Do you have brothers and sisters? Why do you ask? Nosiness, do you? He refills my glass Halves on both sides but I don’t know most of them or even how many there are. Really? Really. Make a guess. Two boys on my mother’s, that’s easy enough. My father though, eleven? Twelve? Could be twenty. Might be more! Do you see him much? He occasionally comes scrounging when I’m up North on tour but not if I can help it, no. And your mother’s dead. He nods but rubs at his lip. And she was? Irish. What was she like? Difficult. Strange. Fucking nightmare actually — the tic again and he so conscious of it — Sure you want to know all of this? Yes, everything. Alright — he lights up and sits back opposite — So tomorrow, but in nineteen fifty-six, they had me.
And the long night begins.
Well, you know where she was from. The family came over after the war. Her mother died soon afterwards and the father was a doctor. Well off, I think, but I don’t know much. They were traditional Catholics. Pretty strict. There was a younger sister I never knew because she didn’t keep in touch. Or with her father who she always said was very tough. Then in her late teens she met mine, which was really terrible luck. He was older, twenty-two, twenty-three. From there, Sheffield, originally. I’m not sure what he did back then — being a man of mystery — but I think some kind of salesman. Apparently it was love at first sight, followed by a great deal of sneaking about because her father regarded the English as immoral, especially the men. An opinion somewhat justified by my father taking off with someone else the minute my mother got pregnant.
So they weren’t married then? Hmmm, he says
She was hazy about that, sometimes said they were but mostly avoided it. I did ask him directly once but he was uncharacteristically tight-lipped and rambled on instead about her sainted memory or some shit. By the time I was two though, they’d both ‘remarried’ so I’d say probably not. Whatever the truth, she never forgave him. I think she married my stepfather for spite — that said, back then, in the late fifties, she can’t have had much choice. He was a lot older — fifteen, sixteen years. Factory floor who’d worked himself up, a bit. And he was an alright bloke I suppose. I mean he took me on as part of the deal but the marriage went shitwardly fairly quick. Not rowing or violent. Nothing like that, just people living together, disliking in quiet. Certainly there was never any sign of love and the children she had with him she didn’t like much. Both boys, three and four years younger than me. We all shared a room and got on fairly well but we had to stick together back then.
When I ask What was she like? he gives a weird smile.
Intelligent and very angry. Those were the poles she ran between. The intelligence covered what the anger did but the anger did so many things the intelligence had to work very hard and ever harder as the years went by. The trouble for us was never knowing which way she’d go. Perfectly rational one moment then screaming, breaking things. It made getting through the fucking day a process of inching. Don’t say that. Go there. Mention, you know. I suppose the problem was this life she never wanted but couldn’t escape, the man she’d married and didn’t love, place she hated living and couldn’t leave, two children she’d no interest in yet was expected to rear. Then somewhere in the middle of all that was me who she did want and did love but couldn’t stop punishing for whatever my father had done. And all of that led to some very interesting behaviour as time went on.
I was quite small when I realised things weren’t as they should be. After her third was born there was some kind of breakdown, I think. The word was never used but that’s what it was like. She was definitely very unwell. Maybe it was having three little boys running amok, I don’t know but I remember that time having a very particular ritual. She’d get us up early, dressed and fed, then her sister-in-law would take the younger boys for the day. After that she’d have her pills then sit at the table a while. Everything would slow down, then she’d take me to her room. Shut the curtains. Take her dressing gown off and lie on the bed. I’d have to lie beside and she’d get me to whisper prayers or recite the alphabet or go through numbers. We’d lie that way all morning. Sometimes she’d cry. At lunch she’d make me a sandwich and I was allowed out for a while. After that more pills again and bed. I must only have been four so the staying still was dreadful but I’d get a slapped face if I didn’t or put outside the door. I hated that. I’d panic almost. I couldn’t be without her and she’d always wait until I was all worked up before calling me back in. Then she’d spend ages setting me right, wiping my face, wiping my eyes. I don’t really know what it was about. That whole period was pretty odd. Just me and her for long hours in the dark, like we were on another planet or the only people left in the world.
Anyway, it passed eventually and she began to get up again. Next, the other two stopped getting packed off but she stayed very highly strung. Lots of rules were introduced to help her cope. Everything from the volume you spoke at to not kicking a ball. They got very precise too and more every day. By the time we were at school it was like a military inspection. Couldn’t think of leaving the house without being immaculate. She’d sometimes keep you washing and re-washing your hands until you’d be late. We’d just stand there, every morning, hoping to make the grade because if you didn’t, fucking hell, she was quick with whatever came to hand: dustpan, poker, heel of a shoe. It got much worse over the years and I got the brunt because the other two were their father’s sons while I was hers alone. And she beat the shit out of me. He almost never interfered. Certainly never raised a hand to me himself — not that I ever gave him cause. I wouldn’t have said boo to a goose between those four walls. Though sometimes he’d come home from the pub to find me out on the step in the rain. That would piss him off so he’d bring me in. Then there’d be all kinds of shouting and screaming. She didn’t like to be told what she could or couldn’t do to me. So I got used to having my lip split for nothing reasons and soon learned to say it was my brothers’ fault which — considering they never had a fucking mark — wasn’t all that great. Mostly though the stepfather didn’t notice me. If he ever remarked on a bruise or black eye, it was usually just Annoying your mother again? Good lad! which was weirdly comforting.
But almost worse were the gaps of time when she’d blank me. Completely freeze me out. She’d just seethe around, nursing some imagined slight — like shouting an answer from the hall or forgetting to switch off a light — then suddenly, without warning, all fucking hell would break loose. I’d be accused of everything bar the invasion of Poland and belted until I cried — later on I learned how not to, which had its own reward. Of course the next day was like nothing happened. Everyone played along. Over time I think she actually made herself forget. I remember once mentioning her chipping my tooth and she started roaring I never did that, my God, it scares the things you invent! Her denials were always so extreme that I’d end up wondering if she was mad, or me?
And he checks my eyes. And I check his. I do not cry. I would not do that to him. That much I know for sure.
This’ll probably sound strange but, even after all these years, I still think there was something of love in those beatings. Like, when she hit me, she really felt it — and she can’t have felt much because there always was a lot of medication sloshing around. Plus I know she felt guilt. If it had been very bad, if she’d cut me or burned me she’d come upstairs that night with cake. And lie into the bed with me telling stories while I ate. I always felt better after it but I did eat a lot of cake as a child. Still have a very sweet tooth.