Chapter 1 - The Sky

Sometimes; in the summer when I’m alone I lie down on the grass - and the river is running beside me; making beautiful little trickling noises - and the summer breeze is blowing gently; sending the smell of daisies and honey blossom around me - and I stare up at the sun; and the fluffy white clouds and I think, my mum is up there somewhere. Other times; on windy winter nights - when the rain is postulating a further storm I stare up at the moon and think my mum is up there - but I wish she had died earlier - I wish she hadn’t gone through the pain. Other times I look up and see nothing - blatant nothingness - and this scares me - it sends paroxysms of fear through me; it feels like I’m losing myself - like I’m losing my sense of being; and it petrifies me.

My soul tells me to write this down - to relive mum’s life - to immortalise her in writing - but another part of me tells me to keep her locked up inside of me. I wish not to recreate that time - nor do I wish to refabricate the pain - it has sunk somewhat to the back of me - setting my soul free to an extent. Relieving me from the burden of internal agony - ripping my soul apart; tearing my whole being in two. To truly understand you must learn of life before now - long before now; and so we arrive three years ago - my thirteenth summer.

Summer had arrived with a sun that evokes more memories than most are capable of recollecting. The threaded jumper upon my back was sending beads of sweat undulating down my spine. The day’s quixotic-nes seemed to make no impression upon my fathers quip remarks:

“Bill, get a bloody hat on for goodness sake”

“For f**k’s sake Pauline get a grip - it’s 18 degrees, I’m not f*****g going to die of burning.”

“Bill - I will not have you use that language in front of my children.”

“I’ll say what I f*****g want in front of my children Pauline - Terri is thirteen, not f*****g three, and Laura - well she‘s going to have to face up to reality one day, why not now?.”

“Bill - she’s seven! Seven years old”

“Younger the better”

“Bill; have you brought the sun lotion?”

“THE F*****G SUN LOTION IS IN THE F*****G HOUSE. NO I HAVE NOT BROUGHT THE F*****G LOTION.”

“Dad?”

“Yes?”, his tone had slightly cooled.

“Do you have the lotion?”, my sister amused herself by aggravating my father. (not always a good idea.)

“I HAVE NOT BROUGHT THE F*****G LOTION LAURA - NOW GO AND PLAY WITH YOUR SISTER BEFORE I LOSE MY F*****G RAG!”. A contented Laura hopped off to play in the water, a fresh eastwardly breeze had started blowing - I drew my legs in closer to my body and hooked my gangly arms around my knees. Laura had come back from her paddling trip - and was now enquiring as to whether she could have a chocolate bar.

“Mummy, why does daddy not like me?”

“Don’t ever say that Laura, daddy loves you with all his heart - but sometimes, sometimes grownups can get a little bit upset and say things they don’t mean.”

“Like when Harry at school asked the teacher if she had a boyfriend, and the teacher said none of his business and Harry said he didn’t mean to say it like that and the teacher got all upset and her smile disappeared and she looked like she was going to cry?”

“Something like that Laura”, mum hesitated “It’s just; sometimes, sometimes we get annoyed about things - things we shouldn’t really get annoyed by - daddy gets upset sometimes because he feels like everything piles up on top of him and feels like he can’t cope anymore.”

“Sometimes, I think daddy doesn’t like me - when he says nasty words, or doesn’t listen to you - sometimes it feels like he doesn’t like any of us and he just likes himself. Why mummy? Why does he get angry”

“Laura… em … sometimes Daddy has to do a lot of things - like go to work, and make the dinners and empty the dishwasher and pay for things - and do the chores and take you to school, and ask everyone if they’re ok, and sometimes, sometimes he just wants someone to give him a big cuddle and ask him if he’s ok. Only, sometimes we don’t do that because we don’t know that he’s hurting inside - and we don’t know why he’s angry - so we misinterpret his motives.”

“What does misinterpret mean mummy?”

“It means like how we think about things and the way we think about things. So if we misinterpret someone’s motives we don’t understand fully what they meant to happen or what they meant us to think about something.”

“Ok mummy”, she ran back to the water, passing dad on the way and embracing him with a hug -

“Daddy I know you’re hurting inside, it’s ok, I love you lots daddy.” My father - perplexed by her sudden observation - returned her gesture with a look of curiosity in his old eyes.

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