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Mother

 


Mother

(some Kate Bush lyrics merged into mostly sad childhood memories)

We stand outside this woman’s work, this woman’s world. Oh, it’s hard on a man. Now his part is over — now starts the craft of a father, just not mine.

1980's preteen - divorce.

Dating by my mother. Potential dads — aka groomers — playground.

Big when I should have been small.

Free School dinners.

The biscuit tin. Watching one too many of the “run to the woods, protect your brothers, live off the land” movies. Christmas presents being unwrapped by police officers.

Whitley. The Rover. His son’s motorbike.

The identical tower block (West Reading) The flat smell of hate for children. Impressive loads of money. Tears. Street‑fighter anger.

He shipped out for a week and we couldn’t find him, knocking on doors — even the Masons. A door with a secret hatch, no women allowed.

The debt collector, knock knock knocking at your door.

Oh my darling, make it go, make it go away.

A KitKat and Reading Prison. Run, little girl. He built the fucking library — I didn’t get love for books until I was much, much older. All I remember is the plaque that said for all who built it!?.

He was on my teenage kill list for when I grew up and he was an old old man. I was 11.

Happy memories mixed in: Bob and his coat of many colours — after his prison stint he’d spend a summer with us. Mr V, who came home and never left.

Fred in the shed — ironically he wasn’t even called Fred. It was a nickname given. A shed at the end of our small council garden — regular lawn‑mower‑sized shed — (modern‑day classification Airbnb) became a rented room for nights, for a few men to stay in cheaply.

Merged over:

Give me these moments back, give them back to me. Give me that little kiss, give me your hand. I should be crying, but just can’t show her. I should be hoping, but I just can’t stop thinking of all the things we should’ve said that we never said, and all the things we should’ve done that we never did.

Mum.

Footnote

To Derek, who just walked away. He was always more bothered about retribution to her than he ever carried for me — both as bad as each other.

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