Then, as Now (Part 4 of 5)
confessions of a ten-, thirty- and seventy-year old
Part Four: there’s always so much less to do
Sunset
I’m walking around between the old, twisted trees in the orchard, picking up any decent-looking apples that have fallen. I always check if any have a hole in the skin because I know from experience that there will likely be a wasp in it. And when you pick them up, that waving, curious head comes out so you have to throw the apple as far away as you can before it gets you. I put ones without holes into the wicker shopping basket.
I’d dried the dishes after tea. My sister washed them and then we both put them away although putting away was my older brother’s job. We didn’t like to disturb him in his room and we’d never tell on him to Mum and Dad. You just didn’t. After that, I’d loaded the small basket with kindling from the side shed. I like seeing the spiders scuttle off from uncovered hiding places but I’m not so keen on the moths who will come out after dark.
Nothing had been said at tea about missing Mars bars. I was glad of that and when a whole new apple and blackberry crumble had appeared for afters, with custard, I’d eaten as much as I could so that no suspicion would fall on me over disappearing slices of pie and biscuits either.
I take the basket inside and leave it on the kitchen table. My sister says we are going to play outside later but for now I’m happy to go and sit on the front porch, under the verandah, looking out over where I’ve been today. My friends, always close by whenever I think of them, were telling each other tales of exploring the river and how they’d found natives with spears who they’d made friends with.
I have no memory, yet, of the time before now when I was not at home, not safe and not happy.
ºººº
I’m tired. I’m elated. A little scared. Full of confidence. I’m frowning as I smile.
I’m squinting, driving along the last stretch before the turn off towards the village and home. I’ve got the visor down but late evening sun glares blindingly off rain-polished tarmac and I’m trusting to luck – and memory – barely making the sharp left safely. The sun is no longer dazzling me and I cross almost too fast over the hump of the canal bridge. I don’t care. I start singing. I can see clearly now the sun has gone.
A feeling of childlike excitement grows in me. Golden light is picking out fully-leafed treetops and bouncing off wet, grey slate roofs further up the hillside. Several sheep are grazing their way across the cricket square. I don’t care and I don’t stop. Not today. I begin to laugh as I sing. I can see clearly now the stress has gone.
She’ll be expecting me to explain to her that I am home late, again, because of pressure of work to be done, again, and that I will have to work through the weekend, again. For a moment, I’m anxious, not knowing how she will react when I tell her of my conversation with Ken.
Or maybe I do know, really. The money’s good but life isn’t. It’s not what either of us wanted. Weekends in Paris are not enough compensation and in any case with a little one, are now out of the question.
I’m turning in through the open five bar gate and pulling up on the stone courtyard in front of the barn conversion with its postcard-worthy view over the village and across to the hills. I have genuinely loved this house, our home. When I’ve had time.
But if I’m really honest, it’s all a bit of an ego trip and I know I am impostering at being a highly paid, high-flying business executive yuppie. The lure of that job title on embossed business cards, the oversized car and the international travel – all shout loudly of socially acclaimed status and success. In these greedy times, it’s seductive – I am even wearing red braces, which I do not need, with my designer suit.
Either that or I am selling my soul for someone else’s idea of success.
Finally I am daring to admit it to myself now as I pull up the handbrake, and saying it out loud. I am not happy; this is not OK. I’ve been leaving both of them alone far too much – even when I’m not away – while claiming the work had to be my priority, it is all for them, it’s for us.
It’s for me. I am not owning up to my terror of being a terrible dad.
I know she isn’t happy either, except with our tiny daughter, of course. And somewhere, inside me, I know that despite my fears I want to be there, to be a good bloke, to be A Good Dad. And I know, I truly know from my own dad, who’d done the right thing in the end. It’s they, my family, who are important.
I’m expecting, hoping perhaps, she’ll be supportive after the initial shock and her understandable worry. Truth is that she’s always supportive, remember? And it’s not as if I have any real choice. Ken had made it clear that my position, now that the owner’s young son is calling the shots, is impossible,.
I have to take the deal on offer and quit. Now. This week.
She opens the top half of the side door, the one I made when I did the kitchen. She has the little one in her arms. Both are smiling in the last of the evening sun. I am smiling too and I know she will be OK with this change. This is A Good Thing. Fuck whatever anyone else says.
“Let’s have THAT wine open!” I call as I get out the car, and she laughs, for the first time in a while.
ºººº
Getting on with it today, it has turned out, consisted for most part of daydreaming out the window. Both windows, in fact, as this writing den itself opens on to the upstairs landing where a second, larger window allows a view of the village rooftops and trees beyond. I’ve been letting an idea swirl around that this window inside a window is a good metaphor for the space of imagination, thought and reflection which has the illusion of being inside my head. And wondering how to write about an awareness that all of these appearances of windows and trees and rooftops and pages and thoughts and ideas are simply what is – including the idea that I have a head at all or indeed that I am even an I.
I decided, after tea, this would not get me anywhere and now I am returning to noticing the sky, which is getting ready for its bed in a glow of red and shadows. Lazily, I review some words I did manage to scribble down, which may become a poem later.
The soft beep of the machine is drawing my attention to a text from a friend, asking how I am and how the work is going.
Work? I smile for a moment, considering how this same word, used now for joyful, effortless endeavour was once used in my life for unceasing activity without real meaning.
In the end, not even that matters.
Music is playing and I break off from doing nothing to savour the joy of talking with friends for a while in this online world of magic and mystery, love and sharing. When I’m very lucky, a line or two writes itself in the bantering text, something that is A Good Thing to have written.
I write, therefore I am a writer. There is nothing in this concerning the quality of my writing. And I’m not concerned either, not today.
Maybe I’ll practice writing shorter sentences.
Maybe I’ll get my pencils and sketchbook out.
Maybe I’ll do neither.
.
These are so interesting to read- keep them coming!
I do love a happy ending (well, we’re not quite at the ending), but phew, the relief of the mid section was palpable.