Walking out of the courtroom, Zac turned to the couple who had fostered him for the last six years. His face lit up a huge grin on his face.
”I won, she is out of my life. I’m all yours, you can now adopt me.”
His birth mother stormed out, mouthing abuse at anyone in her path. Zac stood his ground his eyes blazing. Hesitating, his mother met his eyes, turned and stalked away.
Continue readingSince The Leak life had been a bit strange. The familiarity of domestic routines was a comfort. Practising mindfulness whilst washing-up at the kitchen window was amongst Norma’s favourites. There, as usual, was Robin the robin, twisting and bobbing on the garden wall, looking out for his breakfast. She and Paul had chosen the name long ago when they were still speaking to each other, or more correctly before the diagnosis, when she could speak.
Useless at multi-tasking.
At the movement, Norma’s thoughts refocussed. Looking-up from a particularly stubborn fried egg encrustation, Paul entered her vision window-left. He was wearing his usual gardening attire, the pink “onesie.” Face down, back arched, he was advancing worm-like through the petunias. She and Robin watched him reach the ninety degree obstacle of the house wall corner and stop. Robin opened his beak, uncoiled a forked tongue, flicked and caught the cat snoozing below, gulped, and flew off.
Too much! This has got to stop.
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‘Mrs Norris must be one of the most irritating women in literature. She is a snob with prejudices of class and an ingratiating manner to her perceived superiors taken to extremes. What’s more, she is a terrible cadger and someone who puts self-interest well above kindness to those around her.’
It can hardly be said that Ellen could ever be mistaken for a Mrs. Norris fan. Yet in Bethany there was a reluctance to join in this outright condemnation without considering background detail that might have contributed to some of Mrs. Norris’s less appealing manners. She ventured a defence:
‘Poor Mrs. Norris had two sisters. One managed to marry a rich and influential man whilst the other married a seaman who came down in the world. She was in the middle of these extremes and married a local clergyman who seems rather dull and uninterested in matters beyond his mealtimes. She was bored, and sought to enliven her days by visiting the rich man’s household. The sister there was poor company so she tried to involve herself in the lives of the four nieces and nephews who despised and avoided her. All she had left was to abase herself and seek to be useful to the master and mistress of the house. It is sad that her sacrifices were so undervalued by the family and possibly cost her the opportunity of making lasting friendships.’
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Looking back, everybody remembered different things about her. To my mum, she had been an angel, (a definite case of amnesia there). Dad would only ever refer to her as his little girl. I was never sure where I was in his affections after her untimely death.
As time passed, she became more and more godlike in my parents’ eyes, placed on a pedestal and worshipped by all, well maybe not quite everyone. My Aunty Betty remembered her wild ways, the problems she brought onto the family, but anytime she mentioned past events, Mum would quickly change the subject.
I remember laying in bed listening to the arguments, my sister screaming and slamming doors, my parents raised voices. The same weekly standoffs about what time she had to be home, the company she was keeping, and the way she behaved. Nothing they ever said made any difference. She just did what she wanted. Back then, my sister was the black sheep of the family and was very proud of it. When Christine was bored, she would go out of her way to cause trouble. It always resulted in her gaining the attention she wanted. I just kept out of her way as much as possible, life was much easier like that.
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Arthur Davies had fewer words than a wintry tree has leaves. If he ever showed emotion, it would arouse public comment.
He sometimes walked about the neighbourhood, a nod here and there amid the taciturnity. He was a small, stocky man, a human Oxo cube with short legs. Although only middle-aged, his wild tufty hair was white and resembled anarchic cotton wool.
On the day Kabul fell to the Taliban he went down to the promenade, sat on a bench, and looked out at sea. He was there hours, passers-by said, staring like a sailor trying to locate an object below the surface. The sea was still, impenetrable, its surface gleaming like stainless steel in the August sun.
Somebody wondered if he was recalling his son in that desert of seawater. ‘Bound to have been,’ said another. ‘Might be asking what his sacrifice was for.’ Eighteen years previously, his son’s tank had been blown up by a booby trap, three months after he arrived in Afghanistan. The son had been an idealist, apparently, wanting to do good for the local people of Helmand province, wanting to ‘liberate’ them, help girls get education, stuff like that, it was said. That would’ve consoled Arthur down the years, surely, one woman suggested across her fence to the woman next door. That would’ve kept him going, wouldn’t it? A branch to cling to.
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Reaching for my phone, I brace myself for the usual abusive messages from my ex. But for the second day in a row, nothing.
I glance at the clock. Dad asked me to tune into Radio 4 now, for reasons unknown. “You’ll see,” he smiled. Typical Dad, avoiding direct communication, everything a riddle.
The Desert Island Discs theme tune floats out of the speakers like a gentle breeze. The sly old dog! I turn up the volume.
“I’m delighted to welcome today’s Castaway, retired England cricketer, David Myles!” says Lauren Laverne.
“David, you’ve famously declined several invitations over the years. But there’s a very personal reason you’ve agreed now.”
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Mum lay on the hospital bed with tubes coming off her. Nurses rushed around, plugged in equipment, pulled over a wheeled table with scalpels, sucking things, an I.V. beeps and boops and machines whirred like sirens. The sight of her turned me to jelly. I wished with all my heart that I hadn’t said those words. ‘I wish you were dead!’ It made me feel sick.
The doctor pulled me outside. ‘She’s refusing to take blood.’
I clutched my head and tried my best to calm my breathing. ‘She’s a Jehovah’s Witness. It’s against her beliefs.’
The doctor gripped my shoulder. ‘Listen, she is going to die unless she has blood. I know you are only sixteen, but you are her next to kin. You can overrule her decision. It’ll be entirely your responsibility. We can’t give her blood without your permission.’
‘She’ll hate me. She really believes in that shit. Can’t you do anything else?’
‘A blood transfusion is her only hope. She has internal bleeding and is in a critical condition. The decision has to be now.’
I looked at her pale face beneath the tubes. A nurse lifted her arm to push in a needle into her vein. She looked dead already. It was too much to bear.
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London: 1976.
“Why don’t you get some sleep, Ma.” Ricky rearranged an errant silver lock.
“You need sleep too, Richard. Why keep touring instead of settling down and having children?”
“I do it for you, mum,” he said, “I want you to be proud.”
“When dad died, you held it together. I couldn’t be prouder of my boy?”
“Boys, mum,” Ricky said, thinking of his late brother.
He went to give her a peck, but she was already asleep. “See you on Sunday, Ma.”
***
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