I must have been no older than five, yet the memory returns with the sharpness of a winters morning in Hampshire. My father had come upon some messages on my mothers telephoneshed written to a friend, confessing she was still meeting her well-off suitor from Surrey, though only on rare occasions. At that time, my fathers wages, earned through small jobs and odd ends, barely scraped enough together for things my mother craved to provide our household. It was never enough, not really.
My mother, furious at the discovery, snapped with that well-worn English tendency to charge when cornered. How dare you snoop through my phone? she shouted, her voice echoing in the small council house. Your wages cant put proper food on this table! Howd you think we have roast in the oven and jam in the larder?
The tellys mine! bellowed my father.
Its every bit as much mine as yours, she fired back.
He nodded, tired. Aye, yours toothe telly, the pork joints, and and Oliver. He looked down at me, and my little heart stilled. Im taking it all with me.
Suddenly, I was no longer lurking behind the sofa, but cast centre-stage in their sparring match.
To hell with the telly, but not Oliver! my mother cried.
But my father gathered me up and took me away that cold evening. There was no sense in letting my mother go toe-to-toe with such a man for me. He bundled me into my duffle coat, his hands gentle but firm. Dont fret, Mum. Ill come to see you soon, I whispered as she pulled me into her arms, tears dampening my scarf.
He cast one last look upon that threshold, then said, Well see you in the courtroom. As the door closed, it was as though an old play had ended, the actors retiring to their own stages. In hindsight, perhaps it was for the best; not long after the split, my mother found comfort in another gent and, for a spell, forgot I even existed. Father found Eleanor, the daughter of a prosperous London merchant. Our lives charted different courses, each parent drifting and re-rooting.
Every so often, Id spend a few spare days at my mothers. She and Father never spoke againthe wounds, especially his, perhaps too deep for amends. By the time I was fourteen, life had grown heavy with changes: Mother was soon to welcome a new child, and a sudden brawl on my fathers way home from the workshop sent him straight to the cells. Though the fracas wasnt all his fault, the blame fell squarely on his shoulders, and he was sentencedno leniency spared.
Before leaving, he embraced me and Eleanor, telling us gently, Lean on each other, keep on. We tried, but the days felt emptier. Then came the afternoon I remember most: the chimes at the door.
Eleanor was making shepherds pie, so I answered it. There stood my mother, eyes keen, belly round. Prepare yourself, love. Youre coming with me, she declared.
Who is it, Oliver? Eleanor called.
Im here for my son, my mother answered.
Eleanor came forward and tried to guide my mother inside, but she shrugged her off, saying brittlely, Mind yourself. Im with child. My heart achedEleanor couldnt bear children, a raw wound she bore bravely. Nevertheless, she managed a steady smile and welcomed Mother inside. While they talked in the kitchen, I retreated to my room, listening.
Try to understand, Eleanor, my mother pleaded. Oliver is all I have left. Hes the only soul who gets me, especially now. Let him stay with me until his fathers home. You have everything, but hes all Ive got.
Her voice rose, anger and vulnerability knotted together. I couldnt bear it and finally stepped out.
Youre discussing me as if I were a wedge of cheese at the market. Did it even cross your mind to ask what I want? Perhaps Ive already chosen where I belong.
Its quite the feat, playing the sympathy card with tears, Eleanor observed quietly.
Im no child, I told them. Mother, Im staying here with Eleanor. Youve got your new life and soon another baby. All we have is each other to weather whats to come. My school is here, my mates live nearby. Im sorry, but the choice is made.
For the first time, I spoke to my mother with the weight and seriousness of manhood. I walked her down to the bus stop in the fading evening light. As we waited, I asked with a touch of mischief, So hows it going with your Adam from down the High Street? Still seeing him?
She grinned, sheepish. Well, we must eat, mustnt we?
We embraced, laughter mingling with the chill air, and then parted on those cobbled pavements. Back home, I soothed Eleanor. Together, we pressed on, aware the road ahead would be long and tangled. Staying strong for each otherwell, that was all we could do, always waiting for better days to break.
