The Sadness of Trudy's Dad: Part 4

Once her husband, who had escaped a hero’s death, died from fury, Trudy’s grandmother married the quiet widower next door. It seemed to the neighbours of that close community, that they had crept home from the Register Office with utilitarian smiles and sprays of heather, only minutes after her husband clutched his chest with one hand and the table cloth with the other. In those last minutes, he had been sure it was the only thing standing in the way of his death, and so he had let it go.

There was speculation of course that the affair was going on long before the heart attack occurred, even that the bereaved couple had engineered it somehow, but no-one could prove anything . Though it was equally true that one or two wondered where she’d have had the opportunity since the brute had had eyes in the back of his head.

The truth was that as Arthur grieved for his lack of a wife, he had heard the thumps and the bumps and the sobs refracting through walls; a shard of violet disappointment piercing the mantle-piece, a shot of yellow iodine streaking across his radio, the red curve of denial filling his living room with blood and overarching hopelessness .  How could anyone have something so precious and treat it so cruelly?

With little else to do except work, he had kept an eye out for his unfortunate neighbour. He’d watch the sadistic bastard come home from the pub, fag ash balanced on his lip like a diver lost his nerve. Arthur could hear the singing turn into the street followed by cursing. He felt the house next door hold its breath. 

He and Aggie had lived a childless life. He often found himself shaking off the ridiculous notion that his children had been placed in the wrong house. It was an easy mistake to make - only a digit out.

The first time she noticed him was when she stood in the front garden with tears and a cloth soaked in antiseptic.

Her husband had passed out face down on the bed, stinking of his own piss and unhappiness, which had given her time to attend to the desolation of her children. Her sons had thumped muffled fists into pillows and finally exhausted themselves with the effort of silencing tears.  Later, she would sleep upright in the chair.

Arthur had appeared in the dark with silent support and tea laced with rum. Saying, nothing at all, he took the cloth from her hands and hung it over the fence between them before gently closing her fingers round the mug.  Then he left, leaving his door slightly ajar to allow a comforting glow in his stead.

The Sadness of Trudy's Dad: Part 4

Once her husband, who had escaped a hero’s death, died from fury, Trudy’s grandmother married the quiet widower next door. It seemed to the neighbours of that close community, that the two of them had crept home from the Register Office with utilitarian smiles and sprays of heather, only minutes after her husband clutched his chest with one hand and the table cloth with the other. In those last minutes it was the only thing standing in the way of his death, and so he let it go.

There was speculation of course that the affair was going on long before the heart attack occurred, even that they engineered it somehow, but no-one could prove anything . They wondered where she’d have had the opportunity since the brute had eyes in the back of his head.

The truth was simple. As Arthur grieved for his lack of a wife, he had heard the thumps and the bumps and the sobs refracting through his wall; a shard of violet disappointment, a shot of yellow iodine, the green curve of denial with a hint of blood and overarching hopelessness.  How could anyone have something so precious and treat it so cruelly?

With little else to do except work, he kept an eye out for his unfortunate neighbour. He’d watch the bastard come back from the pub, fag ash balanced on his lip like a diver lost his nerve. Arthur could hear the singing from the bottom of the street and then the cursing.

The first time she noticed him was when she stood in the front garden with tears and a bruise and a cloth smelling of antiseptic that she had used to bathe the stinging scars of her son.

The Sadness of Trudy's Dad: Part 3

Trudy’s father, like all 7 year olds, saw monsters under the bed. They had stethoscopes and needles and white coats, and masks full of gas that brought never-ending darkness.

 But there were angels too. Their starched aprons were filled with brisk cuddles for a little boy so utterly alone and desperately ill though no-one knew why. In her father’s child-like world, there was only himself and the stuff of nightmares. He spent his young years un-mothered and un-brothered in sterile corridors where pockets of comfort were laced with terror, exhaustion and pain; trapped in a nether world. 

 His mother never quite got the hang of him being away but she stopped fretting so much because at least he was being cared for. Instead, she presided over illness and unrelenting viciousness in her own home with soup and cigarettes. 

When Trudy’s father returned home to his wife and children, he often felt overwhelmed with love and luck and determination. But at others he could see only what he could lose in his never-ending fight with death and his anger grew.

 It grew and he fed it and he knew what it should look like because he’d seen it in the shine of the buckle and heard it in the screams of his brother. He’d seen it in the chipped cup that held the tea-time whisky and in the cowering of his mother as she tried to squeeze past the dining table unnoticed. He fanned it and he flamed it; but because he felt nothing but gentleness towards his wife (who mothered him at last) and his healthy children, he railed instead at the TV; at politicians; at unfairness and injustice and at his faceless illness. 

But all the while, the clock was ticking and he lived on, forgetting that the life he had was precious and he was missing it by staying alive, and furious.

The Sadness of Trudy's Dad: Part 2

 She could put on a really good show though, could Trudy's mum. Her handsome, gentle husband would never have approved of such petulance and she couldn't face his disappointment. So, she would let her big, bad wolf out whilst he was at work and stuff it quickly under a cushion the minute that she heard his key in the lock.
Trudy looked forward to the end of the day because it not only meant that she could see her dad, but that they’d all start a game of pretend; pretend to be safe. She discovered that she could actually be happy, just by pretending – as long as she never let her guard down.

 Before her dad even knew who he was, he was ill for the very first time though no one knew why - even when the doctors looked and shook and took his temperature. His mother ignored it at first, thinking that he was attention in a house that couldn't spare it. Then when he got none and still nothing had changed, she would stay up all night at his bedside fretting. She was to become an expert at fretting since his younger brothers would be ill in a year or two, each with their own illnesses to baffle the doctors with.

Her husband was not much help. He came back from the war an angry man made angrier. In those dark days when fathers and husbands were strength without weakness, he buried those terrible foreign memories alongside his cold and harsh childhood and they festered there unnoticed till they seized a belt by the soft end and lashed his sons with the buckle for no particular reason.
Trudy’s father was the second of 4 brothers The eldest, who was not ill and not always in a hospital bed being poked and prodded and examined, was lashed enough for both of them. In time, he was lashed for 4 as spines grew longer and limbs grew twisted and doctors would have seen the welts.