Dear Diary,
The old darkbrown wardrobe in the corner of my parents bedroom has always been my favourite spot. Its heavy doors creak and groan whenever I pull them open, a sound that makes my small hands tremble. Inside Ive dumped my simple toys a teddy bear with one lopped ear, a clown in a huge blueandred hat that Mum bought for me at Christmas, and a little wooden horse. Yes, a horse.
The horse was once jetblack, its mane a glossy crowblack feather. Over the years the plastic faded under the sun, cracks appearing here and there, yet the mane stayed almost whole. I love that horse and I always give it a pinch of grass.
That wardrobe is my secret world, my very own Narnia where real miracles happen: the clown becomes a knight charging on his trusty steed, defending a beautiful princess from a fierce bear. What follows after the clownknights triumph I never quite managed to invent, especially because, at the most exciting moment, Grandmummy would appear to fetch me.
Ive always been a little frightened of Grandmummy. Her hands are always dirty and knotted from days spent gardening while Mum and Dad are at work. Her face is lined like freshly ploughed soil, and her voice is sharp and loud, reminiscent of our dog Busters bark when he gets a cold from spending the whole year out in his kennel.
I feel sorry for Buster, especially in winter when the February gale threatens to rip the shutters from their hinges and a fierce snowdrift buries his kennel almost completely. One especially frosty night I slipped out of the house in my flannel pajamas with bear motifs and socks, and crept through the drifts to rescue him. Halfway there I heard Mums worried voice and Grandmummys angry shout. Mum stood on the doorstep, a canvas bag slung over her shoulder, peering into the darkness and calling:
Oliver, love, where are you?
Behind her Grandmummy barked:
Come back, you naughty lad! Where have you gone? All that nonsense, like your absent father!
Father, a longdistance lorry driver, was never home his job kept him away. I never quite understood what a longhaul driver really did, but it seemed more important than me. He would pop in rarely, pat my back, ask hows it going?, and then head straight to bed. Grandmummy called him the roadgrandfather, while Mum would roll her eyes and say:
Itll be fine, my boy. Well manage. Youre my little sunshine, already growing up. Look, Ive got something for you Dads watch. Just like the grownups wear. Hell come back when the big and little hands line up at the bottom and the date window shows 12. Remember that, okay? Dont lose it.
I was proud to own Dads watch, feeling as grownup as him. Still, it made me uneasy to watch my friend Freddy hopping about with his dad on Sunday mornings, each of them holding fishing rods his dad with a large spinning reel, Freddy with a tiny rod and a bucket that never seemed to catch anything.
Even sixyearold Euphemia, who I admittedly thought a bit slow because she still couldnt read, would proudly climb into her fathers white estate car every Sunday and ride with him to the market, while I at five could already read shop signs like Pharmacy and Optician aloud, albeit with a shaky grasp of the difference.
I dreamed that one day Dad would park his massive lorry beside me, and we would head off together on mens business. But on the rare occasions when he was home, he seemed uninterested in me; he argued with Mum, she would cry, Grandmummy would complain, and Dad would slam the door and go out to smoke. I would hide in my beloved wardrobe, clutching my teddy bear, and weep silently. Real men dont cry, they say, but neither the bear nor the clown will ever reveal that secret.
That day happened to be Mums birthday. I was racing home from the yard when I suddenly stopped. Across the pavement I saw Dad holding a young woman in a striking red dress by the elbow. She laughed, and in his hands glimmered a massive bouquet of roses so large and lovely I could barely catch my breath.
For Mum! I thought. Its her day, after all. It must be for her! My heart fluttered with delight.
In the evening Mum and Grandmummy set the table for the celebration: steaming potatoes fresh from the oven, a clear jelly wobbling in its mould, crisp pickles from the cellar, and a huge cake iced with pink roseshaped frosting. One rose seemed to be missing, though Id taken it earlier without thinking. When the guests finally sat down, Dad returned, this time bearing a modest bunch of white chrysanthemums wrapped in grey paper. Mums face lit up; she slipped her arms around his neck and laughed like a schoolgirl, pure happiness radiating from her.
I swallowed, my mouth dry, wanting to ask where the first roses had vanished to. But I looked at Mum, glowing in her new pink dress that suited her perfectly, her cheeks flushed either from joy or from dancing, and I kept my mouth shut.
Later I sat back in the dark wardrobe, among the teddy bear and clown, twisting Dads watch on my wrist. Once it had seemed so important, magical, an adults treasure. Now the hands were still, lifeless. I tried to wind it a few times, to no avail. Tears rose, but I didnt let them fall. I realised crying was pointless. Im no longer that small boy waiting for his father to come home from the road.
I placed the watch on the shelf between the bear and the clown and gently closed the wardrobe doors. My Narnia now held no more miracles.
In the next room Mum sang softly while unwrapping presents. I approached, slipped my arms around her waist, and felt her shiver.
Im with you, Mum, I whispered, firm yet tender. Ill always be with you.
