Young son. A tale.
Clara could never quite explain how she and Victor managed to produce such a clever lad. Both of them had left school after the equivalent of Year11, thanks mainly to teachers whod taken pity on them. As the saying goes, everyone has their own strengths: Clara could coax a seedling into full bloom within a week, while Victors hands seemed to turn anything they touched to gold.
They had four children the eldest, Mary, then the second daughter, Emily, followed by two boys born on the same day Sam and Paul. Paul was the orange the family joked about not yet three years old when he already spoke better than average Emily, and when he started school the teachers were flabbergasted. He could read, write, and multiply at once, so they bumped him straight into the second form.
It might have seemed unfair to the other kids, but Paul occupied a special place in Claras heart. He was exempt from chores, and whatever he asked for a book, a microscope, a new pair of shoes she bought it straight away. Even when the grim 1990s hit, with the country in tatters and Claras whole world collapsing in a single year losing her husband and her longtime housekeeper Maggie she never pried Paul away from his studies and even sent him off to the city for further education.
Clarediah, what are you thinking about? the neighbours would say, watching Sam hauling water from the tap, Emily digging potatoes in the garden, and Paul lounging on a bench with a book. Do you expect him to bring you a glass of water in his old age? Hell be off somewhere, and thats the end of it.
Youll see, Clara would retort. I do what I want.
The children had their own grievances.
Why am I chopping firewood while he solves equations? Sam would whine.
Sit down and try it yourself if you think you can, Clara would chuckle.
Sam would grab his textbook, stare at it for a few minutes, slam it shut, and declare, Nonsense, Id rather be out cutting wood!
Emily, however, was the most resentful. She constantly plotted little pranks on Paul tossing his notebook into the oven, slipping a rotten egg into his boot.
You always give him the best bits, shed shriek. Hell leave and dump you, shed echo the neighbours gossip.
When Paul left for university, the house grew quieter, almost too quiet. Clara clung a little more to her youngest.
At first Paul wrote long letters, describing his bustling academic life a world Clara could barely follow. Over time the letters dwindled, and his visits became rarer the neighbours predictions seemed right. It pained Clara, though she never showed it. Still, Paul graduated and became a proper gentleman.
Emily married a man from the neighbouring village. Clara never liked the soninlaw much he was a dreamer, forever scheming new ways to get rich, yet always blowing his chances. His latest idea was to open a bakery, though the bank refused him a loan.
Sam stayed at home, not in any hurry to marry, despite a steady stream of suitable suitors.
Mother, Id love a bit of freedom! Im thinking of buying a car. Not a clunker, mind you, but a proper foreign motor. Can you picture me cruising in one?
Clara sighed, What kind of car, Sam? Youre dreaming like your brother, Arsen. Dreamings fine, but youve got to work for it
She used that line as a gentle nudge. Sam ended up taking on a farm job, fixing the house so it looked pictureperfect, moonlighting as a tractor driver and finding shortcuts wherever he could. Clara never complained she had a good son, after all.
As for Paul, Clara lost track of him. A year had passed without any word; the last note said hed gone off to earn some money, but where, no one knew.
One bright morning a sleek new car pulled up outside the cottage. Clara, halfexpecting a lost traveller asking for directions, opened the gate and stepped onto the road. The driver was Paul, unmistakable even after two years tall, broadshouldered, with that goldenhalo hair. He looked like a younger version of the late Victor. The neighbours peered out of their windows, delighted that Paul had not forgotten his mother.
Clara rushed to him, enveloping him in a hug. My own blood, she whispered, it wasnt for nothing.
Sam met his brother with a hint of envy. Nice car youve got, he said.
Thats not my car, Paul replied cheerfully.
Whats yours then? Sam asked, halfcurious.
Thats yours, Paul tossed him the keys. Take it, Ive already sorted the paperwork; well swing by the solicitor later.
Sam glanced at their mother, who smiled broadly.
Thanks, brother, Sam said, a little embarrassed. But its a proper pricey one!
Not pricier than a good laugh, Paul laughed. And wheres Emily?
Shes married, Clara interjected. In the next village. Her husbands a hard worker; theyre expecting a raise soon enough
Married, you say? Then lets pay them a visit. Sam, drive us in that new motor.
Emily greeted them, a bit flushed and roundbodied. Her husband, Arsen, immediately started bragging about his upcoming bakery, insisting it would make them rich.
Talk is cheap, Arsen, Emily snapped. You didnt even get a loan, so no bakery. Dont listen to him, Paul; hes the dreamer.
Paul smiled. Well sort the bakery out, no problem. Tell me what you need, and Ill transfer the funds.
Arsen stared at Paul, skeptical. His wife had already warned him that her brother was a goodfornothing, ungrateful loafer.
Pulling a small red box from his pocket, Paul handed it to Emily.
For you, Em.
She opened it gingerly. Inside lay a pair of dazzling gold earrings studded with emeralds, the exact shade of her eyes. She gasped, tried them on, twirled before the mirror and declared, Thanks, Paul. I begged Arsen for earrings and he gave me a meat grinder instead!
Clara watched, content and quiet. Perhaps her son would bring her a gift someday earrings, a bracelet, maybe even a washing machine.
But no gifts came. It was only when Emily mentioned that their mother would be discharged from the hospital after childbirth that Paul said, Just a short stay, Em. Ill take Mum with me, if she wants.
Clara stared, bewildered. Take me where? How?
I dont know What about the house? Paul shrugged. Sam will live there, bring a new lady. I cant stand being without you, Mum. Come with me. If you dont like it, you can always return.
Clara was at a loss. Here lay the life shed built with Victor and Maggie, now all but a graveyard of memories Yet across the road waited a different, unknown future with her beloved son. What would Victor have said?
Just then she imagined her husband at the doorstep hat askew, calloused hands clasped over his chest.
Whats the point of fretting, Clara? You raised him for a better life. Its time you saw it for yourself, or else youll wonder whether it was all in vain.
Clara smiled and answered, Why not give it a go
