Coming of Age (versions 1 and 2)

Coming of Age *version 1*

Another day.

Another car journey.

Another site of ‘educational’ interest at the end of it.

I didn’t choose to come to this boring place. I wanted to stay home with my mates. I’m 16 for fuck sake. They won’t even let me stay in bed late. It’s my holiday too.

The twins are driving me insane. I mean they're my sisters and I love them. BUT. They can’t sit still for a minute, a second even. And the talk and the giggling - on and on and on. I want to scream. Scrunched up against them in the back seat the stink of the multi-coloured holiday sweet stuff they are making the most of is making me feel sick.

‘I need to puke. Stop the car.’ I cry in despair.

‘You’ll be fine. Nearly there now,’ replies Rob, my smart-arse step-father, in his sing-song voice.

I’ll never do this to my kids, never. It’s youth abuse.

‘Come on Paul,’ the girls shout. I dawdle, watching the dust swirl as I kick at the stones on the path.

And then.

The conversation.

Mum, my wonderful, lovely mum, is ill, very ill. The chemo’s due to begin as soon as we get home.

‘We’re not telling the girls yet. We want them to enjoy the holiday,’ she says taking my hand. I don’t pull away.

The next morning I’m up early. Up first.

‘Wake up sleepy-heads,’ I call. ‘We’re off to the beach today.’

*****

AND / OR

Coming of Age *version 2*

Another day.

Another car journey.

Another site of ‘educational’ interest at the end of it.

I didn’t choose to come to this tedious place. I wanted to stay home. I had things planned this week. I’m 82 for fuck sake. I don’t even get the chance for a lie-in. It’s my holiday too.

The twins are driving me crazy. They’re my great granddaughters and I love them to bits. BUT. They can’t sit still for a minute, a second even. And the constant chatter and giggling. I find myself counting to 10 innumerable times a day. Pushed up against them in the back seat the sickly-sweet smell of their holiday sugar-fix treat is not helping my mood or my comfort.

‘I need to puke. Stop the car.’ I moan in anguish.

‘You’ll be fine. Nearly there now,’ Rob, my sanctimonious grandson-in-law, responds in that irritating voice of his.

‘Come on Grandma,’ the girls shout. I lag behind for a small slice of peace. If only I hadn’t given up smoking.

How can they possibly believe this is a treat for me? It’s more like elder abuse.

And then.

The conversation.

My granddaughter, my wonderful, bright, beautiful granddaughter, is ill, very ill. The chemo’s due to begin as soon as we get home.

‘We’re not telling the girls yet. We want them to enjoy the holiday,’ she says. I take her hand. She doesn’t pull away.

The next morning I’m up early. I make pancakes for everyone.

‘Come on eat up,’ I say. ‘We’re off to the beach today.’