The Bitter End Read online

my seatbelt in, rev the engine and continue on my way.

  The traffic grows heavier as the world emerges from slumber, the loud rumbling of a large lorry with a French license plate intruding on my solitude. It's strange how conscious of noise, yet entirely unaware of silence you can be; I must have been driving for over an hour before I realised the radio wasn't on. Sometimes it's nice to sit and appreciate the absence of sound, to drive and just hear the pur of the engine. I drive an Audi RS5, which Helen always insisted was the act of a man going through a midlife crisis. She might have been right. But once the children were all grown up and I had a few quid knocking about in the bank I decided to treat myself. I traded in my reliable Ford Mondeo and walked away from the showroom with the keys to my dream car, or at least the next best thing, since I doubted I could climb in and out of a Porsche with any dignity at my age. I switch on the radio, Rolling Stones – 'Paint It Black'. I was never a big fan of the Stones, or the Beatles for that matter. My mother never listened to the radio, and my father was always a mod at heart, I can't count the number of times we listened to Tommy over and over again on the record player any time he stuck around. Like most people music had played a subtle, but consistent role in my life. I don't have favourite songs or bands, but I do have those songs that bring me back to certain moments. I was sixteen when my mother passed away, just another cruel cancer statistic. My father didn't come to the funeral. In fact I didn't see him again for a long time after. The last time I saw him he was sat at the bus stop outside the hospital, as I was on my way to visit her; the nurse said he'd stayed until she fell asleep. That night she passed away, and he disappeared. At the funeral they played Louis Armstrong's 'Wonderful World', and to this day I cannot listen to that song without it bringing a tear to my eye. Almost as soon as I switch it on, I turn the radio off again. I'm not in the mood for anyone's thoughts but my own.

 

  I'm aware of the time, although there isn't any rush. Whether I arrive in an hour or more, the unidentified body that may or may not be my father isn't going anywhere. A light shower of rain drops spray down on the windscreen as I pass Dunorlan Park. There's a large sign promoting the boating lake, and I almost wish I could be out there right now. I've always found something peaceful about sitting out on a lake. Perhaps my fondness for boats could be traced back to the day my father took me out on the Woolwich ferry, but I'm almost certain it's more to do with my time in Cambridge. After my mother's death I hated the world, and resented my father. To all intents and purposes I was little more than a teenage orphan with no idea what it meant to be a man, and nobody around to teach me. I spent two years lodging with an elderly neighbour, and it was the desire to escape those depressing terraces that drove me to succeed. I wasn't a sociable child in school, but I worked hard and secured a place at Magdalene College. It was during that first summer when, determined not to return to Jamaica Road, I took a job punting tourists on the river. I have fond memories of the time I shared with the multitudes of families, and happy couples that passed by. It was their special day, their special moment, but it gave me a warm feeling to be a part of it, even just as a chauffeur. It was that summer that I first met Helen. She was due to attend Magdalene in the autumn, and not knowing any of her fellow students I offered to show her the sights. And it was there on that river, just a few short years later, where I asked her to marry me on the same day I was due to collect my hard-earned upper second honours degree. She said yes. It had been the happiest day of my life thus far, but would also be catalyst for my father's return. I had not invited him to the wedding, nor had I entertained any idea of doing so. With the passing years I had harboured no bitterness towards him for abandoning me, he had simply vanished not only from my life, but from my heart. And whilst I had not anticipated ever seeing him again, I was almost surprised by how pleased I genuinely felt to find him sat alone at the back of the church. He didn't look well, the years had certainly not been kind to him. But he was there, there to share a special day in my life and in that brief fleeting moment before my thoughts returned to the important business of marriage, I saw a glimpse of the man who made my mother laugh so heartily as we splashed around in the sea down in Margate all those years ago.

 

  Just before 7am I pull into the car park of a Little Chef and head inside to use the bathroom. The striplight buzzes obnoxiously as I splash my face with water and stare into the mirror. I've always felt that bathroom mirrors serve only two purposes; grooming and self-loathing. Happy people don't waste time pondering their own reflection. My temples are grey, wrinkles firmly set in, lips chapped, two days stubble adoring my face. Maybe I'm too old and lonely to care about self-preservation or self-loathing. My father had disappeared during the course of my wedding reception, but not without offering congratulations and leaving me his contact details scrawled down upon on a napkin. We kept in touch after that, I wouldn't say we bonded, and we rarely spoke of the past, but we would meet up at this pub or that, play a few games of darts and pass the time with idle chatter. In the spring of 1984 Helen gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl. They were christened at the beginning of June. In hindsight, perhaps it was naïve of me to invite my father without giving it some consideration, but I never expected him to show up in the state he did. We were stood inside when we heard the shouting. The vicar excused himself and walked towards the door and I followed leaving my wife with the children. The curate explained that he had told my father he was not allowed to bring alcohol into the church. Quietly and discreetly I steered him away and walked him down the path and out of the church grounds. He stank of alcohol, and could barely stand unaided. He was making loud threats about burning the church to the ground, and as I tried to calm him down he jabbed his finger into my chest and began ranting about how I never wanted him in my life, and how now I was trying to keep him out of my children's lives. He continued shouting as he pulled a beer from his plastic bag and cracked it open, and in doing so remained completely oblivious to the arrival of the local police. I don't know who had made the call about a disturbance, but my father blamed me. I barely uttered a word, instead I watched as he fought with the officers, demanding respect for what he had done for this country, before being taken into custody. I declined to give a statement and watched on in disappointment and embarrassment as he was driven away. Straightening my tie, I returned to the church, determined not to let that unfortunate event spoil the day and adamant that the children's grandfather would never be a part of their lives.

 

  Glancing up at the sign for 'Eastbourne' I feel a strange sense of completion, a journey that had now gone full circle. It was here that I had found my father again after all those years by little more than chance. Many years had passed. Helen and I had grown closer in parenthood and I took pride in the challenge of being a father, determined to provide my children with everything I never had. I worked all the hours God sent to ensure we always had money for holidays, and that the children would never want for anything, often leaving before they awoke in the morning and only returning to tuck them in at night. With the dog days of summer lingering on, we had taken the children on a day trip to the seaside. Following our fish and chip supper we took a walk along the promenade, stopping by the bandstand to listen to the British Legion Band. There I bumped into an old friend of my fathers. He informed me that he was down here visiting him, and was kind enough to give me an address. We drove home that night, but I kept that crumpled piece of paper in my wallet for almost two months before deciding to pay him a visit. I had driven this very road that day, and I am certain my palms sweated just as much in anticipation. Despite the many thoughts that had floated through my head, I was completely unprepared to be greeted at the door by a middle-aged woman with peroxide blonde hair and bright pink lipstick, who was introduced to me as my father's wife. Sat in the garden of the semi-detached house, recently inherited by his new wife, drinking tea and eating digestives, I felt saddened by how little this man now meant to me. There was no
emotional connection. He showed little interest in my family, and offered no apologies for the incident at the christening all those years ago, an incident I had no intention of raising. Following that afternoon we arranged to meet up again at a local pub, but on the morning of our planned visit he called to say he would be unable to make it. We rearranged, but once again he failed to show up. I'd waited for hours, sat alone at a table watching intently each time the door opened and a patron entered. Yet my waiting was in vain. Disappointed and angry, I went to his house, and whilst the lights were on and there were clear signs of movement inside, nobody answered my knocks at the door. In desperation I walked to the phone box on the corner of the road and used my remaining change to try and get through to him, but finding no success I simply left a short message on the answerphone. I returned home feeling hollow inside, Helen could see I was upset. I opened up to her more that night than I had done in all our previous years of marriage. I felt upset, betrayed, angry.