First Person 2

I‘m back in the past again. Even further. I’m sixteen and I’m at the tall thin house in Archway for the first time – Adam’s invited me back. We’ve both just started at Kingsway – I am doing the pre-foundation course, because I’m planning to become a famous artist. I’m looking politely at a photograph in a silver frame – it’s of two little boys in the early sixties. They’re perched on velvet chairs by a desk and there’s a big sign on it that says Editor, in capital letters. They’re wearing pale coloured coats with black velvet collars, little button up shoes and white socks. They’re surrounded by big men in suits, and women wearing hats and lipstick. Everyone is smiling for the camera.

Adam - Matt ‘s little brother - is telling me about how their father had a massive stroke, and how he was paralysed in hospital for several years until he finally died. He’s saying in a low voice that they were made to go and see him every week – how it wasn’t …. how they didn’t really want to go.

I am trying to look sympathetic, because I know that’s what I’m meant to do, but really I’m taking the opportunity to examine the red mark on his nose – the scar from the hole he made when he put too many drugs up there after he was sent to boarding school. They couldn’t stay at home because there was no money left, and their mother had to go back to work. The scar is a running joke - Adam's nickname is Junk, because at twelve, he was the youngest person ever to manage to do that to himself. He wears it like a badge of honour.

Adam puts the photo carefully back on the mantelpiece - it's quite heavy, and wanders off to put another record on, and Matt breezes in with some of his dodgy-looking friends and they greet me and sit down to roll a joint, joking and laughing about the latest scam they’ve pulled off. I look at him from under my fringe so he can’t see I’m doing it, and I think I’ve never met anyone quite that good looking before.

I turn back to the article. There’s still a little time before I have to fetch my children from school. I should be sorting out my divorce, which is proving quite long and complicated. I have no money and I’m not quite sure what I’m going to do about that. I’ll think about it later – right now I’m stuck in the past – and I can’t leave this new version of Matt just yet. I wonder about his life now – how he is, what he’s doing – I am so glad he’s still alive at least.

He’s explaining about the legacy of a dysfunctional family – how it reaches into every aspect of a child’s life, far into the future. Many children of alcoholics end up recreating the chaos in which they grow up – they don’t know any other way.

Another snapshot in my head – I am lying on a bed with Matt, listening to The Dark Side of the Moon. Our perfect life has just taken a turn for the worse. I’m not fun to be with anymore. I’m just about thin enough, but not very amusing. It’s taken over my life a bit – become the only thing I care about and I am cross and sulky and we argue a lot. We’ve both had enough, but I can’t seem to stop it.

Our worst and final argument has just ended in a horrible way - I’m completely surprised when Matt suddenly lashes out at me – hits me - quite hard. No one ever did that before. We stop suddenly – equally stunned. I think he’s just as shocked as me, and we stare at each other in disbelief. Matt’s face looks white and scared, and I feel sick. Neither of us says anything for a minute or two – then he apologises quietly – almost in a whisper. I blank him. Turn my face away. After a pause, I hear him get up and leave, closing the door softly behind him. It’s over.