PART THREE. 5 A Second Letter continued

 This is an instalment of  an as-yet unnamed autobiographical series that started in Australia in 1975.

Click here for the first instalment.

The full list of instalments so far is in the sidebar to the right.

That evening, after John had spent a day at work and I’d spent a day in the university library staring at my books, unable to take anything in, we picked up my father’s letter again, sitting side by side on the edge of our mattress.

 . . . Neither your mother nor I wish for riches for our children but we do hope they may avoid financial worries which can be a most dreadful and disruptive matter. It is also a fact that life is so much more enjoyable with the ability to live at a reasonable standard rather than in squalor, to be able to educate one’s children, cover medical and dental expenses, have an occasional holiday, a nice home with modern machines to take the drudgery out of housework, the ability to have some outside interests and to entertain one’s friends and one’s children’s friends etc etc.

    You have a little money of your own. This was intended to be your personal security but it will hardly buy half a modest house, let alone furnish it. I should certainly be upset if it were frivelled away. It represents hard-earned sweat on my part to do what I have been able for you.

    You will appreciate that education outgoings have been extremely high for some years. So despite a high income, taxation has forced me to live off capital. Although I have some years’ work to go, my first duty is to your mother and her security for the future. Therefore it would be foolish to anticipate much significant help from me and even less so for a cause in which I did not believe.

 

Well, at least I didn’t go to private boarding school like my brothers. And neither did my sisters for that matter. Through the Eleven Plus exam we’d all received scholarships to our local Direct Grant girls’ school, a half private, half government-funded institution, and we’d attended as day pupils.

    So, except for my primary school years, my father couldn’t blame me for educational outgoings, although it felt as if he did. 

I hated the thought of his 'hard-earned sweat'. Sometimes it broke my heart seeing him trudging up to the train station every day and travelling in and out of London. I'd mentioned that to Roger the poet (the one with the bushy hair who'd seemed to take a fancy to me) and he'd said that my father probably enjoyed it. I still felt guilty though.

And I hadn’t anticipated any financial help from him. That wasn’t the reason for our visit. How could he have thought it was? It made me feel sick to think that he did.

    I hadn’t thought about money at all with respect to John and me marrying, but that was probably another sign of my irresponsibility.

On the other hand, why did he always call my expenditure 'frivelling' (one of his words)?

    Didn't I save enough money in Australia to pay him back for the airfare and contribute to my expenses now at university?

    What about his expenditure? He had hand-made suits, membership of exclusive clubs, antique rifles, a yacht.

    What exactly was 'frivelling'? What could I spend money on? Or should I not spend it at all? It was so hard to know.

    It was all so confusing, and so distressing.

    Why did I keep having these ungrateful thoughts?

     

So much for the money side which one does not particularly enjoy talking about but which needs to be said and it has to be considered. It is high time you became sensible and more mature.

 

John had gone quiet but now he cleared his throat so I looked at him.

    ‘What’s more mature than finishing your degree and getting married?’ he asked.

    ‘I don’t know,’ I said.

 

As far as this young man is concerned it is probably invidious to say too much as he didn’t volunteer much information or conversation in the few days with us. Even if one realises he was nervous (so was I!), it was far from an encouraging occasion. From what little one gathered he is not settled into a reasonable career and has little indication that he could be a responsible provider which in the normal course of events he is more likely to have to be.

 

I clenched my stomach muscles. John had a good job and a car. He’d worked almost without a break over the last seven years since he left school. How dare my father criticise him.

 

You wrote to us with the words that he was unsuitable and so you must bear considerable responsibility for the encouragement given. However, in my bachelor days, I know that I had one or two unsuitable girlfriends but I can so truly be thankful that my own family and circle of friends and their reactions, help and advice played a real part and quite surely helped my behaviour and actions.

 

What ‘encouragement’? Did he mean ‘discouragement’ but couldn’t bring himself to write the word?

    I longed to hear about his ‘unsuitable girlfriends’. It was the only part of the letter that made me smile.

 

  So please very seriously consider what we say. I know your mother has also written to you. But take help and advice from others in your family and from your tried and true friends.

    I do realise that this is a severe letter but I think that on rare occasions it is one’s duty as a father even if it is distressing to us both. However, please be quite sure that your mother and I are absolutely concerned for your long-term happiness which we would be devastated to see thrown away on an impulse. We are always here to support and encourage you in times of stress.

    With very great love

   Daddy

 

‘Impulse!’ exclaimed John. He stood up and began pacing the room.

   

I was exhausted. Even though I’d known the encounter would be difficult, this was so much worse than I’d expected.

    I was devastated that my father thought so little of me, understood so little of my hopes and fears, of what I’d been through.

    My mother’s letter had hurt but I knew she was shooting from the hip, as she always did. She’d written the first things that came to mind. You could tell that from her large untidy scrawl.

    My father’s letter on the other hand was the product of thought. Even though almost every word gave me pain, he sounded so reasonable. The letter looked so imposing.

    How could I possibly counteract it?

    

To be continued . . .