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(NB I have published this instalment before and then removed it, so some of you may remember it.)
Please be kind. This series is me baring secrets, things I've never dared mention up until now. I stopped publishing the series in April after a couple of upsetting comments, but I’ve since discovered that I can’t write it properly without you.
Without you I write for publishers, agents and critics which results in stodge.
With you I write, I hope, for something that somebody real might want to read.
As we’d arrived back late in the evening, and as we'd been eating well for days, I made a simple supper of baked beans on toast.
I brought the plates into the sitting room on two trays which I placed on the coffee table, before sitting on the sofa and placing my tray (with the smaller helping) on my lap.
Frog was already on the sofa but he hadn’t turned the television on and he didn’t reach for his tray. He didn’t look at me either, or say anything.
After spending Christmas together at home we’d done a tour of the parents, staying first with John T who was managing just fine. He’d joined a dating agency and, being that rare thing, an older single man, had received countless replies from women who wanted to get to know him. He was working his way through them and Frog was disgusted.
‘It’s an insult to Ma,’ he said.
John T had cleared the house of all Mollie’s things and piled them into the garage. He wanted Frog to deal with them but he refused.
‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘Not yet.’
The house itself was now pristine and characterless, empty without Mollie’s presence.
Things were no better at my parents’ house, even if the house was bigger and easier to get lost in. No better for me anyway. I carried on pretending to my parents that I was different from what I really was. It was an awful strain.
Please be kind. This series is me baring secrets, things I've never dared mention up until now. I stopped publishing the series in April after a couple of upsetting comments, but I’ve since discovered that I can’t write it properly without you.
Without you I write for publishers, agents and critics which results in stodge.
With you I write, I hope, for something that somebody real might want to read.
New Year's Day, 1990
I brought the plates into the sitting room on two trays which I placed on the coffee table, before sitting on the sofa and placing my tray (with the smaller helping) on my lap.
Frog was already on the sofa but he hadn’t turned the television on and he didn’t reach for his tray. He didn’t look at me either, or say anything.
After spending Christmas together at home we’d done a tour of the parents, staying first with John T who was managing just fine. He’d joined a dating agency and, being that rare thing, an older single man, had received countless replies from women who wanted to get to know him. He was working his way through them and Frog was disgusted.
‘It’s an insult to Ma,’ he said.
John T had cleared the house of all Mollie’s things and piled them into the garage. He wanted Frog to deal with them but he refused.
‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘Not yet.’
The house itself was now pristine and characterless, empty without Mollie’s presence.
Things were no better at my parents’ house, even if the house was bigger and easier to get lost in. No better for me anyway. I carried on pretending to my parents that I was different from what I really was. It was an awful strain.
In a strange way, however, my parents were warming to Frog, or at least they’d found a language in which they could communicate with him. What's more, he was still around, whereas the relationships of both my sisters had ended. Not that my parents said anything to me about their changing opinion, of course.
The landmark was Christmas Eve a few years earlier when the dishwasher failed as sixteen people were expected for the Christmas meal and more on Boxing Day. Frog had spent all morning lying on the kitchen’s stone floor repairing it.
I paused with a spoonful of beans halfway to my mouth. My throat and stomach had locked. I felt as if I couldn’t carry on - with anything.
‘There’s someone else, isn’t there,’ I blurted out.
It was one of those occasions when the words appeared before the thought. It had never occurred to me that something like that might be going on. I trusted Frog, and I was making the accusation as a challenge, expecting him to deny it vigorously.
He looked at me with a strange expression on his face – a mixture of pity, guilt and determination.
Ever since then my mother had greeted Frog with a list of practical jobs she needed help with. My father wasn't practical. His speciality was numbers. I remembered my childhood as a catalogue of crises, with the car not starting, the television going 'on the blink', electricity failing or things leaking. I too loved having Frog around to deal with practicalities.
Frog was happy to help. It gave him a role in my family. He’d always done the same for his own mother and one of his missions in life, after spreading good music, was rescuing damsels in distress (not that my mother was a damsel).
Another Christmas my father took Frog out to show him a chain-saw he’d bought for chopping logs but been too nervous to use. My father and Frog had spent a happy day working together, my father fetching and carrying and Frog chain-sawing. Ever since then, chain-sawing had been another of Frog’s jobs and whenever he didn’t know what else to do he would be outside adding to the log-pile.
During the visit Frog had done another of his disappearing acts saying he was going up to London. He loved shopping, unlike me, so I presumed he was off to some specialist music shop and didn't question him. In any case, I was afraid to say anything these days.
Another Christmas my father took Frog out to show him a chain-saw he’d bought for chopping logs but been too nervous to use. My father and Frog had spent a happy day working together, my father fetching and carrying and Frog chain-sawing. Ever since then, chain-sawing had been another of Frog’s jobs and whenever he didn’t know what else to do he would be outside adding to the log-pile.
During the visit Frog had done another of his disappearing acts saying he was going up to London. He loved shopping, unlike me, so I presumed he was off to some specialist music shop and didn't question him. In any case, I was afraid to say anything these days.
He’d arrived back at 7pm, explaining that he’d waited for the (cheaper) off-peak train - which sounded a bit odd as he'd never done that before and, anyway, I hadn't asked for an explanation. I’d been watching out for him since 5pm and had raced out to the hall to hug him, just pleased to see him back. My mother, who was skulking in the kitchen doorway, gave us a funny look.
I paused with a spoonful of beans halfway to my mouth. My throat and stomach had locked. I felt as if I couldn’t carry on - with anything.
‘There’s someone else, isn’t there,’ I blurted out.
It was one of those occasions when the words appeared before the thought. It had never occurred to me that something like that might be going on. I trusted Frog, and I was making the accusation as a challenge, expecting him to deny it vigorously.
He looked at me with a strange expression on his face – a mixture of pity, guilt and determination.
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