LITMIR.BIZ

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she wouldn’t tell Dad.

      

      Dad didn’t stop Mum from writing the note but I thought that was because he was too involved with work and forgot.

      ‘I’m too busy making money for you all to spend,’ was all he said.

      His jewellery business was situated in rented premises in Portobello Road.

      He always wore a business suit to go there but his jackets were never shiny at the elbows like some. Our headmaster wore leather patches on his sleeves. Dad liked to sport his RAF tie. Obsessed with timepieces he was never without an understated gold watch, which he wore on his left wrist.

      For my birthday that year I received a smart gold wristwatch with a black leather strap and was told by Dad to wear it on my left wrist. ‘It’s effeminate to wear it on your right arm,’ he explained.

      I didn’t understand what he meant but remembered goatee master had worn his watch on his right wrist. I interpreted that in Dad’s eyes goatee master had been effeminate and he would be displeased if I followed suit. I never did.

      I also received from my grandparents a rolled gold propelling pencil engraved with my name. Mum beamed. ‘You are a lucky boy. Look it’s the latest in technology able to take an assortment of leads and easy to keep sharp.’

      We lived at 78 Campden Hill Road in the leafy upmarket suburb of Kensington. Its major features were big open fireplaces with ornamental stone mantelpieces and high ceilings. My backyard was Kensington Gardens where I fished for tadpoles in the Round Pond and learned to ride my bicycle.

      We appeared prosperous but Mum was unhappy with Dad. ‘You’re allergic to most kinds of fun, Bill, except expensive alcohol. It’s as though whisky has become the coin of your realm. And you drink far too much.’

      Gran agreed with Mum. ‘But asking him to stop drinking is like asking turkeys to vote for an early Christmas.’ Mum saw the funny side of that.

      Dad usually slept off his colossal hangovers with a bucket beside his bed, which further displeased Mum.

      Mum looked like Mum. She smelled like Mum and had a feminine figure.

      For some reason she was popular when we shopped. Men always smiled at us in the shops and often stopped what they were doing to talk with Mum. I think the way they looked her up and down they were admiring her legs. They were always encased in expensive thirty denier nylons. She was particular about her appearance. Always she checked her seams were straight at the back and never wore nylons with ladders even at home.

      Mum was an unavoidable presence and I liked that. She drifted about like ground fog always busy with household chores.

      My parents did their best for me. They took me everywhere with them, tried to encourage me to be good at something, anything. I grew up with a strong desire to be as clever as Dad. But growing up in his shadow I continually fell short of his expectations.

      Opposite to Gramps, my dad never fantasised. He was too solid and dependable for that. He supported me but always demanded greater effort. I’d never been good at black and white. My life accepted extenuating circumstances, which led to shades of grey. I liked grey. In grey I could achieve a degree of comfort, but that angered Dad. ‘Don’t grow up wasting your time with pipe-dreams like your Gramps.’

      ‘Dreams are necessary, Bill. Surely goals are only dreams with deadlines,’ Mum reminded him.

      Dad was determined to raise me as an obedient child whereas Mum cared more for my welfare, and worried that I never ate enough.

      Dad became a frequent visitor at US air bases throughout England where he sold much of the jewellery he produced. According to Mum he put in long days and longer nights.

      ‘Watch and learn, John,’ Dad told me. ‘Unless you’re born into money, the only path to success is effort. If you’re to develop a taste for expensive things, only hard work and money will provide them.’

      Mum soon became unhappy at the long hours Dad worked and in particular the after-hours functions he attended. Often he over imbibed and came home in the early hours. Mum began to suspect he might have liaisons on the US bases with other women.

      Dad was personable and Mum thought him handsome. A tall and well put-together style of man, he had short fair hair and pale blue eyes. Never short of conversation he dressed conservatively, favoured double-breasted broad lapelled jackets with vents at each side at the rear, and always wore a tie, even at the beach.

      What was there not to like reflected in Mum’s face. She was in a bad mood even before she put on her pale blue cashmere top. She chatted with me while she drank her tea and seemed deep in thought about her problems with Dad.

      After Dad got home late and had kicked off his shoes, Mum had a go at him.

      ‘For Christ’s sake, give it a rest, Alice.’

      For a while ours was not a happy home. According to Gran, Dad was achieving riches but losing his way with Mum.

      ‘Maybe he’s enjoying those after hour’s activities a bit too much,’ Gran said, ‘but then who wouldn’t? Let’s face it, love, as the whisky flows and women flirt with him that’s more attractive to the prospect of you nagging him at home . ’

      Their power plays went over my head. Instead I took the path of least resistance and became lost in dreamland. I relied on their adult advice that children should be seen and not heard.

      My bed was situated behind a privacy screen to one side of theirs. When it was time to pack down and go to sleep I dreamed about becoming a fighter pilot like John Wayne in the films and Dad in real life.

      There! That’s sorted, I thought.

      

      ‘At four foot nothing your gran weighs the same as a baby mammoth,’ Mum told me. ‘And with those enormous breasts of hers and tiny feet she has a tendency to waddle and topple.’

      Gramps described her as, ‘My lovely rotund lady with her continuous, nervous sniff.’

      ‘Trouble is, John,’ Gran would say to me with a giggle, ‘my feet are too small for my body.’

      ‘When she stumbles, which is often, she blames her bunions,’ Mum said.

      But all things considered I felt the real issue was higher up, her not being able to see down to where she stepped.

      Gramps was opposite to Gran. ‘Tall and thin as a needle,’ Gran said, ‘and his lovely black hair is thinning so much he wears it slicked back to hide his bald spot.

      He smokes un-tipped Senior Service cigarettes, when he can afford them. Otherwise he rolls his own.’ Gran was thoughtful for a moment before she continued. ‘If he must smoke it’s a pity he doesn’t like the tipped variety. I’m sure they’d be better for his health. Come to think about it, his constant smoking contributes to his lack of weight. That and his heavy work on the railways as a porter and then a guard, I suppose.’

      Gran and Gramps taught me to be wary of pious or devoutly religious people because as Gramps put it, ‘They’re not quite right in the head.’

      Gran agreed. ‘Somehow they’re different to the rest of us.’

      At the meal table I noticed Gramps folded his nicotine stained fingers of his right hand under his left in an effort to hide his embarrassment. Mum had bought him a small cigarette holder to help minimise the nicotine stains but Gramps apologised. ‘I’m sorry, love, but I can’t come to terms with it.’

      Mum wasn’t surprised. But I asked, ‘Why?’

      Gramps looked embarrassed. Gran

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