Forgiven

Forgiven

The dawn seemed to swing around the curtain, spilling light into the
room and around him while he slowly licked the last of the envelopes.
The man lifted his head, wearily, almost in resignation and smiled a
weak smile as his bleary eyes scanned outside the window. In the
dressing table mirror the light did strange things to his face. He
thought of a piece of music that was Bronnie's favourite, 'It feels so
good, Like an Angel' He couldn't remember the title. 'It was by a band
called 'The McKenzie'. He struggled to remember any songs that Fury
liked.
A different, older memory flew across his countenance and he frowned
silently, disappointed that he could have included it in one of the
letters.
To Thomas Chandler, it seemed as if the world was slowing on its axis,
the slowing motion was palpable. And yet, he instinctively knew that it
was his own internal clock that was haywire.
It had all started in a cascade of coincidence, one brick tumbling down
after another, until his Babylon lay in pieces in an unrecognisable
pile of rubble.
He had left the house a week ago; he had needed time to think. His mind
was in turmoil. Could he really face the future? Did he care? Was he
strong enough? His insides were racked with pain. He had surmised
stomach acid. His chest was tight and breathing hard. He had surmised
stress. He had cried everyday since leaving his home of fifteen
years.
Thomas got up and tried to cross the hotel room floor without creaking,
it was impossible and the sound echoed loudly in the old Hotel. Years
of surviving the elements, perched on the edge of a rocky shoreline,
the Albatross Hotel had long since ceased to pretensions of luxury or
grandeur. It simply endured.
He smiled, pinching his nose, rubbing his watery eyes. He had already
decided and now he felt better. He was leaving the earth. He planned to
simply let go of his life. He was giving up the struggle. He'd even
felt some of the tension leave him as he began the letters.

Chapter One
"Dad was really upset" The younger of the two girls spoke. Her voice
was soft and flat. She slowly turned her head to her older sister
wanting, expecting a response. Trying to elicit a needed
discussion.
"He's not our Dad, remember" Bronnie almost barked back, "And of course
he's upset" Her voice tailed away. "I don't want to talk about it" she
paused, "Yet."
The connection between the sisters was seamless; each knew what the
other was thinking. They were so different and yet were able to bridge
the personality gap by accommodating, or in this instance recognising,
each other's needs.
"Can we talk later?" Fury asked.
"Sure" Bronnie bent down to her sister and hugged her. There was
nothing false or awkward in the hug. "I just need to think a bit more
than you, first. You know"
"I know" Fury half smiled as she cast her eyes up.
Fury was fifteen and sharp in both intelligence and spirit. Her long
brown hair framed an attractive face that was often creased with
problem solving, if not on her own behalf then the worlds or some other
individual whom she felt she might help. She had already followed her
sister's footsteps into premature womanhood. Her movement was lithe,
yet graceful, emphasising her slender figure and longish neck. Unlike
her sister she had little interest in either exercise or boys, she
preferred her books and the Cello. Mostly, her life was disciplined and
organised the only exception being her struggle with vegetarianism,
which while she preferred and supported she could not always
maintain.

Bronnie was in her second year at Manchester University. It was far
enough from London to give her a little bit of freedom, yet close
enough to get home for 'comfort food' and the occasional pampering. She
ran a string of young men, all equally hooked, on the 'Bronnie Habit.'
She had an endearing way of arguing, a pleasant way of disagreeing, a
sexy way of saying no and a funny way of making the least popular
person feel she was giving them her sole attention. She was in love
with life, pure and simple. She was bumbling her way through her degree
in Media Arts but there was never any doubt that she would pass, albeit
with an average grade. To Bronnie, her degree was a means to an end, a
passing of time, and a way to meet people, a stopgap and an adjunct to
living life to the full.
"Where do you think he is?" Bronnie asked.
"I don't know, probably Uncle Alan's place"
"No! Mum called there." Bronnie was shaking her head
categorically
Fury continued to puzzle over her sister's question. She had been
thinking about it since he left. As the previous nights, she lay awake,
looking out at the moon hoping he could see it to. She missed her
Father and she worried about him with the maternal instinct of a mature
woman.

In the hotel Thomas Chandler was still writing furiously, trying to get
his thoughts onto the paper in a semi coherent way. He had been arguing
with himself about his state of mind. He felt odd. He felt curiously
detached and possibly resigned but with a purpose. He had a schedule.
He felt death, waiting close by to take him when he finally finished.
He had to hurry.

"Oh my God! Mum! Mum!" Bronnie's scream was alarming and persistent.
She had two letters in her hand. One opened and one addressed to her
Mother. Her dressing gown flew open revealing short, pink pyjamas as
she flew out of the hall into the kitchen where her Mother was
preparing breakfast.
"A letter from Dad!" Her younger sister looked up "I don't think I
understand it!"
"One for you as well" she thrust the envelope at her Mother.
The young girls watched anxiously as their Mother opened the
letter.
Their Mothers face widened then whitened as she read the letter. Her
hand slipped silently to her mouth, horrified. She moved to the kitchen
table and groped for a chair and a place to take her weight of her
shaking legs.
"What does it say?" Bronnie paused briefly "Mum, tell us! What does it
mean?"
"Wait! I need to call someone. Uncle Alan." The woman moved to the
phone and dialled the number automatically. The phone was answered
almost immediately.
"Alan? It's Kate. I got a letter from Thomas. He's, he's. I don't know,
He's.... "She couldn't say anything. The words had rushed out but she
couldn't repeat what she was thinking.
"Damn!" The male voice on the other end responded. "We got one too! Any
idea where he is?"
"No!"
"Think! Where would he go? Did he say anything? Ask the girls? Are they
both there?" The man was breathless, his mind slewing across the
possibilities. "Okay, here's what to do. First call the police. Let
them see the letter. They will know what to do. I am on my way.
Probably be there in about two hours. OK? Just hang in there. Look
after the kids and we'll see you soon. Okay?" His speech was terse,
clipped he was already thinking about what he'd say to his work.
"Okay" the woman managed a faint smile. Alan would know what to do. She
hung up and started to dial the police.
The two girls looked on, frightened by what they were hearing, they had
moved closer together and now cuddled each other as they watched their
mother talking to the police. They had regressed from young women to
children. Tears had slowly emerged in the eyes of the older sister as
she clutched the letter to them.

Chapter Two

02 February
Hi Bronnie, Fury,

I hope School and University are both going well. I know they usually
are.
Please don't let what has happened change your lives. Well, yes, I know
that is an illogical thing to say and I can imagine you both telling me
off, 'Dad that is so stupid!' Perhaps!
How can I expect your lives to be the same after this? But, I guess
what I want to say is, 'try to stay focussed on your dreams and your
goals' as I have always taught you. For me, for my memory, if not for
yourselves! Not that I am any shining example, but I like to think I
have imparted some knowledge and influence as you attempt to make your
way in this complicated, complicit and cynical society. I hope so. I am
sorry I won't be around to see it.
What I have to say to you isn't easy. Please try to understand.
I am taking the easy way out. My heart is broken in pieces. But know
that I loved you both every day, hour, minute and second of the years
that we were together. Since you both emerged from the womb, noisy and
wet. Alien creatures to me then!
Promise me you will remember that and revisit my letters as the years
pass.

Your Mother loves you too, perhaps, in a different way from me. This
was not her fault. These things happen between adults. If anything, I
am the cowardly one for 'getting out' especially after the countless
times I lectured you both on the importance of standing up to your
responsibilities. What a hypocrite I have turned out to be! Don't (Yes
Bronnie, especially you) lay the blame for what has happened against
anyone else but me. You will only hurt your own lives further than I
have already with my selfish action.

I know you both well. Like any true Father should. You are both strong,
and determined enough to move on with your lives. If you do not
understand this now, then I pray you will in years to come. I am sorry
to do this to you, but I no longer have the will to fight.

Hey guys, cheer up. Remember we had some great times together, some
beautiful and happy memories. Can you both remember the first time we
dived together? We were all scared but I think I was the most. It was
an amazing experience to watch 'my girls' get their gear on to slip
confidently and expertly under the water, as if you had been doing it
all your lives, not just a few pool sessions. I still see both your
eyes looking out through the glass of your masks as we descended
together. When we came back up, Fury decided she 'liked it okay except
for the fish'. We all laughed at that.

And remember Bronnie, that embarrassing poem that we wrote for Fury?
How she hated it. We sang it to her before she left for her first
school disco.

'Keep your hand on your hamster
and hold it real tight
lest somebody steal it
in the middle of the night

Cos life without your Hamster
Wouldn't be much fun
You wouldn't have your furry friend
You'd only have your bum!'

Or was it 'mum'?

Remember, Fury's response? Her twisted face, 'Dad, Bronnie! You're both
disgusting!' Our sides were sore with laughing. And your Mother came in
to the lounge and got annoyed because no-one would or could tell her
what we were laughing at. Of course her frustration made us laugh all
the more.

What about that time we spent together on the beach? Remember we tried
to build sand sculptures, a pod of dolphins? The idea was great but I
guess we were not good enough Sculptors. Yes Bronnie it was your idea,
and you got annoyed with Fury and I when we wanted to stop. As usual
your determination pushed everyone along. But lets face it we were
rubbish! Maybe the project was too ambitious. All Fury and I got was
sunburn and pain in our backs from shovelling too much sand!

We got our own back on you. Fury and I masterminded the plan to throw
you into the pool at night once you were dressed. Too bad about the
make-up, eh Bronnie?

These were fun times girls. Nuggets! Remember them, little nuggets of
happiness. Cherish them and take them out every now and again and just
polish them. If you do you will find that they comfort you, like jewels
in the rain, in less happy times.

I have many things I want to say to you both. I want to write it all
down while it is still in my thoughts and don't forget I want you to
keep my letters.

I hope you will value the letters I send as much as I have valued our
years together.

et nunc et semper

Dad

Chapter Three
2 February
Well Kate,

I did exactly what you said. I went away and thought about it. I have
cried and laughed, talked to myself, drank until I fell unconscious. I
have puzzled and questioned, agonised and berated my own stupidity. I
have tried to look to the future, to see a solution, to believe that,
something good can come out of this, that I can come out of this. I am
sorry but I cannot. I still am unable to come to terms with everything.
Why didn't you tell me? Then again, perhaps after you had made one
mistake you might have been able to explain. Maybe at that time you
were not sure, but why repeat the mistake some four years later? I
guess that's when telling became impossible. You married me for what? I
know why now, because all your friends were married, a simple yet
common response. You were scared to get left on the shelf. I
represented some sort of security and material gain, a commodity. I
remember back then, clearing all your debts, spending money to make us
comfortable. Now I realise that you never ever loved me. You rarely
told me and I excused it as 'your nature'. I just thought you were not
a very demonstrative person.
I feel sick. 'Cuckolded' is an old fashioned word and only now do I
truly understand what it means. Eighteen years of trust, of belief, of
trying to do the best for the family that I believed were mine. Living
a lie and a life that wasn't mine to live. Holding a dream for my
girls, that wasn't mine to hold.
My heart is broken.
Of course I still love the girls, but for me the final blow is that now
that the 'secret' is out, you think that you would like them to meet
their 'natural' father. How could you?
I am sorry, even I, your tolerant, easygoing, husband cannot live with
that. It seems that I lose no matter what.

I find it hard to imagine that you kept in touch with him all these
years. You said you were not sure that they were his, but I don't
believe you. Women know, almost instinctively, to whom their children
belong. If not, certainly you would know through calculation. You are
too organised not to.
I didn't get the chance to tell you but I was fired last week. It's a
long story, but I guess basically I was not fitting in any longer. I
was about to tell you when everything else came to the fore. Doesn't
matter much now.

Perhaps what I am about to do is selfish, but in another way, I feel
that I have failed. Everything, my mission in life has disappeared; my
values and dreams are dust in the aftermath of this surprise.

I didn't look at the policies; believe it or not I didn't have this in
mind when I left the house. I am sure suicide is covered. They deem
someone who does this to be mentally 'out of balance', a kind of
illness. Strange, I have never felt better. Maybe, that's a sign of
being 'disconnected' Anyway, look, the mortgage will be paid and there
will be enough money over to ensure the girls are looked after.
In my profession we consider the people who commit suicide are either
so low that they are staring into the great abyss, or are clinically
depressed. I am not sure I feel either. I feel shame and blame and I
cannot shake the feeling of failure.
I really don't have much else to say to you. I'd love to remind you of
the happy memories, of the good times we had, but all I can hear is the
squealing of the tape as the happy sounds are erased by the treachery
of duplicity and deceit across all these years. I just feel sick
inside. What else?
Take care of the girls. They are yours now. I give you back the little
piece that I had. Don't worry; I have said nothing to them that is in
anyway detrimental to you, their happiness is more important. Once I am
out of the way, quickly and cleanly, you and they will have an
opportunity to build a life again.
I cannot hate you Kate. Hmmm Hate Kate. It rhymes! No I cannot. I just
don't have it in me. But I am sad and angry at the moment. I spent my
hate many years ago on my Father, now I have nothing left to share
around.
Nor can I genuinely wish you all the best. All I wish for is you to
take good care of the girls. Their road ahead will be rocky after this,
as you find the right time to introduce them to their real Father. I
don't envy you that task. Don't be surprised if one or both of them
refuses. This would be perfectly normal.
Yes, I have my Psychologist hat on again. I know you hate when I use
'work' techniques' to analyse family problems. But lets face it; it
doesn't take a Sigmund Freud to arrive at a similar prognosis.

By the way, they will find my body soon enough. I have made sure of
that. I'd hate there to be a delay or wrangle over the insurance.
Talk to my Brother, he'll know what to do. I realise the next few weeks
will be tough. But ride it out, the sun will come out again.
I will write again. My mind is so focussed at the moment. The clarity
is frightening. Why, I never found that throughout my life, I'll never
understand.

I hope you can bear with me, save the letters. Consider me already
dead.

Your husband
Thomas

Chapter Four
3rd February
Hello Alan,

You were right. It was only a matter of time before this whole thing
affected my health. Although, death has not arrived in the form of a
massive coronary as you predicted. It has been my mental health that
final let me down. Alan, I cracked! I know as you read this letter your
mind is already racing ahead and predicting what I will say next. We
always were connected. Or at least you were always able to out guess
me. You always seemed to know what I was going to say or do, even when
we were children.
Part of me cannot believe that I am going to leave this planet before
Father. If ever someone deserved to go to hell, he did. Not that I
think I am any Saint. Nor am I feeling sorry for myself. This is my
choice, my final release and fingers up to the world. I can still fire
my longbow, even in death. Although, I don't want to hurt people, it's
an inevitable consequence of my actions, and my actions the inevitable
consequence of my state of mind. I just want to put the record
straight.
I cannot explain it to you or anyone else, but facing this has caused
my brain to 'boil over' thoughts and memories are flooding out of me.
Not sure they are all connected, although there is a weird sense of
synchronicity or dream quality. A real need to unburden this vessel
that laboured through its own Cape of Good Hope, carrying a cargo of
doubts, pain and insecurity.

Remember when Father thought Mother was smoking his cigarettes? In fact
they used to suspect each other. We were only eleven and twelve. Well
it was I! I was stealing the occasional cigarette and smoking it while
walking the mongrel. What was its name again? Apart from 'Damn Dog!'
Anyway, I used to take 'the beast' down the deserted railway and puff
on a fag at twelve years of age. I still remember the first one because
it gave me a raging hard-on. Funniest thing! I am not sure it was the
excitement of getting one over on that old bastard and the fear of
getting caught. Or, was it the nicotine coursing prematurely around my
young veins? Shame it never worked during my various encounters with
the opposite sex in all the rest of my forty-six years.
Another funny thought occurs to me. Do you remember we sold some
'Nudie' magazines from Fathers collection under his bed? I think
Fiesta, Knave, Playboy and others. We panicked later when half of the
first form turned up on our doorstep after school to try to buy one. We
could have made a Fortune! But we were scared of that mean old Bastard.
Had we been Richard Branson we'd probably have sold the lot and got
some more in. Could you imagine that old Bastards face if he had ever
found out that Carp Hill Secondary were all 'spanking their monkeys'
over his prize collection!
Do you remember our days of hunger, of climbing out the second, story
window into the dark, just to steal a few turnips out of the fields?
When I think back, it amazes me we were never hurt or caught.

I have been picking over our lives, the last few days. Thinking about
the things we endured as children. I remember, being hungry for as many
as four days. One of my memories is of the feeling of Mothers lean,
hard stomach that had borne all five of us, as she pressed my head into
it. She cried because I did not eat my 'share' of the meagre meal that
we had. I didn't eat my share because I was listening to the youngest
crying from hunger. I was so angry and bitter then. I remember all the
details except what the food was! Funny huh?
It wasn't the hunger that hurt. We were never starved like in some
third world countries. What hurt was the neglect and the feeling
deprivation as we arrived at school, with rumbling bellies, only to
watch other 'better off' children eating sweets and chocolate
bars.

Did you know that I had a fight with a graduate in my office many years
ago? I never told you that. His Mother and Father had bought him a new
Ford XR2 after he graduated. He joined the company and some where along
the line had scoffed at me that, 'People don't starve in the UK
nowadays,' my colleagues had to pull me off him as I tried to wipe his
smug smile off his face. I nearly lost my job back then. Not sure why
they didn't sack me.

Probably the unhappiest time of my life, up until this week, was
Granda's death. He represented something, something good, something to
admire and worship when our own Father had let us down. At least that's
how I saw him. He was not a Churchgoer; in fact he despised what he saw
as Hypocrisy. He even stopped attending the Masonic lodge when it
became too much of a 'drinking den'
His death was not altogether unexpected. Maybe it was because it was
our first experience with death, or maybe it was because of the events
leading to it, but it hit us all like a huge hammer.
As the eldest grandson I had talked to the Doctor on behalf of my
Grandmother. The feedback was not good. Since Uncle Joe was on holiday
I had asked his children to call him back. Somehow another remote
in-law got involved. She was a nurse who worked in same hospital,
different ward. After talking to the Nurses on Grandas ward, they
decided that there was no need for his son to return. Remember?
I was accused of causing a panic in the family and when Uncle Joe
finally returned off holiday, even though he had not been disturbed, he
was also annoyed at me.
I was upset, I remember wondering if I had misheard the Doctor or
overreacted. But that was impossible. I felt a strange feeling of
disassociation. I prayed that I was wrong. I talked to you on the phone
and you told me not to worry, that the family were stupid. Funny, but
as a younger brother you had more experience of handling family crisis.
You were calmer than I. I will never forget that.
I returned to my own home, six hours drive away. I was exhausted,
washed-out. Coincidentally, the young graduate I mentioned earlier was
visiting me at my house when you called me to tell me that my hero, and
magician had passed away in the night. His body peppered with
cancer.
I was devastated, my own riddle one of 'Why him?' even though he was
eighty-four years old. Just 'Why him?'
Did you know that when we left for Tripoli all these years ago, we were
three and four then, that Granda walked all the way from Glasgow
airport back home? Normally, he was never a man to show his
feelings.
I never cried at his funeral. I felt a stoicism that I never had
before. I could feel and see him standing there as we watched the
coffin roll behind the curtain. It was strange, but he was right
there.
Later that night all the boys went out. I got so drunk, despite the
fact that Granda hated drinking and drunks. In a strange way it was a
slur on his memory, yet it wasn't. I stood on the bar in a busy pub and
sang something. Probably a lament, an old Scottish, bagpipe tune. I
don't remember. When I collapsed off the bar in tears, our two youngest
brothers marched me home between them. They were both 'tough guys' on
compassionate leave from the army but it didn't stop them crying in
silent harmony to my own sobs.

But there were happier times, although in my crazy mood right now it's
hard to find them.

Do you remember the time we five all turned up at 'Granny's door' on
her ninetieth birthday? We were scared the shock would kill her since
it had been years since she had seen the 'five boys' together. The old
dear didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Ninety years of experience,
the hardship of rationing, the pain of watching, children,
grand-children and great-grand-children make their own way and mistakes
in life. I was trying to remember last night, how many bones had she
broken, wrists, ankles? Unbelievable! I got sick as I remembered the
various, often-bloody incidents, like the fishhook through her thumb
while she was helping one of us fish from Custom House Quay, and the
blow on her head, from the golf club that one of the grand children
swung on the pitch and putt.
But, I never was any good with blood stories; my favourite was the time
she was climbing from Uncle Joe's motorboat into the dinghy. The boat
moved, the gap widened, the kids jumped clear and poor old Granny
plopped into the sea. You remember it was impossible to get her back on
board, so she hung on to the stern, complete with headscarf, coat and
handbag, while you rowed her back to the pier where Granda was waiting.
He had missed the whole thing. His face was a picture when he spotted
his wife being towed on the stern of the rowboat like a prize, salvage.
All Granny could do was laugh and laugh.
It was bloody cold in there, but as she liked to remind us, she had a
medallion for life saving in 1920.
I remember her in Marks and Spencer. She had spotted her sister across
the way. Calling and cooing she hurried over to find herself
face-to-face with one of the full-length mirrors that festooned M&;S
back then. Of course as usual she collapsed in fits of laughter.
Or the time she visited the ladies toilet and began her pee, only to
discover that the seat was still down! She hadn't realised. Only Granny
would find this funny and appropriate to tell the whole family.

What a crazy family! Sorry, I am laughing now.

So my brother, what was I to do. I have been over all the avenues and
have found for whatever reason, pride, fear, jealousy, and
disappointment, that they are all closed to me. In some ways, it's like
a game of chess. You fight to the end, but if the game goes to far,
it's almost a relief to capitulate. That point where you know, that
your fate has been decided and the game really is over.

I cannot make up my mind whether Kate has been deliberately malicious.
Or is she naturally vindictive and cannot help herself? She has not
made this easy. It is clear now that she never ever loved me, only
needed my support. Not that she has since needed me for financial
support in over ten years! Well she has a good job in ICL. No, not
vindictive, just able to say the right things to kill any spirit that I
had left. A man can only lose so much before the very fabric of his
soul is torn in two.

The girls both know the truth now. No, I didn't tell them. They both
looked at me through different eyes last week, as if seeing a stranger.
Fury's confusion is more blatant, she is trying hard to decipher what
it all means and to decide her own reaction. Bronnie is handling it
better. She told me apart from the others "Dad! This doesn't change
anything does it?" It was half a statement, half a question. My heart
went out to her.

Keep an eye on them for me, Alan. You are now the trustee of the money
I had for them. Sorry to spring that on you. But then again you are my
brother and I know you'd do anything for me, as I you.

Funny writing 'one way' letters, it means that you can be entirely
selfish, self-centred. One doesn't have to ask questions of the
recipient, since there will never be a need for a reply. Forgive me
then if my text is stilted.

There is one other thing that I must tell you. Confession time!
Remember the skiing holiday in Corcheval? Well, this is what happened.
It was one of the days I skied on my own. You know me, always seeking
out the longest runs, preferring a long green, blue or red to a short
black. I loved the 'motorway' pistes where I could push my skis to my
limit. Carving big wide sweeping turns. Fantastic. That particular day
I was travelling fast, bouncing and cruising on the skis, enjoying the
feeling of the wind and just looking around at the scenery. Suddenly,
from out of nowhere, and I guess I mean this both physically and
figuratively, came an out of control lady. She hit me hard and as I
struggled to maintain my balance, I watched her cartwheel over and over
in the snow. I thought it was bad, but was instantly concerned when I
saw her land on the wrong end of one of her ski poles. She fell in a
crumpled heap and didn't move. It had all happened so damn fast. I
stopped beside her. The pole had caught her in the middle of her chest,
right on the rib cage. I didn't know at the time but she was only
winded and would walk away with only a big purple bruise between her
breasts. As a few of her friends stopped beside us, I was checking her
to see that there was nothing broken. I wanted to look at her stomach
where the pole had gone. She was clutching so tightly and her face was
screwed up in pain that I feared she might even be bleeding. Funny, one
of here friends kept grabbing my shoulder as I bent down, asking me
repeatedly, 'Are you a Doctor?' She was more worried about her friend's
dignity than her injury.
The remarkable thing was this. As her pain eased and my panic died
down, our eyes began to focus on each other. Up until that point I had
not really taken in what she looked like. She fixed her eyes on me and
smiled. That was it. I was smitten. Something passed between us on the
slopes that morning. Maybe destiny, I don't know.
She was a young, Indonesian girl, bright and funny. We had gluevine
together as by way of apology and recovery of shock. Her friend sat
close by and frowned at the newly acquainted 'bogus doctor'. Clearly,
she didn't trust me or had seen something in Wendy's eyes that she
didn't like.
To be fair, we didn't exchange email or telephone numbers, although my
heart ached to be in a position to do just that. We parted on warm, if
slightly formal terms. As I skied off I guess I had a wistful smile on
my face. Thinking that I'd never see her again. As I pushed off into a
schuss, all the way back down the steep slope to the hotel, I pushed my
thoughts back to my family and lunch. Little did I know, that some
impulse caused her to follow-me, my bright jacket was clearly visible
from higher up the slope.
Imagine my surprise when I saw her the next night in the Hotel Bar. At
this time I was delighted by the 'coincidence' but to her honesty, she
laughed as she explained that it was not chance but
determination.

I could have slept with her that night. We wanted each other so badly.
Thing is Kate wouldn't have missed me; even then she had stopped giving
a damn.
This time we swapped telephone numbers and email addresses and a
promise to meet in London for a coffee.

Of course I couldn't very well tell anyone. To be honest Alan, I was
euphoric. I was in love. Despite the guilt, I couldn't stop thinking of
her. I realised you were suspicious but I thought it better just to
keep quiet and the memory would fade easier. How wrong I was. Anyway,
that's about the only secret that I have ever kept from you.

Bronnie and Fury have that same inexplicable connection between
siblings. I used to believe it was something in the family genes, sad
eh? When dreams and illusions are shattered by truth and reality.
Anyway, I didn't have a relationship with her. I so much wanted to.
Instead, I convinced myself that I owed more to my family that betrayal
and deceit. Alan, I hurt that girl.

I wish you well, you have my admiration for the way you have weathered
our storms and taken control of your ship. You have a fine crew, even
if Sarah is a little bit hare-brained from time to time. Go easy on
her. Don't forget the self-hypnosis that we start when we are children.
You know, where Children at play tell themselves over and over again,
what 'so and so' says about them. 'Tom says I am bad and I mustn't eat
sweets before my dinner'
Don't tell Sarah that she is no good at Mathematics, emphasise her good
points instead.

This is enough from me now. This letter is a keepsake. Treasure it and
read it often so that the older brother is still in charge. I've given
you advice in the past, because I have loved my brothers and their
families as much as my own.
Please pass my letters to the rest of our brothers for what I have to
say to you applies equally well to them.

I know we will meet again, another time and another place when the
chaos of the universe collides with heaven to bring all the stardust
together again.

Yours in infinite love

Thomas.

Chapter Five

3rd February
To my Father,

'The time has come the Walrus said, to talk of many things...' Well
Father, I will keep this short. We never did converse much in the last
twenty years, or to be honest most of my life. If I remember correctly,
the conversation was one way, in the nature of barked orders, where
hesitation earned a swift toe in the backside.
All my life I wanted to right the wrongs that you did. I was desperate
to be the best Father. Never once have I laid a hand or a belt to my
children. And now I am ashamed to say I am about to hurt them in
another way.
So, old man, you get your way. The sins of the Fathers are indeed
visited on the sons.
It's so strange; that the only time I felt the need to write to you is
now, when I am about to give up that fight that you inadvertently
instilled in me.
I forgive you for what you did for the beatings of my mother and the
cruelty to the family. You managed to turn all of us from you, most of
us from Mother and me from any form of Religion.
You managed to teach us bravery through fearing you, kindness through
observing your harshness and showed us how to be generous by your mean
spirit. For all this I don't thank you. In all honesty, it ranks with
the myth of 'Hitler's Genius' and 'a boy named Sue' both tenuous
justifications and hypothesis for unbridled madness.
I wonder, are you well now? Did you repent and now hold regrets? Do you
ever lie awake at night and see the demons? We did when we were
children.
Well, no matter. Don't worry about the future; it's all taken care of.
Most of your offspring have done okay, built a family and a career and
are living a respectable life.
Surprising when you remember what we came from. A scruffy, neglected,
poorly educated, dirty and under nourished band of ragamuffins.

I only discovered recently where Nasi Goreng came from, must be one bit
of basic general knowledge that escaped me. It had haunted me since my
youth when you used to cook concoctions based on whatever the cupboard
held. You informed us that the sparse and poorly tasting food that we
were eating was either Nasi Goreng or Kedgeree depending on your mood
at the time. I still feel the streaky pork sticking in my gullet. It
was absolutely disgusting and the resemblance to the real thing stopped
at the rice. I remember feeling sorry for Borneo where you told us this
stuff was eaten. None of we kids liked it; we forced it down while
grimacing at each other across the table. Occasionally one or more of
us got a backhand across our heads, usually for 'smirking' or
'smaning' when you solicitously enquired if anyone wanted any
more!
It was a strange upbringing; the highlight of our relation with you was
if we got to eat the crusts off your plate after you'd had cheese and
toast. You couldn't eat them since you had no back teeth. If one of us
were lucky we'd get to show you our devotion, by being allowed to
polish your shoes. We did it in the vain hope that it would build up
some brownie points which just might stop a later smack in the head for
being what we were, children. Do you remember that you wouldn't walk
with us? We were invariable too scruffy. The arse hanging out of our
trousers or our hair simply too long, dirty and matted. Yes Father,
people must have wondered what kind of family we were, where the
Patriarch was dressed to perfection and the children like
pariahs.

To be honest with you, I never held much credence or respect for people
who complained that they had been ruined by their childhood. I'd never
admit it that I was anything less than happy and comfortable with
myself. As a chartered Psychologist, who better than to diagnose his
own mental health? The sad fact is that now I can admit, you did break
me. Like a submarine that has a thin outer wall and an inner pressure
hull, I managed to repair the outer skin, but the inside leaked under
pressure. Confidence lost, as self-doubts flooded in, all through my
own peculiar voyage of life. For that reason I have stayed very near
the surface of my own abilities, frightened to submerge into the
unknown of my potential.

Sound stupid? Well, what the hell. Perhaps you have stopped reading at
this point. Gone back to your beer. Or maybe tears blind you as you
recognise the truth. I have honestly no idea!

I stopped hating you years ago, but know this, I know that what I am
about to do is wrong and my sentence is never seeing my children again,
although, they were not mine anyway. Don't worry about it; it's a long
story. It seems to me that your punishment of never seeing your
children or grandchildren will continue, mine ends with my death. My
only sadness is now.
It was indeed a strange childhood. Do remember clipping our ears when
we turned our heads to watch cartoons on the TV, when we were
instructed to sit at the window and watch for the electricity vans? We
were boys Father, and that was painful in many ways. Yet, maybe you had
a perverse justification? If we were caught using electricity, which
you had illegally reconnected, then the family's situation would have
worsened? Or maybe her majesty would have detained you? I often ask if
we'd have been worse or better off.
Do you know something funny? The brothers were all together a few years
ago. We were laughing over the things that had happened. There is an
old saying, write the bad things that were done to you in the sand and
the good things in marble. Maybe we never learned that because our
memories are all fairly vivid, especially where things were so unfair.
We all laughed heartily when someone recalled James shouting, 'Food!
Food!' when he saw enter the street carrying bags of groceries. Father
we hadn't eaten properly for a few days. James was naturally
enthusiastic and disproportionately pleased to see you. You kicked him
up all the way up the stairs because he was embarrassing you! James was
about eight at the time. Well we found the story funny, he
unfortunately didn't and the laughter sobered up as we realised that he
still felt something from that incident.

I could continue, but I have many other letters to write and I may well
return to you in the future. In the meantime, try to digest some of
what I have said. You might learn something.

Your Eldest and one of five estranged sons

Thomas

Chapter Six
3rd February
Dearest Wendy Lau

I am so sorry. When I think back to what I did to you, to 'us' I almost
break down. I believed, at the time, I was doing the right thing. I
sacrificed your happiness and my dreams for a futile attempt to be
unselfish, normal, stable and to provide the best for my kids. Now it
is time for the final sacrifice. By the time you open this letter I
will be long gone. In fact there is a chance you will know before you
receive the mail.
You need to know, or at least I need to tell you, that I always did and
always will love you. My heart and soul belonged to your smile, your
beauty, and your 'spark'. I remember that is how I described you to a
friend after the first day we met. 'She has a spark!' I didn't know how
else to explain or describe the intense feelings that I had for you
after such a brief meeting. You meant everything to me. I am so sorry
my own stupidity didn't allow me to see what you always could. The day
I returned from London is engraved in my memory. You were sleeping
downstairs in a quilt in front of the fire because you were afraid on
your own. I cried that night and every time I thought of it since. You
never knew.
Please realise that I acted, as I believed a good man should. To
consider his family above everything else including his own happiness
(and sanity I guess) It scares me how accurate you were with your
prediction.
I should have gone with you; instead I tried to block out what you were
saying and how I felt. In a way you were right about Kate.
Do you remember how we met? Of course that's a stupid question, since
the circumstances were so dramatic. But can you still remember coming
to me at the bar and laughing at my big blue cocktail that I was
nursing? Will I let you into a secret? It was free; I got it just for
eating at the restaurant next door. You were so impressed with it I
pretended it was delicious! It was terrible!
The Comic Bar was fun, but such hard work for me explaining all the
jokes to you. But I had a feeling you were just enjoying the closeness
and my breath in your ear.

I heard from your sister that you were seeing someone, that you were
very happy. I was both saddened and pleased to hear that. This was such
a conflict in my heart. But now, I realise that I cannot disturb your
life again. I no longer have anything to offer, and I will not upset
your happiness again. Once it may have worked, once we could have
worked magic together. I pray that you find the same with your new beau
or with another in the future. In fact I have no doubt you will.

I hope Hong Kong is going well. I know you will do great in your new
job. Advertising is more you than Sales. You are creative and sensitive
I know you will produce some great ads. I have faith in you.

Light, love and laughter

T.

Chapter Seven
3rd February
Hi Gerry,

You are probably very surprised to receive a letter from me like this.
Have I ever written to you before? Hell, I am not even sure you can
read you old bastard! You may be more surprised by the content of what
I am about to say to you. Please don't be. Relax! There is nothing you,
or anyone else for that matter can do. My planning has been meticulous
even if my life has not.
Such finality the word 'Dead'! As final as a period! Is that why people
prefer the euphemism, 'At peace'? Well who knows whether I will be at
peace, but by the time you read this letter or the next, I will surely
be dead, passed on, shuffled off that mortal coil. Sounds a bit like
the Monty Python Dead Parrot sketch! What can I say? You know I always
was a selfish, self-centred bastard. I guess that, when the going got
tough, the tough got going. Sorry mate!
Jeez Gerry. I was the last to know, the god-dammed last to know. Why?
Why couldn't my family have told me?
Kind of reminds me of the story of the guy in the shipyards in Govan.
You probably have never heard this one. It's rough Scottish humour. Few
Englishmen ever seem to understand or appreciate it. Anyway, I digress.
The chap in question decided, one cold February morning, that it was
too cold, dark and miserable to walk the six hundred yards to the
portable toilets on the dock. Instead he went down underneath the
'Pride of Lochalsh', a huge cargo ship in for refit. He extracted his
favourite tabloid from inside his dungarees, as he wrenched them down,
and crouched in a dark spot in the dry dock, under the shadow of the
vessel.
So engrossed was he, in the erudite comment of the political column of
his daily rag, that he failed to notice a colleague slip behind him
with a shovel to catch his early morning defecation and quietly run off
with it, steaming in the morning mist.
Imagine his consternation when he looked behind himself for his earthy
deposit. Gone! Vanished without a trace! A hurried examination of his
clothing and immediate vicinity yielded nothing.
The point of the story was that soon the details of his 'loss' were
around his two thousand co-workers. Did anyone tell him? Not for weeks!
They enjoyed the agony that, they vicariously imagined, belonged to the
man with the woeful and puzzled expression. The 'chippie who mislaid
his own crap'!
Well like him I guess I was the last to know in this instance. Of
course, I have thought long and hard about what I would have done in
similar circumstances. Could I, would I, keep my mouth shut? Principles
are okay but not when you are going to get hurt or hurt others.
Confession! You know I once put a quid into a collection for the IRA?
It was a small, Irish, nightclub in Kilburn, London. They locked the
club in the small hours and passed the hat for the 'Irish Rebels'. I
salved my conscience by arguing, with myself, that I had no choice.
Rubbish! The truth was I was shit scared. It was a rough place and I
was on my own. So much for principles eh? 'How much plastic explosive
might they buy with a pound?' I almost hear you say. But that's not the
point, Gerry. When it comes down to it, I was basically a coward. I
didn't do the right thing. Why then should I expect anyone else
to?
In fact I got right down amongst them and sang "Rafferty's Motor Car!"
Well it was the only Irish song that I knew. I had my fingers crossed
under the table that it was not a Protestant song. I jumped when the
biggest bastard across from me banged his fist hard onto the table in
front of my face. Imagine my relief when the rest of these tattooed
gorillas all started to bang the table. It was all part of the
song.
Gerry, I figured out last week at what time you knew. Don't worry; I
would have done the same. I imagined your dilemma. Mind you, I was half
surprised that Kate came to talk to Danielle. I have always considered
you both, more my friends than Danielle. So I am not sure what she was
trying to achieve by going to you. Anyway, by the time you found out,
the damage had already been done, many years ago in fact. Your
conscience is clear.
Hey, I have a joke for you. Why were so many black-men killed in the
war? Every time someone shouted, 'Get down', they all got up and
danced!
Is that black humour? Is this letter?
Yes, I am sad, despite my raillery.
It's funny what happens to your mind as you contemplate death. Memories
do indeed come, flooding, burbling, and tumultuous in their brilliance,
like a burn of shiny silver trout.
We had some great times together didn't we? First there was the holiday
that I arranged for you and Danielle in Scotland. It was Corpach, near
Fort William if I remember correctly. You and I walked a few of the
Munroe's together and drank a wee few bottles of Malt into yon small
hours.
I swam in the Loch that week and you thought I was mad, even in August
the water was bloody cold. But it was good training, we duly got our
wet suits on and did the Ben Nevis River race. Remember the night
before the race, jumping into the waterfall without any safety cover.
Just to show some Italian tourist who was leaving that night, what the
race was all about. The fact that she was beautiful and typically
Italian helped my courage no end. I did okay in the race and could have
done better had I stomped on more people on the way down. But I was too
nice a guy for that. You got out fairly early; I still don't know the
truth, you claimed your airbed burst on a rock!

Later, I had a holiday with you. It was my first trip to Amsterdam, and
my first legal joint. We visited the banana bar! Of course it simply
lives up to its name!
The Red Light area was a big attraction even back then, though I seem
to recall more white women back then and generally older, but maybe
that's because I was younger.
After five minutes walking around it got boring.
That was the weekend that Danielle came into the spare bedroom where I
was sleeping. She needed to get some clothes from her wardrobe. She
thought I was still down stairs, didn't see me at the computer and
promptly slipped out of her clothes in front of me. I don't know who
was the most embarrassed. She just stood there and apologised in Dutch
trying to explain, then ran off. You of course thought it was the
funniest thing you had ever heard. Later you asked me if I liked her
body. I agreed that she was beautiful, but to be honest I never really
saw anything, my mind had gone into meltdown.

But we have some wonderful, more recent memories. Don cooking his first
Crepe in the Amsterdam Grand Hotel where he was doing his training. I
even felt your pride wash over everything. It was funny to look at this
gangly six-footer and remember I had played in the surf with him at
Schaveningen when he was only a year old.

Okay my friend, my love and thanks to you for your friendship and
support over the many years. About Eighteen I think? Give my love to
Sharon and the 'shrimps'. Just say I went to another place.

Keep the letters I send. It is my final work, a complex analysis of a
simple man.

Your friend, in life and death, always.

Thomas.