A Defining moment.

A defining moment?
An extract from The Life of an Unperson

I’ve often heard it said that the eyes are the windows to the soul. I’m not sure if I believe that but what I do believe is that while it is easy to lie with words it is less so with the eyes. The eyes can convey much more than any words for with most people they don’t even realise what it is their eyes are saying.

Let us go back then to the summer of ’78 to a town called Corby in Northants and to a particular street; James Watt Avenue and a particular house; 25. My home and that of my Brother Craig and my father Anthony and my Mother Margaret

Those of you who survived that particular era can remember well enough how it was; flared trousers and basket ball boots, long hair and garish t-shirts and no paedophile waiting around every corner to snatch the unwary child. Back then the summers were longer, lazier and life as a whole seemed less urgent. Of course that’s all from the memories of an eight year old so you’ll have to allow a little licence. Memory of course is a strange thing; the good things stick with us; shining stars in the night sky of our minds and the bad? Well time seems to soften their edges like an eraser rubbing out the pencil marks but still leaving the indentations on the paper. My memories of that summer are a little different; part of me wanted to rub them out and make them fade but the influence on my life insulate them from the eraser effect.

But back to James Watt Avenue. We were fortunate that the old (damp ridden) council house had an unusually large garden, one that just a year previously I had helped my father turf (And I do mean helped, not the childish version of watching and holding his tools. I had carried the turf rolls and laid them as he had shown me.) What we also had was a full sized steel framed swing.
In the world of the eight year old this was something of a status symbol. Yes Alexander McLean’s dad had a car but his garden was too small for a swing. In fact none of my small circle of friends had a swing of their own, not even Julian O’Brien whose family had too much money for their own good – at least according to mum and dad when I’d overheard them talking once. No, I was the only one with a swing, a back garden big enough to play football and a neighbour with a mature apple tree so it wasn’t unusual for them all to be round in my back garden under the vague care of my father as they were that July evening. Me, Julian, Alexander, Alan Dowell and his sister Hazel and unfortunately my younger brother Craig. Mum as was usual was out working behind the bar at Bip’s Night spot and Dad, home from his job at the steel works was sitting in the living room with his paper only titularly aware of us while our attention was focused on the swing.
Kids being kids we had found a way to make even that seemingly simple and safe pastime dangerous; against strict orders from both my parents we had devised a game of seeing who could jump the farthest off the swing (We’ve all done it I suppose but to an eight year old this was matters of daring do that we alone had invented!). We took turns, with each jump measured by poking a spare twig in the ground. All of us that is except Craig who was too young and anyway was epileptic so had to stay calm. Needless to say that didn’t sit too well with him evidenced by the petulant tantrums and a determination to make sure we weren’t going to have any more fun than he was. I’d already been back inside to ask Dad to rein him in but my only answer had been a non-committal grunt as he continued to read the newspaper so we were forced to put up with him.
So here we are then kids a play without a care in the world. I can, even now, remember the wind pulling at my hair as I urged the swing higher and higher and the fear and exhilaration as I let go of the chains and threw myself forward then the jarring thud as I hit the ground and the attempt at the professional roll so as not to loose any of the precious distance gained. Then of course the intense, low lip biting, concentration as Alexander took his turn. He was slighter than me and could travel considerably further – but not this time.
I know the old cliché about everything going into slow motion but that’s how I seem to remember it; Alexander letting go of the chain to soar and Craig running across the path of the swing. There was a terrific thud then time resumed its normal passage as they both fell in a heap on the grass. Then of course there’s that moment of shocked silence and inaction before everything hits the senses at once; Craig’s screams, Alexander’s groans and the sense of growing panic. The rest of us gathered around the scene in that useless way you do as Alexander picked himself up a little shakily.
It is with some measure of guilt that I tell you my first thought was that I was going to get the blame for this and not as perhaps it should have been for the well-being of my brother – hey, I was only eight!
Within seconds my father appeared from the back door; there was no look of fatherly concern on his features rather tired annoyance. He pushed through our circle and knelt beside Craig, checking him over as he continued screaming; his face by now was beet red and covered in an amalgam of tears and snot. It was then that my father looked up at me and the look he gave has refused time’s eraser. There was the expected hint of anger about the eyes and lay of his jaw but it was the eyes. In those steely grey orbs I saw the chasm that had always been there between us widen beyond measure. In that brief instant I saw that things were never going to be the same again.
‘Are you satisfied now?’ His words were spoken without heat, he didn’t shout or roar. Before I could answer he turned his attention back to Craig and with a tenderness that up until then I had seen him reserve only for animals he scooped him still screaming into his arms.
‘You lot, go home, now.’
It was all the others needed to support their view that scarpering time was long overdue. They disappeared quickly around the house.
Not quite sure what to do I started to follow but my father turned to me stopping me in my tracks.
‘Just go away.’ He said. I remember those words; they are branded into my memory. ‘Go away and don’t come back.’ They were spoken the way you’d say them to a stranger; a door to door salesman you wanted off your doorstep. Not with any heat or malice just clear enough to ensure the meaning was understood.
Even that might not have been enough to drive me away but I looked into his eyes again. People say the worst thing a child can see in the eyes of a parent is hatred; they’re wrong. Hatred is an emotion it shows some level of care, involvement; a link. The worst thing a child can see in the eyes of a parent is indifference.
That was the moment when dad stopped being dad and became father.
I turned and ran out into the street and down the hill. I kept running until I reached the junction at the bottom unsure whether to go left or right all I did know was that I didn’t want to go back to that house, to that look.
It’s strange now, when I think back, that I didn’t cry. I remember I wanted to; could feel it welling inside but something stopped me. It could have been anger but I think, with hindsight that it was the revelation of what I had always secretly known; the fruition of the seed sown when at six mum had cornered me behind the front door and kicked into me for some crime since forgotten and nurtured by the lack parental affection afforded Craig but not I, never to me. Here I was standing in the street in the falling darkness eight years old but already with my first life lesson under my belt. I was alone; not the obvious alone with no-one around but the painful one surrounded by others but always alone.
It was only going to get harder.

Oh, if you’re interested, Craig suffered a broken leg for his trouble which worked out rather well for him in the end since he became the centre of attention not just of my parents but everyone.
What transpired between my father and I was never mentioned again but the effects would ripple out long after.