rooms close to the Red Lion Pub where the tables groaned under the weight of food cooked by the respective families. Chalky White, my grandfather’s friend and poacher no doubt provided rabbits and a pheasant or two for the event. Crates of beer flowed freely thanks to Uncle Harry and his contacts at the local brewery. It was a happy day. Sometimes it helps to remember the good times and ride the bad ones.

http://www.youtube.com/v/wepShUclRmo&fs=1&source=uds&autoplay=1

There was a man
a lonely man
who lost his love

through his indifference

A heart that cares
that went unshared
and slowly dies
within his silence

Now Solitaire's the only game in town
And every road that takes me, takes me down
While life goes on around me everywhere
I’m playing Solitaire