Intimations of Mortality - 21
Being a series of random but loosely connected musings on my life, the world I have lived in and what the future - what's left of it - may hold.
My father was not a stupid man. Nor, in normal circumstances, a brutal one.
Yes, he was an old-fashioned disciplinarian, one who believed that children should be rarely seen and never heard. My sisters and I - I am the troublesome middle of three, separated by approximate two-year gaps both up and down - knew better than to impinge too much on his sense of quiet dignity. When we forgot that we knew this, we paid the consequences.
I seemed to forget rather more often than my sisters.
I could put this down to a naturally independent disposition, a greater sense of my own self in an overcrowded world. Self-willed, self-centred, self-absorbed. Or I could own to a stubborn streak, a refusal to conform, to toe the line, to back down when confronted by a greater force.
I could, of course, admit that I was stupid, immature, out of control.
All of these had some truth to them at the time. May even have a degree of validity today, almost fifty years later. Fifty shades of anything but grey.
It was far from the first time I had over-stepped the boundary into disrespect. But it was the most challenging, the most defiant. And it seemed different in one other respect. It seemed deliberate. A conscious attempt to push him over the edge.
My father did not react to my words. He walked brisky down the hallway, shrugged into his overcoat and left for work. He did not slam the kitchen door or the front door. He would return at his normal time, just before six pm.
I knew I had gone too far. I did not need to see the horror in my mother's eyes to realise that this was the big one. The showdown. I had called into question his ability to assert his authority in his own house. And I knew that he would have to react.
I had been saving whatever money I could for this day. My escape fund was enough to support me for a while, as long as I could keep earning. Tony would be more important than ever. And not just because of what I felt I felt about him.
I was in a state of shock. I had work to get to, people relying on me to turn up, turn on my charm, turn over stock. I knew the only sensible thing to do was go back up to the room I shared with my younger sister, quickly pack my few essentials into the bag I kept under my bed. Leave now. Without intention of returning.
It was, after all, what I wanted. To leave this place, these people, behind. To start my own life. I headed for the stairs. Hesitated. I could not run away from this confrontation.
I turned back into the hallway, in my father's footsteps. Slipped into my jacket. Made my way to the bus stop.
My father was not a stupid man. Nor, in normal circumstances, a brutal one.
Yes, he was an old-fashioned disciplinarian, one who believed that children should be rarely seen and never heard. My sisters and I - I am the troublesome middle of three, separated by approximate two-year gaps both up and down - knew better than to impinge too much on his sense of quiet dignity. When we forgot that we knew this, we paid the consequences.
I seemed to forget rather more often than my sisters.
I could put this down to a naturally independent disposition, a greater sense of my own self in an overcrowded world. Self-willed, self-centred, self-absorbed. Or I could own to a stubborn streak, a refusal to conform, to toe the line, to back down when confronted by a greater force.
I could, of course, admit that I was stupid, immature, out of control.
All of these had some truth to them at the time. May even have a degree of validity today, almost fifty years later. Fifty shades of anything but grey.
It was far from the first time I had over-stepped the boundary into disrespect. But it was the most challenging, the most defiant. And it seemed different in one other respect. It seemed deliberate. A conscious attempt to push him over the edge.
My father did not react to my words. He walked brisky down the hallway, shrugged into his overcoat and left for work. He did not slam the kitchen door or the front door. He would return at his normal time, just before six pm.
I knew I had gone too far. I did not need to see the horror in my mother's eyes to realise that this was the big one. The showdown. I had called into question his ability to assert his authority in his own house. And I knew that he would have to react.
I had been saving whatever money I could for this day. My escape fund was enough to support me for a while, as long as I could keep earning. Tony would be more important than ever. And not just because of what I felt I felt about him.
I was in a state of shock. I had work to get to, people relying on me to turn up, turn on my charm, turn over stock. I knew the only sensible thing to do was go back up to the room I shared with my younger sister, quickly pack my few essentials into the bag I kept under my bed. Leave now. Without intention of returning.
It was, after all, what I wanted. To leave this place, these people, behind. To start my own life. I headed for the stairs. Hesitated. I could not run away from this confrontation.
I turned back into the hallway, in my father's footsteps. Slipped into my jacket. Made my way to the bus stop.
61-69, F
