It’s better to burn out than it is to rust

Extract from a memoir - Christmas

The rattle of folding aluminium steps and mum’s torso disappearing into the loft signalled that Christmas was just around the corner. I’d steady the base and hold her cigarette, trying not to notice her knickers as she probed around the dark void above. Where is the bloody thing she’d curse before eventually finding a long cardboard box which would be handed to me in a halo of dust. Coated like a Victoria sponge, I’d carry the prize coughing and spluttering to the lounge, and a dainty silver frosted plastic tree would emerge like a butterfly from its chrysalis. After spreading its yielding wings, mum would place it on the sideboard and festoon it with baubles and lights. The glistening lighthouse of festivity would signal our happy family status to the world.

Bob, can you take me to the supermarket to do the Christmas shop?
Petrol costs money Doreen, but 20 pence should cover it
It’s food for all of us
Which I pay for. You usually manage
But this is a big shop
I’m happy to do you a favour
A favour you say?
I’m only charging for the petrol

I just sat on the settee and kept out of it as usual, suddenly becoming more absorbed than usual in the book I was reading. I could feel my mum’s rage charging like a thunder cloud and knew from experience that lightning could strike at any moment. Mum left the room, returning a few minutes later.

You’re doing me a favour are you?

For Christ’s sake Doreen
It’s Christmas, why are you being like this?
And it’s my day off. Give it a rest; I’m reading the paper
When’s my day off then?
Every bloody day

The lightning struck with a ferocity and violence that never ceased to surprise me. If provoked mum could move from reason to blind rage in a heartbeat with the speed of a crocodile ambush at the water’s edge. The tree didn’t stand a chance against such odds. Grabbing it by the base with two hands, she jerked it from the sideboard and held it aloft with the plug torn from its socket whiplashing through the air like a three fanged snake. Baubles and a dazzled fairy shot across the room, ricocheting and smashing against the walls with dull thuds.

 

With a final grunt the tree was thrust at my father who did his best to deflect the holy spear with his newspaper. Resembling a Tolkien Ent with a penchant for glitter, dad rose from his chair and stormed out of the room screaming stupid cow. Mum was not to be messed with at times like these, but needless to say the car remained in the drive. I helped her struggle with the bus that year, but looking on the bright side, at least Christmas was memorable in our house.

 

Christmas changed when we moved to Colin’s on Broadway. Mum was more relaxed and for the first time the season became an enjoyable experience rather than a journey over crushed baubles. When I think back to our first Christmas together as a new family, I don’t have specific memories, but I hear laughter and feel the warm glow of the Christmas lights that Colin had strung across the ceiling above our heads. It was as if we’d been released from prison.

Despite my dad being a complete arse, I crumbled under the emotional blackmail of my eldest sister Carol and agreed to meet him once a month on a Sunday for a drink. He’d ignored my existence for the best part of eighteen years but now he missed me apparently. Too young and naive to follow my instincts I agreed as long as I didn’t have to pay for the petrol or anything else for that matter.

These Sundays at the Royal Navy Club were torture. I was a music obsessed Bowie fan with long greasy hair and poor personal hygiene; the antithesis of my immaculately turned out father who shone from the top of his balding head to the tip of his black patent leather shoes. Every month I’d hear the strangled yelp of the Austin’s horn as dad parked outside. With the resignation and inevitability of a prisoner on death row, I’d shuffle to the car and climb in. Like him, the interior of the car was sweet smelling, pristine and sparkling, but lacking any warmth.

The Navy Club was a comfortable oasis of red chesterfield sofas and oak panelling, with walls stained yellow from years of cigarette smoke and cheap cigars. A row of stools with cushioned tops lined the bar in a straight line ready for muster. Dad would lead me in and for a couple of hours I’d drink cheap lager whilst he quaffed mild and held court with stories of war and travel. My mind would drift while he discussed the merits of a Westland Wyvern over a de Havilland Sea Venom but would ignite when he talked of the cities and ports he’d visited. I would just sit and search for lost change in the folds of a chesterfield during the drier moments. I longed to ask questions about Singapore and Hong Kong but instead I stayed quiet and wished my life away. Why had he begged Carol to persuade me to come? His embarrassment in my appearance was obvious and he took no pride or interest in me. I was still the useless waste of space whose only rationale was to demonstrate the need to bring back national service; his answer to every problem.

They don’t know they’re born these days he’d say pointing at me as his chuckling clones nodded in agreement. I would do my best Johnny Rotten sneer whilst thinking bunch of cunts and examine the ceiling for a crack and a way out.

Christmas dictated that every pint be chased by Captain Morgan. To Queen and country we’d chorus before knocking back the sweet but deadly liquid in one gulp. Three pints & the same in pirates I was wasted and wobbling on my stool like a Muppet drummer. I felt all at sea in a force 10 with the bar pitching and moving like a car over speed bumps. 

Are you OK interrupted the swell. I feel sick was my reply. Don’t be daft. You’re fine and he was back to the Suez and some jingoistic nonsense. Feeling worse I tried to steady my nerves and my bar stool.

Dad, I need to go outside
What’s the matter?
I feel sick

Dad moved in close and whispered in my ear. I could see the look of anger in his face - don’t embarrass me here. Do you hear?

To my horror another pint and pirate appeared so I drank. I was in a strange land in hostile territory and I needed a lift home. My stomach churned and I prayed to be transported into fresh air

Dad, I have to go outside. The goons laughed and the menace moved in once more to whisper. His arm gripped my neck, leathery fingers almost piercing me. I told you. Sit there and be quiet. Underlined with a squeeze, the grip loosened and he turned away from me. My world was spinning and then it came. Torrents of bile lager vomit exploded from me, bouncing off every surface within range, including dad's back. I ran to the toilet feeling quite pleased with myself.

God save the dad
the fascist regime
he made me a moron
a potential Harry bomb.

God save the dad
he ain't no human being.
There is no future
in his navy dreaming

God save the dad
I mean it man
I loved that bastard
But God saves

Oh God save history
God save your dad parade
Oh Lord God have mercy
all crimes are paid.

When there's no future
how can there be sin
I’m the flower in the dustbin
You’re the poison in my human machine
I’m the future, your future

God save the dad
I mean it man
we love the old queen
God saves

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In memory of Doreen Alice who I will love for always.

 

http://youtube.googleapis.com/v/PN9n1bAahg4&source=uds&autoplay=1

 

Jai Guru Deva Om

 

 

Litlington 2011