Disquieting Lights

'Disquieting Lights.'

My grandmother's voice on the line is ironic in spite of her ninety-one
years. The welsh lilt still full of the music that characterised my
childhood visits to her house. I think of her now in her room
overlooking the Irish Sea and I feel the sadness of time passing. I ask
her how she is, how her arm is healing and she talks about how they've
been decorating the tree and making the mine pies. I remember how she
used to scrubbed my face with 'Imperial Leather' as I sat in my pyjamas
in her warm kitchen. I remember the biscuits misshapen in the tin. She
jokes about things, about drinking too much brandy and falling over,
about a new red dress she's bought for a party that might never happen.
And, unusually, she mentions my father. Our taboo.

'Francis was here. He brought me the brandy.'

I hesitate, not sure of how to respond.

'You love brandy, don't you?'

She continues, oblivious to the new tension I imagine gathering between
us.

'And he brought my favourite kind. He's good like that.'

'Yes.'

There is the shortest of pauses.

'They brought it back from Spain. Yvonne brought me some perfume, too.
Expensive.'

She keeps talking but it all gets distant. I imagine my father and his
new wife in their little house by the beach and I can't help but feel
he's got away with it. I say 'good bye' and hung-up feeling uneasy. I
stare out of the window at the rain. Christmas lights glimmer in the
trees across the road.

I hear the late night rain on the window. The mug is warm in my hand ,
steam rising from the tea making shapes in the air. And the clock ticks
towards midnight. I am in my night-clothes, my red dressing gown pulled
tightly around me to keep out the cold. The Joni Mitchell C.D still
spinning, the music so familiar as to be part of the air, reminding me
of things. Nostalgia is painful. The after-effect of alcohol and the
smell of Christmas. My grandmother's words are still in my head, and
with them, pictures of the past. A car passes and its headlights make
bright trails on the ceiling. I remember lying in my mother's bed as a
small child, listening to the cars passing, watching their light. It
was peaceful then.

I see my father in his chair, an empty vodka bottle next to his
slipperless feet. He hasn't slept and his skin is sallow. There is red
in the whites of his eyes, a thick silence all around him. My mother
and I move quietly around the house, careful not to disturb him. But
that is near the end. I wonder now where it all really started.

Snapshot. My father arriving home after months at sea. He crosses the
threshold with his cases, in a dove-grey suit. His skin is brown and he
smells expensive. He says nothing then and we wait, senses attuned to
the vagaries of his mood, taking his emotional temperature.

I shiver, take warmth from the rapidly cooling tea. And the memories
come again, shine like embers falling. It's Christmas and my father
sits in his chair in the corner of the kitchen. The fire in the range
is low and the air smells of booze. He hasn't spoken for a long time,
just sits in the soft firelight, mulling things. My mother and I, we
know the trouble's coming and we wait, talking in quiet voices about
day-to-day things. My mother unwraps the red flowers and breaks the
stems. When my father finally speaks, his voice is low, his tone
deceptively casual. He turns his dull brown eyes on my mother and I'm
sure there's the trace of a smile.

'You were out late last night. Good night was it?'

My mother continues to arrange the flowers, the leaves dark green and
wet in her hands.

'Just a couple of glasses of wine.'

My father picks something from his teeth and really does smile.

'Oh I think it was a bit more than that. Wasn't it?'

She continues with the flowers but her hands are shaking. Their game
begins again. A ritual that takes hours to play out. All the
time-honoured recriminations colouring the air until the afternoon
fades and is funereal. I retreat to my room and sit in the December
half-light, a book unread on my lap, their raised voices continuing
into the evening.

I remember the shell-shocked morning. The stillness in the house, the
radio on low in the kitchen so as not to disturb him.

'Your father's asleep', she says, her face ashen.

We get on with things, write Christmas cards, nibble my grandmother's
mince pies. I take the dog to Pex Hill and gave him a run and the air
is cold on my skin.

Photograph. Coming back late from the party, I'm drunk in the back of
the cab. Elated, the cheap music still thumping in my head. The car
draws up outside the house and I hesitate before paying the driver. The
lights are on in every room. Every window is bright. I get out of the
cab and trudge towards the front door. There's ice on the path and my
feet slip. I can hear music from within. My heart thumps and I turn my
key in the lock, push open the door. The music is loud in the hall and
I can here their voices from the sitting-room. I steel myself and go
in. My mother is curled on the sofa, her head in her hands. My father
stands I front of the fire, the letter opener in his left hand, a can
of beer in his right. I look at him and I know he's been drinking for a
long time. His skin gleams and his eyes are glassy.

'You. Come in, sit down. We're having a Christmas drink, your mother
and me.'

I keep my coat on and sit down in the chair, stare at the lights on the
tree. My father paces, pointing at my mother and I with the letter
opener, swigging his beer. He repeats his litany of self-pity and we
have no choice but to listen. I know we'll be listening all night. I
look at my mother and see the blood on her face, feel the anger
catching within. I raise my voice but it doesn't feel like me.

'This is all shit. You're shit.'

My father approaches, a gleam of triumph in his eyes.

'Talking to me, are you?'

I'm afraid now and I know he can see it.

'Yeah, all this...'

He slaps my face hard and I'm silenced, then he moves in close,
throwing his heavy arm across my shoulder like a pal.

'You're no movie star.'

I smell the alcohol on his breath and try to pull away but he holds me
fast.

'You see, Patricia, my own son doesn't respect me.

And I look at him, really wondering who he is.

Fast forward. New Year's Eve. I have a bottle of Southern Comfort and I
know I'm going to drink it. I play my music loud in my room and think
about what to wear. I feel a wildness in me, a hunger to be free. I
gulp from the bottle and line my eyes with thick black kohl thinking
all the time of Leonard Cohen. At 9pm I leave without saying goodbye,
feeling the alcohol in me as I walk quickly through the cold night. All
the houses in the street are lit-up and imagine the parties going on
inside. Glancing back I see the lights of my house but they mean
something different. So I hurry on, filling my mind with thoughts of my
friends and the drunkenness opening under my feet. The pub is already
packed when I get there, the air hot and full of music. I push my way
to the bar and order a brandy, drinking it down quickly. It's warm on
my tongue so I get another. My friends are waiting for me in the other
room. It's easy to forget. Later, I begin to remember.

I can hear the voices downstairs, the music. My parents entertain the
neighbours in a way that implies domestic tranquillity. Their party
continues into the night and lie still and listen, afraid to close my
eyes for fear of the room spinning. It is spinning and I want to be
sick, the nausea driving me from the darkness into the bright bathroom.
It's urgent and I forget to lock the door.

I'm kneeling over the toilet bowl when someone touches my shoulder. My
father. I raise my head and I think he's drunker than I. But somehow
I'm glad he's here. His hand on my shoulder is consoling.

'We've all been like this.'

I say nothing, feeling spasm in my gut.

'You have to get it all out, son. All of it.'

I feel him grip my shoulders hard, forcing my head down. I breathe the
stink of my own vomit and the underlying tang of disinfectant.

'You're my son.' He fingers press into the skin of my shoulders. 'I
made you.'

His hand moves and takes hold of my chin. I feel his fingers pushing
between my lips and into my mouth. They taste like smoke and I feel my
mind move out of my body.

'Get it all up.'

He pushes his fingers down my throat and I vomit. He pushes again,
filling my mouth with his hand. I pull away but he holds me, moving him
finger-ends in my throat until I think I might choke. His voice is low
in my ear all the time and I know he takes pleasure in it, in seeing me
like this. Afterwards I'm drained and my throat hurts. I lie in bed and
listen to the night, glad of the silence I know will come
tomorrow.

My tea is cold in the mug. The wind blows rain against the window. I
pull a Christmas card from the packet on the table and fumble for a pen
in the bureau. I open the card and scribble 'To Dad, compliments of the
season.' It's been years since I've seen him but I always send a card.
I imagine it irritates him, touches him in some unhealed place. He can
examine my signature, is forced to remember I exist. I usually feel
something when I write the message. This time I feel nothing. I suppose
there's nothing left. I sign my name and stare at it as the ink dries.
Then I get up and drop the card into the grate. The last embers burn
it.