I realise I probably spend as much time apologising for not updating my site as I do actually updating it, but in an ideal world, it would be updated far more regularly. However, of late I have been busy, particularly with university work as deadlines loom (less than three weeks to finish a twenty page play of which I have (badly) written two pages, as well as co-write and perform a second play). Also, I have written little that I consider postworthy and so, delving into my back-catalogue, I found this piece I wrote about eighteen months ago. Perhaps I might change some of the phrasing were I to go through it now, but I feel it stands up pretty well and, being the longest piece I’ve ever finished (very nearly a novella), it’s one of my acheivements of writing. Here is the first chapter:

Father

1

I inhaled. I took in the smells of the early morning, surrounding me; they were the first things I became aware of as I awoke. The air was most prominent among them. Fresh and cool it flowed into the room on a light breeze. I had left the window open all night again and it had made the room cool, which would have been agreeable at any other time of the day, but not now, not while I lay in my warm comfortable bed. Now the air on the other side of the duvet created a cruel contrast to the warmth and comfort of a slept-in bed.

This I could smell too; the scent of the cotton, freshly washed, and perfumed with fabric conditioner, and also the pine scent of the furniture added its own scent to the smells of the morning but before I had become conscious of these, I had been dreaming, I was sure I had, although I could not remember what about. At first I had clung to these pleasant feelings of unconsciousness, trying to ignore that which I could smell. But the dream was fleeting, ephemeral and it slipped away on the breeze, blowing briefly around the room as it interspersed into the air of the room, and then away out of the window.

For a moment I clenched my fingers, drawing the sheets into a bunch in my fist, then I relaxed my hand and opened my eyes, feeling momentarily a vague resistance from the lids as sleep attempted to glue them together, and then I was looking around the familiar room. The walls were a pale blue, with a white border and ceiling and a few abstract pictures of shells, close-up, and a black-and-white print of a woman walking along a pier on a sandy beach. The floorboards had been left exposed, all neatly sanded and painted white, around a colourful Ikea rug. On the side of the room opposite the bed was a disused fireplace, an old Victorian, cast iron one, that, for many years, had contained a polka dot red and white, metal jug full of dried flowers. These were dusted occasionally, but dust seemed to cling to the scratchy material, and so they were now covered in a thin layer of grey.

The rest of the furniture, including the bed I lay in, was mostly made of pine, and from Ikea. This furniture comprised of; the bed (a king-size with a simple headboard, comfortable mattress and white sheets), a bedside cabinet on either side, two shelves above my head, plainly varnished, which held books and DVDs, all pressed neatly together with bookends and a chair in the corner of the room half-way between the door and the window.

This chair mostly served a decorative purpose, as no one, not myself or anyone else, ever sat there. At one time though, the chair had served the purpose of a clothes horse, often being covered in them, but I have always avoided messiness and so my clothes were always folded and put into the wardrobe or, if they needed washing, straight into the wash-basket.

I looked now at the white sheets I lay under, crumpled and rippled from the night. I looked at the marks my hand had made where I had held the cover a few moments ago; an angry little whirlpool on the undulating surface of the duvet. I began to smooth it back out with my fingers as my eyes drifted over the rest of the duvet and was reminded quite suddenly of the ocean, of my memories of the seaside.

When I was young, my parents had taken myself and my younger sister, Caroline, to Brighton every year. I loved those holidays. Somehow it was warmer back then, and the sun always used to shine, or maybe I just ignored the cold more. Now that I thought about it, I remembered one time, a windy day, when we had all gone down to the beach together. I must have been nine or ten, which would make Caroline about seven. It was windy that day and our father had brought a wind-shield, so that we would not get too much sand in the picnic our mother had made.

I had really wanted to go swimming in the sea, despite the cold wind so, after the picnic and after my father had made me wait for it to digest by distracting me with sand-castles, I had run down to the sea with Caroline’s hand in mine. The second the waves reached our toes we had realised how bitterly cold it was. Caroline had started crying and had run back over the sharp stones to our mother. But I had refused to be deterred and had slowly let the water wash over my feet, and then my shins and knees until I could just about stand to swim in it. I think I had caught a chill after that, because I remember I could not get warm for the whole rest of the holiday, and was not able to go in the sea again.

I smiled at that memory, and then it was almost instantly succeeded by more. The next was more than a decade later, and it was Rachel now who was in the sea, running and laughing along the shore-line. Like the sun, she always shone in my memories, and in this one particularly, with the late afternoon sun illuminating the air around her as she sent glittering sparkles of water splashing around her legs. She was so lovely, full of life and energy. I closed my eyes and remembered how she had looked that day, how I had felt.

I remember that she had been wearing a plain black two piece swimsuit, with a thin, almost transparent, white blouse over the top, because it had been late in the afternoon, and the sun was beginning to set. I remembered, almost lucidly for a moment, how she had kicked water at me, then laughed, then run towards me and grabbed my hands and kissed me.

The memory faded into another one. This must have been a year or two after the first and was again on a beach, probably the same one at Brighton that I have always been to. This time Rachel was holding Gemma in her arms, and we were both sitting close to each other on a blanket, staring out over the open ocean. In my mind, the beach was completely empty except for myself and Rachel and beautiful little Gemma in her arms. No one could intrude on us in my memory, not on our own personal beach.

Rachel was necessarily more subdued with a child, our daughter, in her arms. We were both young back then; I only twenty-three and Rachel a year younger, and I know she would again have run along the shore-line with me and been wild and passionate when the sun set, but she had since taken on the responsibility of motherhood. Not that this had ever been any burden to her. She had taken to motherhood with both grace and enthusiasm, and, though she had now to walk with a baby in her arms, that sparkling energy still flowed just beneath the surface, evident in her radiant smile and glittering eyes.

My alarm sounded; a cruel beeping tone that seemed almost mocking some mornings, and it wrenched me from my reverie and into the present. I sighed. I always seemed to wake up before my alarm, but it was not waking up that was the problem. Without the alarm I would probably just stay in bed all day, feeling that cool breeze, wrapping myself up in the duvet, and remembering, dreaming. Sometimes I wished I could just do that, but then I always had to be up to drive Lucy to school and then to come home to do my own work.

I pulled myself out of bed and went over to the window. For a second longer I felt the breeze wash over my bare skin, and then I closed it. It was an old-fashioned sash window that slid closed, and it was a vague sentimental attachment, as well as not having gotten around to it, that had made me reluctant to replacing the wooden windows with more modern double glazing. It was true that the thin glass panes and slightly warped wood made the room, the whole house, a little too cold in winter, and occasionally let the damp seep in, but I liked the feel of the wood, of the slightly peeling paint that I really ought to redo, but again had not gotten around to doing.

The girls were both already up by the time I had dressed and left my room. I heard the shower as I went past the bathroom door, and Gemma singing along to the radio. She could be in there for ages, and I had learned better than to wait outside, so I went downstairs, being at that time not that desperate to use the bathroom.

Downstairs I found Lucy already sat at the kitchen table, a bowl of Weetos in front of her a little too full of milk and with more milk splashed around the bowl.

“Good morning, daddy” she said, smiling at me, showing the gaps in her little white teeth and drawing attention to the chocolate marks around her lips.

“Good morning, sweetie” I replied, pulling a few sheets of kitchen roll from the dispenser. I dabbed it around her bowl, tossed the damp paper towel into the bin and then moved to the fridge to get my own breakfast. Pulling the milk bottle from the fridge I discovered that most of it had gone into, and around, Lucy’s breakfast.

I went back upstairs and knocked on the bathroom door. I heard Gemma turn down the radio she was listening to and then

“What?”

“Do you want any cereal?”

“No, Dad,” she called back over the shower noise, intoning that it was the most obvious thing in the world that she would not want any cereal.

“What are you going to have?” She sighed loudly at this, audible even over the constant stream of water.

“Toast, or something.”

“Do you want me to put some on for you?”

“No, Dad.” I was about to turn away and then asked, “will you be long?” Another sigh and then,

“No, Dad.”

I began to walk down the stairs, but when I was halfway down I heard the shower and the radio go off, the door open, Gemma’s footsteps across the landing and then her bedroom door close. I turned around and went back to the bathroom.

Back in the kitchen I found Lucy slurping the browny-white milk from a bowl.

“Don’t slurp, sweetie,” I told her.

“Why, daddy?” I paused for a moment, then replied

“Because it’s not good manners.” She put down her bowl and revealed a milk-moustache on her top lip. For a few seconds she watched me as I went to the cupboard, placed a couple of Weetabixes in a bowl and then poured the last of the milk over them, then she began spooning the milk in her own bowl into her mouth.

I sat down and began eating, then I looked back at her and saw she was making more of a mess with the spoon than with the bowl. I acquiesced to letting her drink from the bowl and so she put down her spoon and returned to her previous activity.

Several minutes later Gemma entered the kitchen, pushed a slice of bread into the toaster and then ran back upstairs. I was going to say good morning to her, but I had barely enough time to swallow the mouthful I was eating before she was gone again. I continued to eat until I noticed that Lucy had finished emptying the bowl and was now looking at me again. I felt that I should say something, but did not know what, so I just said

“Have you got your things ready for school?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

She continued to look at me for maybe half a minute, then the toast jumped up in the toaster and she looked around at that for a moment. I started eating again.

Gemma came back into the kitchen a few minutes later and grabbed some marmalade from the fridge.

“Good morning,” I said to her. She turned around as if she had only just noticed I was in the kitchen and then said

“Morning, Dad.” She turned back to the toast and began to spread the marmalade onto it as she held it in her hand. Then she sat down on the left of the table, between Lucy and me.

“What?” She asked when she saw me looking at her.

“Use a plate,” I replied. She looked as if she was about to argue then, apparently deciding to humour me, stood up and pulled a plate from the cupboard. She sat back down, the toast still in her hand and took a few bites of it. There was a knock at the door a few seconds later. She got up and went to answer it with the toast still in her hand. It was Marisa, one of her friends who Gemma always walked to school with.

Gemma ran back into the kitchen, took a couple more bites of the toast and threw the rest onto the plate. She grabbed her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and then her the lunch that I had packed the night before and shoved that into the bag.

“Bye, dad, bye, Lucy” she said, sweeping out of the kitchen.

“Bye,” I said.

“Bye, Gem” Lucy said.

I heard the door slam shut and then I sighed and looked back at the brownish-grey mush in my bowl; up until a few months ago I used to get a quick peck on the cheek from my daughter every time she went to school, a simple mark of affection that let me know she still loved her father. But I suppose fathers cannot be number one in their daughter’s lives forever.

I turned to Lucy and smiled sadly. She smiled back; radiant and genuine. She loved her Daddy, I know that for sure because she told me, every night before I turned out the lights. But then she was eight, and Gemma was the same at her age. One day she would grow up too and then she would be a teenager, and I would only be able to guess at her feelings then.

I looked back at my breakfast and realised that I did not want any more, so I got up and poured the remainder into the waste disposal. It was time for a change, I decided; shredded wheat maybe.

“Come on,” I said, turning to face Lucy again, “We’d better get you ready for school and you look a state.” She smiled and then jumped off her chair. She walked a few steps slowly towards me, and then suddenly darted past me, squealing as she did so. It had become a part of our morning routine that she would not let me wash her face without first catching her. I chased after her and grabbed her on the landing.

I carried her into the bathroom and soaked a flannel with warm water. Then I rubbed her face until the milk and the chocolate stains were gone. She brushed her hair as I did this, so that it shone, sleek and black, straighter, longer and a little darker than her mother’s but equally pretty.

“Now, do you need the toilet before we go?” I asked her. She seemed to think for a second and then nodded. I left the room, closing the door behind me and returned to the kitchen to complete her lunchbox with a Petit Filous yoghurt.

A few minutes later we were in the car on the way to Sandfield Primary school and a few minutes after that we had reached the school gates. I handed Lucy her backpack and told her to have a good day. Before getting out the car, she leaned over and kissed my cheek.

“I love you, Daddy,” she said.

“I love you too, sweetie,” I said. I hesitated for just a moment and then kissed the top of her head. For a second the smell of shampoo on her hair filled my nostrils, and then she jumped out of the car.

“See you later, sweetie,” I said.

“Bye, Daddy.”

Read Part Two

Tags: family, father, Fiction, isolation, loneliness, novella, original fiction, part one, Relationships, Silent Hill 2

This entry was posted on Monday, November 10th, 2008 at 10:52 am and is filed under Fiction. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.