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| Father and Son | |
| By BrianRobertNeal | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| 24 March 2007 | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
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This is very much a first draft and I'm not happy with the title. it's the first stept out of a barren period where I've written little. FATHER AND SON. At six foot five father towered over all of us, even when were fully grown, which in my case, was to a modest five foot eight. No wonder we found him overbearing. We all left home as soon as we could and were not too surprised when Mother ran off with a family friend. After the divorce and the sale of the family home, father returned to his place of birth. He bought his Mother’s modest seaside Bungalow and then used the money she now possessed to move her to a far better retirement home than the shabby hovel she had been in. The move tied in with his taking of early retirement. The Bungalow had been let out as a Holiday Home, was in reasonable repair and easily repossessed The family sundered when Mother ran off as only I sided with Father and kept contact with him. I’d visit once or twice a month, bringing my wife and children with me. As a Grandfather he showed a completely different character to the one that I had known. The kids loved him; he was so funny and silly. I once asked him why he could not have been like that with me when I was a child. His answer was straightforward, “Your mother never grew up, she was a Peter Pan, there had to be at least one adult in the family”. Then the world fell apart. My wife left home taking the children with her. Apparently she was tired of me and wanted a new more exciting life. The divorce was painful, the settlement crippling and I was left without a home. Father was “with me” throughout and insisted that I came back to live with him. I’m an IT Consultant and therefore am able to live anywhere there is a Broad-Band Link. We lived quite separate lives, he gadded about with his Am-Dram and Writer’s Groups and I lived on the Web, only going out when it was unavoidable; father was wont to entertain the ladies, but none ever slept over. So some evenings I’d go to the Cinema in Clacton and would never be back before 11.30. At weekends he “played away”. He died in his sleep. I made all the arrangements and contacted Mother and my two Brothers. Mother told me to have a good life and that she was not intending to go to the funeral. My brothers when they found out that I was the sole heir lost any interest in the matter other than to threaten legal proceedings. Thus it was that my Father’s Funeral was attended by his many friends and associates and me. The Wake was held at the Local Theatre. There was food a plenty and drinks “were on the house”, all funded by the “Pier Players”. When Granny died, Father had vested the remainder of the money in buying for a peppercorn the lease on the stubby Pier’s tiny Playhouse. He left the lease and £10k to the Players to support the Trust that now owned the Theatre. I felt a complete outsider. They were mourning a man I had never known. Humour, creativity, romance; this couldn’t be Father. I made excuses and left. I wasn’t missed. When I got back I was faced with the soulless task of clearing his things. It is far too painful to relate however the one item I was going to keep was his computer. I’d got him into computing and he would spend hours surfing the net. I knew all his passwords as he always forgot them and I had had to remind him of what they were. I opened up his computer and it defaulted to a file. It was entitled “In Memoriam”. I expected it to contain a brief biography but when I opened it, I was amazed to find it restricted to the following message. “Robert, There will be many people who’ll miss me when I die. Lovely folk who’ve made my life less lonely than it might have been. They are all writers who put their writings on the “Scribbling Pad” Web-Site. Please go onto the site and Log-On using my nickname and password. My nickname is “daddylonglegs-(all lower case and no spaces.) My password is “lonelylofty” (all lower case and no spaces.). Would you please open “My Messages” then inform all of those who have recently sent me a PM of my death. Say that I was very fond of them and that I hope that they’ll miss me, because I would have certainly missed any of them, had they died. Dad.” Dad had never known that I had been a regular on the site using my own computer even though my nickname was “inceywincey”. (I was terrified of spiders when I was little and he used to tease me with the rhyme, “Incey Wincie Spider”.). Mind you, our paths rarely crossed as I’m a serious writer and he was a humorist. It felt odd logging on as daddylonglegs. I went straight to “My Messages” and could not believe how many recent “PMs” he had on his in-box. I then went to “My Posts”. His last piece, posted just before his heart attack, was entitled, “Have I remembered to switch off the lights.” It was a humorous poem about forgetfulness and how he would, as he found himself in death’s final moments, be worrying about whether he’d locked the back door, cancelled the milk and switched off the lights. The reviews were as funny as the Poem. One old Girl had admitted she often absentmindedly went out without her drawers on. Her nickname was “linniment”. A younger woman had admitted that she often came home without any on, though they would normally be safely in her pocket. Her nickname was “lucielastic”. I thought, “I must do some thank you reads and replies”; Dad would never forgive me if I didn’t.” I could feel Dad pushing me. I clicked reply and started writing; it wasn’t my words or thoughts, it was his. It was as though I’d been taken over, the words just flowed out and I could not control them. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, look what happens when I have a near death experience and leave you to your own devices. When I had my heart attack, the boy, you know the one who’s always grizzling and seems to have a permanent snotty nose; which he still wipes on his sleeve; was very upset. He was even more upset when I recovered because he’d put the bungalow up for sale. I should imagine he’d also gone straight onto E-Bay to see if he could buy a cheap black suit, tie and armband! This was no more than an hour after the Ambulance had left and I was still alive! And still am! Bye for now DLL.” I hit-enter and sat astonished at what I’d just done. There were five replies within ten minutes and many more were to follow them. I spent at least three hours masquerading as my late father. I answered the PMs and on the threads attached to his recent work thanked each person for their time and comments, adding of course a humorous observation. I even reviewed several pieces by “inceywincie” and very gently took the mickey out of "him". I logged off and opened “In Memoriam” for a second time and noticed it now had an attachment. When I opened it, I found that it said, “Your last task is to go to the next meeting of the Pier Playhouse Writer’s Group, and read the poem set out below. Note-They meet on the Second Wednesday of every Month in the Pier Playhouse’s Studio and start at 8pm sharp.” A few days later I went to the writers’ group, introduced myself and read the poem that he’d written to mark his demise. They invited me to stay and that seemed to have been a mistake. After I’d read Dad’s poem, I read one of mine, “Always in his shadow”, it was about how I’d been in my father’s shadow and that I would never be free until “He” had died.” Since his death I’d added a verse, which was rather like a Coda, it merely said that I had been mistaken and that even in death he'd be with me. I quite enjoyed the evening and wondered if any other of the group’s members were “Padders”. At the end they all agreed that the next months meeting’s theme would be “In Memoriam” and there would also be a reading of Dad’s Work. The group had had several Anthologies published and had even financed a collection of Dad’s Work entitled “Playtime at the Pier” As we left the Pier Playhouse’ Studio Theatre one of the members said to me in sotto voce, “I’m the one who often has her knickers in her pocket, so I’m wondering how, “inceywincie”, your dear late father is posting from the grave? I’ll keep silent about this but my quietude comes at a price.” “Which is”, I enquired? “You can take me for a drink.” I readily agreed. She suggested that to avoid gossip we should use the “Stanley Arms” rather than the Playhouse’s bar. I was a little surprised as it was a shabby, seedy, scruffy little Pub and was normally full of wrinklies, local characters and complete odd-balls. It was tucked away off a narrow alley that linked the Sea-Front to the main shopping street. It had no car park, no after-hours drinking and no atmosphere. On the other hand there was no canned music, juke box, pool table or one-armed bandits. It did have a profusion of quiet corners, niches and hidey-holes where one could enjoy complete privacy. We walked in silence to the Pub. I suddenly realised that I didn’t know her real name, yet for some reason “Penny” came into my head. We entered the Saloon Bar and “Penny” nodded at the Publican and shot off to one of the many “Hidey-Holes”. I noticed that the Publican was pouring a Double Pernod and Ice. He never looked up at me but said “Evening Brian” and started to pull a pint of the “Cooking Bitter” As he did so, he without looking up told me that the round would cost a fiver as he couldn’t be bothered with the odd extra particularly as he was short of change. I took a deep swig of the beer and to my surprise found I quite liked it. I normally hate bitter, loathe it and would have had a Glass of Red Wine or a brandy. I told the Publican, “Brian is dead. I’m his son Robert.” “Sorry Robert but I could have sworn it was your father stood there, though you are lot shorter than him, you’re his living image. See I saw Penny come in and I didn’t look too closely at you, sorry.” He then went off to serve another customer and I joined Penny in her cosy little booth. I asked her about Dad. I’d never called him Dad before, but that was how he signed himself in his message to me. Penny Smiled, “Your Dad was a wonderful man, but when I met him, his heart was broken. He’d said that, “You can take your own troubles and survive them but not those of your children. Poor little Bobbie, that cow of a wife destroyed him. And we both miss seeing the kiddies”. He loved you very dearly and was so proud of you. He was always reminding me of how clever you were. He asked me time and time again: “Do you know big computer companies come to him for advice”. We were lovers, I mended his heart, let me mend yours.” I wanted to say that this was utterly ridiculous, that we didn’t know each other. That it ……. But I didn’t, against all my instincts I moved next to her and took her in my arms. But then I got up and ran out of the Pub. When I reached the Sea-Front, I noticed to my horror that Pier and Playhouse were no more than a burnt out wreck that was boarded off and signed with “Dangerous Structure-Keep Out” Notices. I ran back to the Pub, it was closed and its windows were boarded up. There was a Planning Notice that said that it was to be converted into six social housing units. Then everything went blank and I found myself in my bed in the Bungalow being wakened by my father. His words had a familiar ring to them, “Come on Bobbie, it’s just a bad dream, get up and I’ll make us both a nice hot chocolate drink” He went to the kitchen and I pulled on my dressing gown and followed him there. As we sat drinking the soothing drink, I asked him, “Who’s this Penny then?” He looked embarrassed and then admitted, “She’s my Mistress and I love her dearly.” I looked at him and decided, “Dad, I’m taking you to the BUPA Hospital. I’m taking you now; just do as you’re told." We dressed and I dragged him complaining loudly into the car. He was in the Emergency Examination room when he had the Heart attack. They gave revival therapy and he had an operation that repaired his ruptured Aorta. I'd taken Dad's Wallet from his jacket as a precaution. Things can go mising in Hospitals and in it I found Penny's phone number. So I phoned her and she came to the Hospital immediately. She looked at me oddly and asked, “Have we met before”. I told her we hadn’t. She went off to father’s private room and I shot back to the Pier As I approached it I saw some shadowy figures and called the Police on my Mobile, I then put then my lights to full beam, sounded the horn and drove at them. They scooted off and I jumped out of the car. I noticed that the Playhouse had been broken into and there was a smell of petrol. I came out and from a safe distance called the Local Fire Brigade. The Police caught the kids and the Fire Brigade made the Playhouse safe. The next day I started a petition to save the Stanley Arms and collected over a hundred signatures. I gave the Petition to the Planning Office. They were surprised because they’d only just received the developer’s application and so they felt that with such strong local feeling that they would have to reject it. In the longer term, security at the Playhouse has been improved and Penny has moved into the Bungalow as Dad’s “live in lover”. Me, I’ve gone back to living on the web but at least I don’t have to go to the Cinema and Penny is a fantastic cook.
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