During that long Saturday whilst we all held our breath.
Before he turned up on the doorstep Like a creature from the deep, Dripping and weeping rainy tears Onto the black and white tiles. My mind wandered around No. 2 Grandson. He doesn’t get much attention I’m afraid. He’s a charmless child Given to spectacular tantrums. In between the tantrums there are ominous silences. He is uncommunicative and taciturn. He seems completely incapable of articulating his problems, A hard thing at any age, to be fair. He has a history of eczema And a few years ago when he was about 8 He started to poop his pants. He would wet the bed and soil his pyjamas. All these problems were mainly ignored by the parents. We became more and more stressed by it. Finally we risked Mother’s wrath and pushed for medical intervention. He saw his GP, he referred him to a gastroenterologist. He was prescribed a stool softener And eventually, the problem subsided. I think he has deep rooted psychological problems. Unfortunately only the symptoms are treated in these situations. It’s delicate for us grandparents. We are bad guys by association with Son. I gave birth to him so we’re the enemy. I know it’s natural in this scenario. We’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t. There are eggshells to be walked on. Many promises have been made and not kept. The two boys are chalk and cheese. The older one somehow emphasising the younger one’s inadequacies. No.2’s schoolwork doesn’t seem affected. He is in top sets and appears capable. Despite this he is regularly sick on school mornings. He is sent home often when he has “vomited” in class. This appears to be getting worse as he gets older. We often have to pick him up during the day because he’s been sick. He always times it so that the spewing is visible. What’s to be done? The problem is being ignored again. He seems loaded with existential angst. As an anxiety sufferer myself I recognise a lot of his symptoms. He is too young, as yet, to have learned coping strategies. Maybe some talking therapy might help. But who’s going to set that in motion? So the gap between us and him widens. The bridges, although not burned, are shaky at best. We’re too old for additional aggro. So we stand by and watch as A child struggles through his life. And now his father, our son, Who is responsible for some of the child’s woes, Stands in front of me Bedraggled, exhausted and by the look of him Physically and mentally battered... .
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As the days slide by
There is a creeping silence. My days tick on full and empty. Daughter remains a constant, We text every day. She visits and Son hums in the background. We both have a sense of unease. Husband blocks it out. He’s been in the dreaded house for about three months. Three months. Gone. I lie in bed at night watching a fingernail moon. Listening to the radio. Reading. I’m reading Miss Smilla’s feeling for snow by Peter Hoeg. It’s a wonderful book. If I could write like that I would die happy. This is my second reading. And it’s better second time around. To say it’s a Scandinavian thriller is to undersell it. Published in 1993 before these snowy dramas became popular genres. Before, even, the arrival of the wonderful Stieg Larsson. Once again I’m overawed by the clever and convoluted plotting. The icy landscape. The mesmerising heroine. She’s just as awkward, vicious and clever as Lisbeth Salander. And so, for the moment, I am in the world of snow and the idiosyncrasies of Greenlanders. It isn’t an easy read. Not a word must be missed. I retrace my steps many times, Flicking back and back and struggling with Danish names. I learn about the way the Danes regard the Greenlanders And all the nuances in the relationship. All evoked with subtle poetic writing. Anyway. Dawn appears, birds sing, The day begins. It’s a Saturday. Grandson is coming to stay. Only one comes now, The younger boy is complicated and introverted. We have tried and tried to bond with him. We realise it’s an impossible task, He has been damaged. He prefers the security of his mother. The older one is the opposite. He laughs and shouts and twists us round his little finger. It’s raining and raining today. On and on. I text Daughter She replies, Backwards and forwards, This and that. On impulse I text Son. There’s a silence like a great black hole. I feel a bit lightheaded. I think Husband is nervous, too. He keeps looking at his phone. The day passes. The rain continues to rain. No 1 Grandson arrives, We have the obligatory takeaway tea. It’s a bit grim, It’s Grandson’s choice, of course. The upside is that there is no cooking involved. Always a good thing. The evening is pleasant. No 1 Grandson asks about his Dad, He always does, I tell him he’s silent at the moment. He’s always hoping he might see him. Evening oozes into night. Blinds down lights on, Rain still drumming on the windows. Cars splashing by outside. It’s a grim night. We watch a film. It finishes. We all prepare for bed. We gather up devices, Make drinks, Poke in the fridge. Start to return the rooms to their darkened states Husband has gone up. No I Grandson and I bicker over a bar of Turkish Delight. There were three and he’s already had two. And then. Like some terrible sound from the fires of hell. The doorbell rings. I look at my watch 11.45pm. Grandson and I freeze. We look at each other. “Who’s that?” He whispers. We both know. I go into the front room. I look out of the window. Standing in the teeming rain. Soaked and dripping Bone white, wild eyed. Son... And so the days crawl by.
Son remains incarcerated. When we visit the time hangs heavy, The minutes hang like centuries While we all watch each other. “”How long is forever?” Asks Alice. “Sometimes just one second.” Replies the White Rabbit. But. We should have treasured this fragile peace. Things shift and change all the time. The Boss likes and trusts him. Hmm. He is allowed out on Sundays, He has a curfew of 11pm which he adheres to. He also drives the works van. He makes deliveries and ferries people back and forth. Too much responsibility and freedom, in my opinion. He’s not entirely happy with the situation, Likes the change of scene the driving offers, But thinks they take advantage of him. His housemates are fickle and argumentative. He does have his Reformed Alcoholic soulmate, however. They cling to each other in an intense fashion. We visit at weekend. Warm but cloudy. Uncertain rain spits at us. We order pizzas for everyone. They come in flat, oil stained cardboard boxes. There is free garlic bread. They are soggy and delicious. Son brews coffee, Grease runs down our chins. There are sudden, sharp jalapeño hits. We clear away. The bin outside already full of old takeaway containers. We sit in the darkening room. His mask slips a little. We ask him if everything is alright. This is the question that causes the opening of the floodgates. There’s only Son, Husband, Recovering Alcoholic and myself In the deepening gloom. There is a problem with the van. Son has had a scrape. Not his fault, it never is. He complains about the Boss, Says he’s blaming him and is insisting Son pay for the damage. He says he’ll take it out of his benefits. The Boss claims all the addicts’ allowances and gives them pocket, and food money. People in the house aren’t pulling their weight. Son has tried to talk to them. They’re young, have mental health issues. Inevitably there is strife. But. The worst thing. Reformed Alcoholic Buddy is moving to a halfway house With a view to entering the outside world. He is Son’s crutch. He says the Boss is being vindictive. There will be someone new in the house And the balance will change again. No matter Son’s failings To me it destabilises an already precarious situation. I look at Son. I have that swift, scared thought. He’s worried. He gets up and switches on a reading lamp. In the pool of light his face is blotchy. I feel a rush of sorrow. But. I remind myself He’s better here than round the corner from our house. I tell myself it’s his own making. That is an old chestnut when applied to drug addicts. There are many complicating factors. At least he’s safer in this grotty house Than in that little flat on his own with his cravings, depression and suicidal thoughts. His presence round the corner Hung over us like some terrible black cloud. He does have some sort of company here, Albeit of the oddest kind. Nevertheless, I feel something has shifted. There is an air of hovering hostility. As usual he is blaming everyone else, Housemates and Boss for problems real and imaginary. His Buddy moving out is the last straw. We feel uneasy and try to reassure him. We hesitate to say that he has no choice but to stay. He cannot come home. It hangs in the air. We know if he came back home We would be back in that terrrible cycle of drugs, stealing and fear. The trouble is. I’ve seen him manipulate these situations before. He puts the blame onto others for his problems. In fact, it’s almost as if he concocts trouble To legitimise his drug taking. So we leave. I feel apprehensive. Husband says I’m being paranoid. We’ll see... He lives in this house
In the savage monotony of a suburban street. Overgrown garden, peeling front door. Step inside. Smell the fear and anxiety. The situation is neither safe nor normal. These are complicated, possibly dangerous addicts/criminals. Rules must be imposed. These people will take a lifetime to repair. When we speak to them they have an emotional credibility and rawness. They also lie through their teeth. We have to avoid looking too clearly at the situation Son is in. But he has a chance here to get clean. And. We have some peace of mind For the time being, at least. Amidst all the psychological traumas and dramas The ordinary day to day life goes on. House rules have to be adhered to. So, the normal and abnormal exist side by side. A sort of hierarchy exists. Son soon establishes himself at its head. Trouble is always bubbling under the surface. There is an instability there. People suddenly and unexpectedly fall off the rails. When we visit they all, including son, put on a performance for us. They are argumentative, entertaining and terrifying. They’re suspicious and watchful. They tell us stories which make us laugh and fill us with horror. We sit on the grubby sofa in this parallel universe, Endlessly fascinated voyeurs. So. Son starts with good intentions He lives within his means, is proud of his new found austerity. He works hard in the factory owned by the charity, He takes his medication and appears to behave. He helps with the running of things. The boss is impressed with his expertise. He is reinvented again as nice guy Trying hard to keep on the straight and narrow. He bonds with a recovering alcoholic. They shop and organise the house together. They talk about their problems and listen to music. The ex alcoholic is very seduced by the church and it’s teachings. He is pleasant and engaging, and seems to be doing well. They appear to have a good influence on each other. I look on with suspicioun. Husband and Wife No 2 are delighted. One drowsy summer evening we visit with the boys. We have grudging permission from their Mother. We don’t take them into the house, We all go out to tea to one of his local fast food places. Crispy chicken, pizzas, chips, Huge cartons of fizzy drinks. Black and white tiles on the floor sticky with spillages. Red plastic seats. Sauce in the inevitable tomato shaped container with its inevitable crust. Son is pleased to see his boys And they are equally pleased to see him. He tells them tales of the inmates, They all laugh. The situation is casual, just a little tense. The happy family charade plays on Son knows the people in the caff. They all chat amiably. While the words bounce around and people smile and eat I study Son. At first glance he looks well. He wears check shorts, blue shirt from Topman. Scruffy red Toms and bare feet complete the picture. The boys wear shorts, they’ve caught the sun. It’s been a hot day. I continue to study Son. I have a touch of foreboding. Considering he has supposedly stopped using all Class A drugs He looks remarkably well. Too well. He says he’s suffering but it isn’t apparent. There appears to be none of the usual sweaty anxiety. As I watch him laughing I have an instinctive creep of suspicion. That’s always there with a drug addict. It never goes. When the laughter stops he looks haggard. Moments of relaxation are always tinged by fear. He has many layers. This is my son and I want him to be well. This is also a drug addict who will lie and steal from his family to fund his habit. And so on this lovely evening With the sun shining on the grubby tables And everyone sitting in a bubble of contentment. I find myself on the outside looking in through the glass With suspicion... He is installed, his life is squeezed down into this grim house.
Most of his possesssions are gone. I hesitate to use the term “fresh start.” That’s an impossibility, your self is always there, crouching in a corner of your mind. He can perform and deliver sound bites. He can reshape his past and his personality to suit any given situation. The inmates (I use the term advisedly) are unfathomable. From dark to light in a moment. Some of them look like they’ve walked off the set of “The Godfather.” He has been in a week. We visit, bearing incongruous fancy fruit and snacks. Upmarket coffee and chocolate. Please like us, please accept him. It’s a bright day, birds sing in the neglected garden. Sun shines through the streaky windows onto cheap furniture. We are introduced to a mix of the troubled, superficially pleasant and occasionally very funny. They sneak looks at us, their faces ratty and watchful. They mainly appear to be uneducated but streetwise. We sit in a room overlooking the street watching normal (to all intents and purposes) families passing by. It is a poor neighbourhood. Of course. A house for recovering drug addicts among the wealthy? Heaven forfend. Son makes fancy coffee for us and his housemates. They show off, they make fun of his poncy ways. He laughs, enjoying the moment and the safety of our presence. When they have sussed us out ( They think. We also shape shift). They relax and talk. They vie for our attention. How they have survived as long as they have defies logic. Their lives have been mostly wretched. We’ve all seen the homeless huddled in doorways, We’ve all hurried past, maybe tossed a guilty coin, Maybe bought a sandwich they didn’t want. Felt a brief twinge of sympathy. Try getting up close-ish, looking into their eyes and listening. There’s an ex-alcoholic abandoned by family. He tells us the best place to sleep is near fast food eateries. You can feast like a king on people’s waste. There are a couple of heroin addicts gaunt and spotty. There is a young boy barely sprouting beard hair, He said he liked being in jail. “Easy access to drugs, regular meals, a warm bed and you have a laugh.” They have all been hiding in people’s blind spots. All with their own private hell and addiction to whatever substance. All in a place we, in our ordinary lives, can’t really countenance. There is no quick and easy solution to their problems. They are damned by society in general. Religion is on offer here. The Sunday worship is compulsory. The Church offers them all a family they never had. They soon believe in a God and a creed which seems irrational. A lot of so called religious believers are less than completely convinced. Faith and rationality appear to be an oxymoron. You could say that if you find it easy to believe Then you haven’t really understood. There must remain a mystery to faith. This is the paradox. Most people hold belief and disbelief together in their souls. However. It is a straw for desperate people. We all long for redemption, It’s at the heart of all human beings. We journey on, battling and sinning, Some more than others. We may think these addicts have sinned more than others. Sin must be put into context. Sin and survival are sometimes necessary bedfellows. These addicts’ sins are unquantifiable. The church offers them tools to manage their existence. Son has not suffered like them Not in terms of physical deprivation and homelessness. But can we say he has agonised less? His isolation, despite being in a loving family and warm home, Is no less stark than theirs. His is hidden beneath respectability and stylish jeans and trainers. And so we drop him into this boiling pot of strangeness. Amongst people whose only common denominators Are addictions, anxieties, violent pasts and unstable mental health. What can possibly go wrong? |
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