Daughter and I have tickets for the Royal Exchange in Manchester.
We have been coming for years. Before the bomb. And after the bomb. It’s in our DNA. It’s an architecturally magnificent theatre in the round. It offers sweeping views of the stage, From all angles. From all angles. From lights and props and all manner of things Swinging down from the roof To actors running and climbing amongst the audience. We’re going to see Maxine Peake playing Hamlet. I’m excited. I’m excited. We’re going to a matinee performance Although Daughter insists its full of oddballs at that time. We’ll fit in nicely then. We’re meeting in St. Anne’s Square. She stands by Starbucks looking at her phone. Looks up, She strides towards me. Dark straight jeans, burnished Doc Martens, Striped sweater, tweed jacket. It’s a cool day, Her face is pink. We hug. We hug. “I’ve just seen Maxine going into the theatre.” “Maxine? You’ve seen her?” Why isn’t there an echo of her presence? Her footsteps in the dust?? A hologram like Princess Leia crouched in the doorway? “Why didn’t you ask her to wait and say hello to your Mum?” She laughs. We go into Starbucks out of the chilly wind. “The air bites shrewdly. It is very cold.” Says Hamlet on the battlements. We have coffee and cake. Then we’re going up the stone steps into the magnificent Royal Exchange building. It originally held cotton traders and manufacturers. When trading ceased The Royal Exchange Theatre was eventually founded. It’s crowded and dark inside. There’s a bar, tables, shops selling crafts and jewellery, There’s a bookshop and restaurant. We buy programmes, Check out our seat numbers, There are coloured staircases And people in black outfits and ready smiles, to assist. The theatre is a pod within the main building. A separate entity, But part of the whole. So clever. We settle in our seats. People tramp in, Clattering and rustling, Giggling and chatting. There are lights and a bare stage. The atmosphere changes, People quieten. The lights dim. Silence. We hold our breath, Light steps. She appears. She appears. Dressed in black. The light picks out her blonde hair, A short shining cap. Her diamond sharp face. Her candid mouth. We are hypnotised. She crackles like an electric current. She peels back Hamlet’s layers. His frailness, His strength. His grace, His sweetness. Ferocity and fragility juxtaposed With low cunning. An androgynous Hamlet reinvented For this knowing Manchester audience. This play. This darkened theatre. Those beautiful familiar unfamiliar words. Those glimpses of well known phrases. His disintegration. The ending. Her final bow. The audience on its feet. Rapturous. Clapping. Clapping. Cheering. Cheering. There’s only her standing there. I am drained. I want to run out I want to wait at the stage door. I want to give her bunches, And bunches of pale pink roses.
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its easy to see the beginning of things,
But not the end. She left on a breathless July day. Shining yellow dandelions shone in their little yard. They’d spread, promiscuously, as the garden went untended. She’d planted, in the early days, Roses, clematis, honeysuckle. Now they all climbed wildly over walls and windowsills. She came whilst everyone was working. Stealthily. She stripped the house bare. Left a trail of debris behind. Took the children’s stuff from their rooms Exposing dirt, damp, cobwebs and neglect. She scooped the children up from school. Took them from familiarity to unfamiliarity without a backward glance. She had been to a solicitor. It was ghastly. She was paid a lump sum out of the equity in the house. They agreed on joint custody of the children. So no maintenance was required. She knew he was a heroin addict. The children were commodities. They were to spend half the week with their father, Half the week with her. We wanted it. We didn’t want to lose touch with the children. He had friends for whom this this system worked. In retrospect I’m not sure. The parents did nothing to reassure the children. She got a small house and a job. She has a boyfriend. Another man is in Dad’s place. They don’t know who will be in Mum’s place. He has a succession of women. So. Daughter in law leaves. Took the furniture. Took the pictures, Leaving pale squares and bent nails. She takes school photographs. She took the kids’ furniture, She put it in unfamiliar bedrooms. She takes pots and pans. She takes all those gleaming knives she threatened him with. Her manner of leaving was brutal. In many ways we couldn’t blame her. She’d had a rough time. As had those poor bloody kids. No. 1 told us he could hear them arguing and shouting. He used to sit on the stairs. Terrified. He used to plead with them to be quiet. He had school in the morning. No.2 retreated into his own world. It’s a sad and sordid tale. The joint custody sounds good on paper. But in reality. The kids are pushed from pillar to post. Two school uniforms. Always getting mixed up and forgotten. School books left at the wrong houses. Panics at school gates. Birthdays and holidays had to be negotiated. Parents fight over money for school outings, Dinner money. School reports and parents evenings all to be negotiated. There are echoes of their former life at Dad’s. But a gaping hole where Mum was. Sometimes they stay with us. So a third home enters the mix. We overcompensate, of course, for the traumas. Consequently there are three sets of rules for the kids to follow. A different father figure at Mum’s, Lots of different Mother figures, Sometimes with additional kids, At Dad’s, Then the relative stability of Grandparents’ house. At least this remained the same. Sort of. As we tried to keep things stable All the time we watched Son. Sometimes we had to take the kids at a moments notice. We had to lie to their mother and to them. They didn’t know where they were half the time. No. 1 muddles through. No.2 struggles. He rages and screams when he has to leave his mother. Then he rages and screams when he has to leave his father. He rages and screams when he has to stay with us, He’s a charmless child. And unfortunately we are impatient with him. But again, poor little sod. What was he thinking? Whilst the parents bickered over trifles, The children were the ones most upset. They’re the ones traipsing from house to house. Into situations which are constantly changing. Uprooting in the middle of a school week, Having to remember things they were in the middle of. Their safety net blown away. Things are forgotten and lost. Son cried when they had to return to their Mother. Felt guilty. Took drugs. They disappeared into a void. Their lives were torn apart. Nobody could make it better. Both parents seemed oblivious to the kids suffering. Husband and I laboured under a cloud of guilt and worry. The kids are bewildered and unhappy. Then playing and laughing with friends. Then they’re crying for nothing, for everything. I am raging inside. We have some kind of normal lives among this horror. Daughter and I go to the theatre and I am lost in a world of magic. We shop and comfort buy in Manchester., But I return to the worry. Always. Parents. Think. Think. Before you embark on joint custody. It can work within a civilised break up. Are there such things? Rare as hens’ teeth. And the kids suffer. And the kids suffer. And they are the innocent parties. And they are the innocent parties. And so the days and months pass. And we all muddle on. Trying to make it right. Trying to make it better. My memory zigzags back and forth.
Time lapses and speeds up, Slows down. Stops. I return to that ill fated marriage. It’s that dark time between past pleasures of Christmas And the looming enforced, manic jollities of New Year’s Eve. Days of melancholy and foreboding. Waiting and watching and worried. We’ve been asked to babysit. We are reluctant. We want to see the children. In fact, we want to scoop them up and run away with them. But. Where to? The house is heavy with tension. They are invited out with friends of his. Neither of them want to go. My feet in their Doc Martens carry me, One step at a time, Cautiously. We enter the living room. The kids are playing on the XBox. In a secular age this is their god. They ignore us. The room still has some limp decorations hanging, The tree stands neglected in a corner. It’s lights twinkle half heartedly. I glance around. Shelves with CD’s and books. Sideboard with photos. Smiling couple. A sham. Two comfy sofas Bearing an array of dirty cushions. Their parents circle uneasily. They don’t want to be alone together. Even though it’s just up the road. I wish they’d go, But I fear a storm is coming. She looks pretty in a short pink woollen dress, Green tights, Ugg boots. He wears jeans, striped shirt, leather jacket. Like cardboard cut outs. Kissing of kids. Departure, a mist of perfume. The whole house relaxes as they leave. The kids nudge each other, Argue and fight. They look at me expectantly. Are there any contraband sweets secreted in my bag? Of course. I make tea, we eat biscuits. The kids are wearing Star Wars pajamas. Their feet are bare. Husband rolls about on the rug with them. Play fights, screams. I watch. Time goes on, Bedtime comes and goes. It’s getting late, I suggest Grandson No 2 be taken to bed. He flies into a rage. He has magnificent tantrums. Together Husband and I get him into his smelly pit Where he lies, sobbing gently, His face blotchy, amongst a collection of grubby soft toys. Grandson No 2 goes easily, Settles down. His bedding is unwashed, His room dusty. We kiss him goodnight. He asks that Mummy and Daddy come and see him When they return. We traipse downstairs, dreading the parents’ reappearance. Son and Wife will not be together much longer. His addiction is overtaking him. Last week he stole the children’s pocket money. It was in jars on the mantelpiece in our home. He raged and swore that he had not taken it. Said he would never do that. I know it was him. I knew he was lying. There are a million little betrayals. Too many to document here. The upset to the children is worst of all. As these moments come back to me I’m not prepared for the jittering in my brain. I’m aware this is my reconstruction, There are many nuances. There are things I should have done, Things I should have said. Things I should not have said. However. While he takes centre stage, Like a spider in his web. Other things underpin my life. My great love for my daughter. My great love for my husband. These things go on as solid as the ground beneath my feet. They save me. The door opens, Son and Daughter in law bring the cold in with them. They are arguing. They involve us. Son is trying to bargain with us all. We have made many bargains with him. But a bargain requires all sides to fulfill their part. He has made many promises. They stretch end to end to all eternity. All broken. Grandchild No 1 smiles at me.
He is 14 now. Tall and handsome. A little gauche. His parents are separated, He is another statistic. We sit on sofas piled with cushions. He is staring at his phone. It’s just the two of us. His father has gone. Literally and metaphorically. He and his brother live in a tiny house In a rundown part of town. His mother has a new partner. A lifetime has passed. we are safe in this room. In this moment. Suddenly he’s telling me things. He asks questions about his father. We have tried to be honest. He’s been told enough lies and half truths. He is processing his memories. Words tumble out, His braces glinting as he speaks. He tells me terrible things. They pierce my heart like shards of glass. He tells me His Dad used to put them both in the car. Drive to various unsavoury spots. Tell them to wait. They had no choice. He would leave them in the locked car And dash off. They sat there, terrified, alone. Not speaking. Wondering what was happening. They were young. Probably 8 and 6. He would return. Strange and a bit wild. Drive home in an erratic fashion. They were delighted when he returned. They never told anyone. This happened many times. Grandson No. 1 looked at me. “Would he have been going for drugs Grandma?” Those words. From those young lips. They should not have been in his world. I know we are surrounded by drug stories in the media.. He knows what’s going on. It should be happening to other people. It should just swirl around his digital world, Not his actual world. He is just realising That his father, whom he adored, Has lied to him at every turn. We’ve all pretended not to notice. We’ve all pretended to forget. We’ve all pretended to forgive. Time and time again. All the time his children, betrayed, Sat on the sidelines, Wondering what was happening to their world. We’ve all been traded off for drugs. Son has sinned and sinned and sinned again. I know he has struggled And there are grey areas. I am lost in the grey. But I look at Grandson’s face. Son bears another burden of guilt. A greater burden of guilt. The guilt of what he has done to his children. This I cannot forgive. Son does not realise He has slipped in the hierarchy. These children are damaged. We are all damaged. I look at Grandson. The horrors have been transferred to me. He is looking at his phone again. Suddenly he laughs out loud. He shows me something daft on UTube. He is back in his digital world. There’s a knock at the door. A couple of his friends stand there. Both tall and trendily dressed. Grandson skips out of the door. The ghastliness forgotten. For the moment... The day of the winter solstice has passed.
The year has gone. The Christmas and New Year celebrations are done. The days are dark, The nights are darker. Only the Holly and the Robin remain. Both blood red piercing the gloom. The house is stripped of lights and baubles. A trail of bright gold ribbon Dances and flashes in the winter sunlight. The presents are trampled on, The shiny wrapping paper screwed up and discarded. Just a black hole where Christmas breathed a little joy. And now the 9th circle of Hell JANUARY We are frozen in an icy lake. In the bleak midwinter, Frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, Water like a stone. Grandson No. 2 had none of his brother’s beauty. It seemed like the canker of his parents’ disintegrating relationship Had seeped into his small frame. His face was peaky and blotchy. He was grumpy and grizzly. Daughter-in-law kept him close. We struggled to have a relationship with him. We all stretched and shaped, Folded and moulded. And the days passed. Son up and down. Marriage up and down. Some days they all sit on the sofa Watching telly, Eating popcorn. Some normality. We hold our breath. We hold our breath. Relieved and hesitant. Other days there is festering hatred. This affects the children. No. 1 Grandson turns to us. No. 2 will not tolerate us. He clings desperately to both parents. Wants to be at home, Despite the toxic atmosphere. Daughter-in-Law is manipulative and hostile. No.1 has told us, much later The extent of her ways. But. She was struggling in a terrible situation. With hindsight, again, we shouldn’t have allowed it to go on. But our choices were stark: We could encourage her to leave with the children. Nobody had the funds for that. Or the ultimate horror of social services. The children in care. Another circle of hell. The worst. Again, we agonised, We hoped, We prayed, We blotted it out. Meanwhile, he inched downwards. Then, a hopeful period. He’d always kept fit. This sounds like a misnomer, I know. But we’re talking about two people here. The drug addict and the ordinary human being. The normal human ate healthily, He ran, He knew a lot about nutrition, A lot about the body and it’s functions. I know. I know. He started to get fit again. He started running in earnest. Runs. Fun runs. Half marathons. Marathons. An Iron Man. He cycled. He fell walked. He never quite gave up the drugs, But of course we were all hopeful. That one would beat the other. The fitness regime became all-consuming. Everyone was dragged along with it. Life revolved around him. Me, me, me. We all supported him. We stood in muddy fields, Talked to sweaty people. Listened whist he went over every inch of the track. Bored us with talk of carbs and glutes. His wife and kids went all over the country with him. His self-obsession knew no bounds. We didn’t dare to criticise. Meanwhile, daughter ticked away, Quietly in the background. Did her own running and exercise. With little fanfare. Husband also ran. One weekend Husband, Son and Daughter All completed the same Marathon. Daughter-in-law, the children and me Waited in the obligatory waterlogged field, Bored and weary and slightly resentful. I photographed them with their medals. A proud and slightly surreal moment. He joined running clubs. Demanded Wife socialise with them. They came to the house for barbecues and drinks. The kids had to play with their kids. They all wore the same tight Lycra outfits. They all talked incessantly about exercise regimes. How far, how fast. How good they felt. They talked of pulled muscles, Warm up sessions, The benefits of stretching And yogic massages. The pros and cons of various trainers. Blah, blah. He was hyper, One of the crowd, Running well. Daughter-in-Law had hobbies, He was disinterested. The children were her priority, though. He abandoned everyone for the sake of his exercise regimes. We babysat whilst they socialised with his new friends. No. 2 screamed and ranted. No. 1 remained sunny. He hated her parents and refused to visit them. Consequently, she retaliated Kept the kids away from us. Imposed penalties. Inevitably. Things disintegrated. He was bound to crash and burn. Time passed. The kids grew. They fought and fought. She screamed. She screamed. The more she screamed The more excuses he had to take drugs. As the drug taking increased The exercise decreased exponentially. He ran, at night, to drug dens. Returned, peculiar and aggressive. She raged. She raged. The children cowered. The children cowered. Another Christmas came round. Stalemate again. The storm clouds gathered again. |
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