We settle again.
Life reorders round the traumas. We no longer have three hour debates. Detox tried and failed. Move on. It’s a rainy, sunny, strange day. The air crackles. There’s the smudge of a rainbow in the sky. Son and I walk past each other in the kitchen. Nothing to say. Nothing to do. Doorbell rings. It’s Troubled Friend. She’s privy to all our problems. She has a few of her own. She explodes into the room. A nervous vicious charm. We’ve been on the edge of each other since school. She was cleverer than me. She was cooler than me. Her boyfriend’s family were bohemian and arty. We went to their house together. I think she took me for moral support. They all talked and laughed in loud, posh voices. They smoked cigarettes and drank wine. The mother painted and sculpted. The father was terrifying. She taught at the local Technical College. Her students wandered around the house looking disdainful. I never felt so parochial. I thought I’d found the low door in the wall. Years later. I realised it was a sham. A stage set. The father was cold and distant with his kids and his wife. His mother slept with her students. They were freeloaders who gossiped and laughed behind her back. Both our husbands to be were friends. We drifted along in their shadows. Our lives entwined and we slipped in and out of each other’s worlds. We remained close but distant. We worked together. Went to Manchester together. Got pissed together. Laughed together. She had more money than me. Her clothes were better than mine. She was apparently fabulously confident. I hated her. Gradually, imperceptibly, she began to disintegrate. I don’t know when it started. She appeared at work bruised. She made crap excuses. I didn’t believe her. I’d seen her goad him. I’m not condoning the violence But I think it gave her power. And the mitigating circumstances allowed her to drink. This became an endless cycle. I’ve seen this in Son’s behaviour. He needed a pretext. There was no violence in our household. But there were arguments between Husband and I. There were difficulties with the business relationship between Husband and Son. Not easy. They fuck you up, your Mum and Dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had And add some extra, just for you. Suddenly her marriage was over. She was in a flat round the corner from me. Her kids were estranged from her The bohemian in laws derided and ignored her. Her son had mental problems. My son was a drug addict. Our paths crossed again. That morning she breezed into the kitchen with false confidence. She flashed a smile at Son. “Are you making us a coffee sweetie?” He grinned back at her. “Of course.” I felt a stab of resentment. Been a while since he’d smiled at me or Husband. We sat round the big wooden table. He joined us. They chatted easily. I watched a blackbird pecking at the soil in a pot in the garden. She said she’d stopped drinking. She was going to AA. All was going to be well. He said he had been clean for a while. All was going well. They were both lying. I wanted to jump up and shout “Shut the fuck up. It’s all bullshit. I’ve heard it a million times before. I’m bored to tears with it.” But I just looked at them both. They really believed each other and themselves. They were both smoking and winding each other up. They were telling stories of drug fuelled escapades. I found myself laughing. They were egging each other on. I tried to be stern with them. But they just ignored me. They made me feel like a maiden aunt. All the time they were bigging each other up I knew that he had gear secreted somewhere. I knew that if I looked in her handbag It would contain small bottles of wine. For some reason I didn’t challenge either of them. I didn’t want to break the spell. Son was laughing and talking for the first time for weeks. It was the best of times and the worst of times. It was all completely false. They were both romancing about themselves and their lives. I was also avoiding all the issues. What does that make me? Am I as self deluding as them? Possibly. Soon. She’s bored. He’s sweating. The laughter has slipped away. She gets up. Picks up her handbag. Something clinks ominously. I look at her. She looks away. Sullen. A little ill at ease. She leaves. He disappears. Too thin in his clothes. I look at the empty coffee cups. It starts to rain...
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America has faded.
The days are short and dark. The situation at home remains the same. He uses. Tries to stop. Relapses. We are all weary. We no longer rant and rave. We know it’s pointless. We know he wants to stop. However. Wanting isn’t enough. He says he can’t manage to detox on his own. He says that if he had help he could do it. There is nothing on offer through the NHS. CDT say he has to be clean before they will consider rehab. But. That’s the point. He can’t get clean. We look at private clinics. We have neither the money or the inclination for anything long term. There are places that will admit him for 4 days, 3 nights. They will flush the drugs out of his system. Then it’s up to him. It’s a one off payment. Expensive but doable. He is desperate. So are we. We decide it’s worth a go. We speak to daughter. She isn’t judgemental about it. And she could be. We make the arrangements. Parents and relatives of addicts. Beware. Beware the fantastical claims of clinics offering cures. Approach them with suspicion and cynicism. They promise a fairyland of drug free health. At a cost. They will take your hopes and prayers for your child. They will trample on them. Beware the men and women in white. They lump all drug addicts into an amorphous heap. Beware the other desperate relatives. You will tell each other the same tales of broken promises. You will tell each other that this could be salvation. Beware the manicured lawns. Beware the manicured receptionists with their dead eyes. Beware the promises of happiness. It’s a tyranny. An impossible state. The people in white coats will take him. They will lie him in crisp white sheets. In an anonymous room. They will hook him up to cruel machines. They will murmur in his ear. They will say words that sound like they care. They will be as distant as if they are in another universe. They are predatory. They will shimmer around him, stroking and fiddling. He will sweat and groan. They will sponge him coldly. They are dreaming of the cheque. If they saw him in the street they would spit at him and stamp on him. They would cackle and point. But while we pay. They smirk and pout. He will enter a hunched up desperate drug addict. He will exit pale and physically cleansed. And still a drug addict. He will return home. Expectations will be terrifyingly high. He will never live up to them. He will crash and burn. You will guilt him and guilt him. You will remind him that his sister has not asked for anything. You will remind him of the money wasted. He will whimper and weaken. The detox flushes the drugs from the body. But not the heart and soul. An addict is yoked and strangled by the Sirens’ song. Like Odysseus he should be bound to the mast of his ship. It calls him day and night. It is stronger than family. It is stronger than love. It is stronger than life... Monument Valley is behind us.
We stay in Flagstaff. A pleasant if rather bland little town. Not without charm. We book into a truly weird motel. All wood and floral curtains. I remember a grassy area with small flags in the ground. Glittering in the sun in memory of those killed on 9/11. We drive through more spectacular scenery to Palm Springs. It’s as hot as Hades. There are sprinklers on the sidewalks. It’s home to rich geriatrics and old golfers. The magnificent mountains tower. We walk along manicured walkways. Again we rest up, in a great motel, this time. We are both quite tired. The distances are enormous. Husband baulks at a few miles at home. Here it’s easy. The highways are wide. Everyone drives in a fairly civilised fashion. After a few days rest. Refreshed, we head for the coast. We are in California now. Palm Springs still felt like the desert. With its cloying heat. Now. The air feels cleaner and sparklier. I can almost hear the Beach Boys in the distance. Revived. The conversations bubble up. There are soft silences. I lean back in my seat. Watch the landscape start to change and glitter. I glance at Husband’s familiar profile. I stretch. Contented. Suddenly. From nowhere. I feel a rush of love for Husband. Daughter. Son. It crouches inside me. Deep and visceral. Love is an overused word. Only a batsqueak away from hate. Son and Daughter are so far away. Daughter in that big city. Son in our little town. For a moment I can’t breathe. I am afraid. Everything is so tenuous. We’re all forged together by fire and brimstone. And all in our own separate worlds. The panic subsides. The road goes on and on and on. The sun shines on and on. I can see the sea. I can see the sign for Santa Monica. Santa Monica. The name is so evocative. So heartbreaking, so tatty round the edges. Ghosts of starlets hover. Was sad Marilyn holed up here, her beauty already ruined by drugs and men? We pause a moment. Take in it’s faded glamour. Drive on to Huntington Beach. A different atmosphere altogether here. It’s Surf City. We check into our motel, with its view of the sea. We’re on the boardwalk - how American is that? The sand is white. The surfing boys and girls jostle. We take the steps to the pier. We look down. Gloriously young, acrobatic surfers twist and turn on their gleaming boards. They hover on the rolling waves waiting for a big one. There’s a hum of anticipation. And then a mighty wall of water, crashing, They leap and fly and sink and roll. They bend and shriek and crouch and swerve. Golden bodies, golden hair plastered on their heads. I can feel the absolute joy. My husband knows a huge, arrogant American here. We have dinner. He considers the Native Americans ungrateful for the land the settlers gave them. Yes, he is serious. “Gave them?” I shriek. Husband frowns at me. “Wasn’t it their land?” He stares at me uncomprehendingly. I wonder at this absolute sense of entitlement. We have coffee. We walk back to the motel. I We waken to the sights and sounds and smells of the ocean We have coffee and donuts in a sidewalk cafe. There are coffee shops and surf shops There are golden Californians striding along. They carry lovingly tended surfboards. The multitracked harmonies of the Beach Boys float around us. The air fizzes with colour and music. This is where it started in the sixties. How could it not? In this magic world of gilded youth, sun, sea and sand. This is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain. The happy highways where I went. And cannot come again. And. Our time here is short. We must return. We must leave this place. This land of milk and honey. This Shangri-La. We must return to the artifice of Las Vegas. We have a couple of nights left. Then. Home... And so we take the highway from the Grand Canyon heading to Monument Valley.
As I type these words my memory spools back and round. The remembering still makes my heart stop. The road stretches ahead, unfurling like a ribbon. For the moment trees line the route. The sun is yellow in a cerulean sky. Husband and I are in the car. There is no one else in the world. The sunlight dances around us. We are warm and comfortable. We are lost in time. Of course we talk about Son. We talk about Daughter. We talk about ourselves. We talk about promises. We talk about mistakes. We talk about achievements. We talk about redemption. We talk about promises broken again and again. Through fear and loss of nerve. We say forgiveness is offered freely. But there is a proviso The sinner must acknowledge their sin and ask for forgiveness. With the forgiveness comes God’s instruction Go, and sin no more. We muse and consider. Meanwhile, the landscape changes. The trees have disappeared. The land stretches into desert as far as the eye can see. This arid land is Navajo Indian country. We pass occasional settlements. Poor huts. Structures with white flapping covers. Cheap ethnic jewellery for sale. We drive on and on. Past swaying grey green grasses. Conversation dips and shifts. Under those never ending skies. The light is changing now. Everything quieter. Crags and mountains start to appear in the misty distance. I feel a twist of excitement. We pass the sign for Monument Valley. I can see some familiar buttes. Their shapes known forever from many Wild West films. The cowboy always a mythical figure. In his leather and suede. His hat pulled down low. His face lined and brown like the desert. No matter how many films you’ve seen Nothing prepares you for the sight of that iconic landscape. The timing is perfect. The sun is slipping down. The sandstone buttes are fiery red. They could be a million years old. They could have been constructed yesterday for a John Wayne movie. There is one hotel nestling among these monoliths. It is tastefully done. It is run by Navajo. It is, appropriately, called The View. And what a view. We are booked in for one night. It is extortionately expensive. We can buy replica tomahawks and fridge magnets. Wherever you are in the hotel huge windows frame the landscape. From our room we can almost touch a huge elemental monolith. Despite all the attendants in ethnic garb and the pan pipes It is superb and blends in well with its desert surroundings. We check in. Eat dinner, average but beautifully served. Sink into white bedding. Alarm set for early morning. As instructed, to see the sunrise. I hardly sleep. Then waken as the windows lighten imperceptibly. I jump out of bed. I can see only vague shapes in the black desert. But. In the sky. A tiny squeak of gold. Slowly, slowly this ancient landscape takes shape. As it has done for millions of years. It’s like the dawn of time. The buttes are black then chocolate then fiery red. The sun creeping over their contours. Blood sings in my ears. Tears come. I turn to Husband in wonder. He snores on. Oblivious. We breakfast. There is a looping 17 mile.trail around the valley. The drive is relentlessly bumpy. Each butte, close up, has its own magnificence. The sun beats down. We rattle and rock along the path. There is a mystery in the spaces between them. Their eerie beauty unfolds as we clatter by The deep red changes and stretches as we get closer.. The end. We have seen the last iconic butte with the strange finger. I am mesmerised. I am bone weary. I am hot. We check out. A month wouldn’t be long enough to spend here. There are canyons and caves to be explored. However. You’d have to be as rich as Croesus to stay in that overpriced hotel. I’m sure the Navajo feel a little vengeance for past injustices. We’re back in our hot little hire car. It’s atmosphere full of our voices. I will never forget this strange desert place. It’s silence and secrecy concealed in a private place in my mind. Forever. The die is cast.
The tickets are booked. Husband and I allow ourselves a little excitement. . The date arrives. I nail the Theses to the door. 95 instructions not to take heroin. He takes us to the airport. We leap out of the car without a backward glance. We fly into Las Vegas. We’ll rest up in all its glorious blazing tack. It’s night. The city is alive and roaring with life. Everywhere lights flash and dance. People throng the streets. The desert air wraps it’s muggy heat around us. We push through the crowds into the hotel. Cool air conditioning hits us. Rows of slot machines as far as the eye can see. Roulette tables. Croupiers dealing cards with dazzling dexterity. Blackjack, craps. Poker games in booths. Music, laughter, coins crashing and clattering. Glasses clinking, full of ice, alcohol and little straws. Drink, feed the machine, pull the handle down. Watch the numbers spin. Watch the symbols click into place. Watch your money disappear into the casino’s back hole. We check in. We get in the lift. Press the button. The floors flash by. We’re high up. Finally, we’re in our room. Floor to ceiling windows reveal the city. The lights twinkling against the black desert sky. Lights and stars indistinguishable. The bed is enormous. We collapse into it. Laughing. Made it. We have a few days rest in Vegas. We force ourselves through the jet lag Wide awake in the early hours of the morning. Half asleep during the day. This is the most surreal of places. The buildings are monstrous confections. You are encouraged to spend and spend. Temptation is everywhere. You can eat and drink day and night. The casinos tempt and promise. All is glitz and glamour. Like Disneyland for adults. But. Beneath the facade. Workers are exploited. Prostitutes lounge in doorways. Red mouths dangle cigarettes. They look thin and desperate. Their clothes cheap. Their eyes hard slits. Away from the flashy hotels. Litter piles in the streets. Down and outs huddle in doorways. We observe them with sympathy and indifference. We toss them a dollar to salve our consciences. We hurry back to our comfortable air conditioned room. There are some superb restaurants here. We eat enormous steaks, giant bowls of salad. We consume whopping burgers with colossal portions of fries. We are Americans. We are elated. Trump is a nightmare lurking in the shadows. We leave this weird place. We drive away on a highway with 6 lanes. The sun flashes on the car. It twinkles on the windscreen. The windows are open. The Beach Boys are on the radio. I want to be in this moment forever. We are staying in a log cabin in the Grand Canyon National Park. It is evening. We are exhausted. We are in a pine forest. The air is sharp and sweet. We lie in bed. Weary but wide awake, Through the open window the scents of the forest drift in. We listen to the pine needles pattering like raindrops against the glass. The glories of the Canyon wait in the perfumed darkness. The silvery light of morning. The pine trees tower and whisper. Small animals rustle. Birds twitter and dance. . We drink coffee. We shower. We dress. We set forth. Signs point us to the Canyon rim. There are many viewing points. It is 277 miles long. It is 4 to 18 miles wide. It is 5 to 6 million years old. These are the facts. But nothing can prepare you for it’s sublime majesty. Standing at its edge is like looking down to the centre of the earth. As you look at it. It floats and shifts. The morning sun, golden, slips over its contours. Layers and layers. Down, down, down. Orange, brown, gold, red, violet, purple. Changing and sliding. Drifts of light and shade glide round and into its depths. The experience is mystical. It’s like a glance into eternity... Husband and I stand then sit and stare in wonder. Huge Californian Condors sweep overhead. The sky is deep blue. We gape and gawp. We can’t recreate that first feeling. How long do you stay? Will it sweep you down to its depths? Down to the Colorado River snaking it’s way through the rocks. I turn away. Turn back. Turn away again. Husband takes my hand. We walk back through the forest of pine. We stay for 2 more days. The lodges are grouped around a purpose built Native American village. The bright shops are manned by these proud people. Dressed up in ethnic costumes. I feel embarrassed by the undisguised money-making. I am a tourist. I know. But to diminish human beings like this. Seems a step too far. Ask me, though. Did I buy a fridge magnet, despite my protestations? Despite my virtuous musings. Did I? We returned to the Canyon edge again. We returned a few times before we left. But we couldn’t recapture that first heart stopping first look. We drive away. We catch glimpses of it for a few miles. Then it’s gone. Disappeared. It’s as if it only exists in my imagination. Like some splendid illusion. Always just out of reach. We stop for coffee. The sun is hot on the windows. The magic still encircles us. We look at the map. The car is mad hot. We smile at each other. Next? Monument Valley. But that’s for my next blog... He moves into his newly found flat.
The day is foggy and grim. He has some secondhand furniture. We donate pots and pans. I’m dying with regrets. I am profoundly relieved. He and his disreputable mates paint the walls. Of a fashion. Posters cover the cracks. It looks alright in a dim light. He invites us round for pasta. He has a childlike delight in his new place. He has no idea how the finances will play out. We’re all on shifting sands. I have memories of things that haven’t happened yet. Everything is buried for the moment. We’re in the bubble again. I want to find the rent in the air to slip through again. He enjoys himself for a while. We kid ourselves for a while. The peace at home is heaven. We feel his absence. Weirdly. There is always and ever will be The lack of Daughter. But she is at home between places. Already settling elsewhere. This makes me happy and sad. Rooms remain orderly. The house is pleasantly empty. We adopt a rescue cat. It’s a queer scraggly thing with a wild eyed stare. After a few days it has fits. Racing round the house, howling. It finally collapses on its back. Pissing into the air in a perfect arc. Meanwhile Son continues to enjoy his life in his flat. He is never alone. On the very rare occasions we visit There are comatose bodies in corners. Weird women come and go. Sometimes they attempt to impose order. Without success. For a while we all thrive in our new found freedom. We revel in our tidy quiet house. The hum of worry pushed into the background. He revels in his days free of grumbling parents. Daughter and I have Son-free conversations. The flow of bizarre visitors slows and eventually ceases. He presents his confident face to the world. Like Iago “I am not what I am.” Our faces are relaxed, calm and mildly trepidatious. We reclaim a normal-ish life. We tell the usual lies. We see him at work. We scan him. He pays his rent at an office close by us. Mistake. I take it in for him sometimes. Mistake. We lend it to him sometimes. Mistake. Then it rains and rains. The windows stream and mist. The streets run with muddy water. Black and grey thunderclouds cover the sky. The flat dripped and leaked. Damp and mould crept up the walls. The posters peeled and fell to the floor in folds. The pots and pans sat, unwashed in the kitchen. Scummy water sat in the blocked sink. The tectonic plates shift. Before we know where we are he’s back home. His stuff returned to his recently cleaned old room. Flat keys clattered onto the desk at the letting agents. Rent arrears paid. The room cleared, its memories erased. He vehemently denies any drug taking. But then he would, wouldn’t he? So, which face do we adopt now? A magpie can recognise itself in a mirror. I can’t. However. We are all better disposed towards each other since the separation. I think the break has done us all good. He seems relieved to be back. He looks well. Has he come to his senses? I am deluded as ever. But,at the moment There is a strange atmosphere of reciprocal good behaviour all round. In this mad euphoric state. As the sky gleams bright blue and the wind bites. Before another hole in the ground opens up. We make plans to visit America... That’s it.
I’m done. It’s like the night of the living dead. It’s like living in Room 101. After a particularly unpleasant few days. Something inside me snaps. This is our home. It’s supposed to be a haven. Days of standoffs and conflict. The stress is enormous. The boredom is excruciating. The creditors are circling. The debts are mounting. I’m sick of looking at his miserable face. I’m sick of trying to understand. I’m sick of everything about the situation. I’m sick of reading books that tell you to love the addict. And show compassion. I say to these writers and so-called therapists. Live with one. Live with one. Live with the day to day grinding misery. Live with the lying and thieving. Live with the constant anxiety and watching. When you’ve done that. Then write your books Then speak your platitudes. It’s all about him. Well, bollocks to it. I tell him I want him to leave. He is aghast. What, me? It’s a shame for me. It’s a fucking shame for me. I am weary to the bone. Husband looks terrible. Daughter hasn’t been in a while. Enough is enough. He’s played fast and loose with us for too long. Whether he can help it or not. Whether it’s mental health or just addiction. Or both. You have crossed many lines. I have no more forgiveness in me. We clean the Augean Stables which is his room. Regularly. My resentment overrides my sympathy. My heart is ice. The rules are broken. We have lost trust and respect. Basically, I don’t want him under my roof. I don’t care where he goes. There is a malfunction in the relationship. The mirror is cracked. I What if daughter backs away? What if she withers through lack of attention? It’s all so unfair. It’s all a mess. Everything connected to addiction is poisonous. It sneaks through the arteries of the family. It crawls and creeps. It taints the days. He should not be in this house. I don’t want him in this house. I don’t want him in this house. I don’t want to breathe the same air as him. In my nightmare moments I am Medea. My knife is at his throat. I realise this is a particularly vicious post. It is influenced by present day horrors. The circle is complete. Is this a dagger I see before me? There must be an end. For the moment at least. And so. The flat-hunting starts... The weeks pass.
Autumn blusters in. Hurling rain in our faces. Twirling leaves and debris down the street. That lovely summer has shrivelled into a corner. Son takes a further step down to Hades. He’s queasy and precarious. I’m dithery and anxious. He turns down all offers of help. What do you do? We seemed to have stopped talking. We can’t really hear each other anyway. It’s like living in some terrible psychological drama. We just do the old one day at a time. Each day like a life and a death. Rise to meet the day, do stuff, make plans, plateau, start to sink, sink and then sleep. His consumption has increased. Stock disappears from work. Envelopes appear bearing the names of credit card companies He disappears bearing carrier bags. His expensive stereo which he loves, disappears. It’s all “nothing to do with you.” “It is whilst you’re under my roof.” “We’ll I’ll go then.” End of subject. Some days he goes to work. Those days Husband bitches at me and my freedom. Some days he stays at home. Those days I bitch at Husband for leaving me with it. Then we’re both sorry. It’s like wading through treacle. We’re watching his life unravel before our eyes. One grey morning. I put the lead on Dog. Dog is a true mutt. A brown mongrel. His legs too long, his face too pointy. His saving grace is his perfectly magnificent daftness. We set forth. He is excited. His ears blow back. I let him off the lead too soon. He dashes. A screech. A car smashes into him. He flies into the air. He thuds to the ground. He is still and silent. My fault. My fault. He’s in a cramped cage on the floor of the vet’s. Curled foetus-like. Some tufts of soft brown hair poke through the bars. Just alive. At home we weep. Son holds me, his face haggard. Husband paces. Phones Daughter. I hear her crying. I can’t speak to her. It’s unbearable. No one accuses I can do that myself. We return in the morning. He’s still in the same position. In that bloody cage. I go to him. I sink down onto that dusty floor. I fumble with the metal catch. Tears are streaming. My chest is heaving. I try to get inside. I cradle his soft head. His breathing is shallow. I stroke him. “I’m sorry.” “I’m sorry.” A movement. He tries to wag his tail. But it bumps against the cage. He opens his eyes. He puts out his tongue. He licks my wet face. He heaves a great sigh. He is still. I lie on that foul floor. I touch his soft brown paw. Husband picks me up. He wraps his arms around me. He holds me. He whispers into my hair. “And then the fucking dog dies.” in true Groundhog Day fashion.
I return to the post of the same name which I accidentally deleted. I shall endeavour to recreate it. My thoughts pour out spontaneously as I write. But I must confess to having a few notes. These are random. Like a necklace that’s broken and spread about. I will try to reassemble some of the parts and make some kind of a whole. Right. Son slips and slides Up and down. We feel dejected and insecure. We have no trust. We don’t believe a word he says. Daughter dances into the gloom. She has come to stay for a few days. Joy. The world brightens. We plan a trip to Manchester. Manchester. It is in my heart. Like an oasis in the desert. It sits there. Idealised and romanticised. A golden city. Full of muck and magic. I first stepped onto those hallowed streets in the late sixties. Troubled Friend and I boarded a steam train. We left our grim small town streets. And our suburban selves. We stepped out into Victoria Station. Onto the platform into swirling smoke and cloud. We clattered down the iron steps. Into the wood panelled booking hall. Quick visit to the toilet. This is manned by a Gorgon. She sits astride a stool, swivel eyed and malicious. This is the last hurdle. Out of the dark station into the grey mist of The Promised Land. This is the city where Suffragettes stormed and thundered. Where my beloved newspaper The Guardian was born. In response to the Peterloo Massacre. Bit up it’s own arse these days. Seems to have forgotten its northern roots. The buildings. Fabulous Victorian piles, neo-Gothic, Edwardian. They all jostle and flatter each other. And the shops. Oh the shops. I’d never seen shops like them. As I dreamed behind Troubled Friend. Little did I know that Husband-to-be was working there, Buried in The Royal Exchange. A vast trading hall for cotton dealers and manufacturers. Now offices held him in their Victorian splendour. It’s always been a city of protest. We often encountered marches in the streets. These were the days of the Troubles in Ireland. It seems like an ancient war now. The IRA seeking the end of British rule in Northern Ireland. Plotting their rebellions whilst singing their romantic folk songs. We sat in dark old pubs, drank beer and smoked cigarettes. We talked about Irish politics. And that red mini dress I longed for but couldn’t afford. Mary Quant’s evocative designs were everywhere now. There were boutiques from which music blared. Trendy, androgynous types looked at us with disdain. In later years Husband and I made the pilgrimage. We brought our friends. We brought our children. We brought their friends. We shopped. We ate in Chinatown. Unfamiliar and unusual in those days. In the Northern Quarter we discovered an emporium of alternative shops. Another world. Loud music, vintage clothes,festoons of silver jewellery. Everyone tattooed. Sounds quaint today. But in those days it was amazing. Everyone wore Doc Martens. So did we. These were the days of dreams, yearning and ideals. The world was beautiful. The family was together in all its messy majesty. We teetered on the edge. And then. A bomb. It ripped through my beloved city. It destroyed buildings and streets. Miraculously. No one was killed. Peoples’ livelihoods and dreams went up in smoke. The dust settled on the ruins of the city. We wept for us all and for Manchester. Life went on. Slowly. Slowly. Manchester rebuilt itself. We watched the metamorphosis. Slow then suddenly. Suddenly. It appeared. Glass buildings appeared and flattered the old. New shops. New air to breathe. The rebuilt Manchester roared its splendour to the skies... My memories are fragmented.
Haphazard. Out of sync. Affected by events happening now. Last evening with daughter. The air is warm and heavy. I cook some Chinese food. Half heartedly, I ask Son to join us. Amazingly, as I start to bring the steaming dishes to the table. He appears. Looks a bit rough round the edges. He greets Daughter in an awkward fashion. I bring wine and beer. Chopsticks and bowls. Serving spoons and soya sauce. Husband pours drinks. We begin. It’s difficult at first. The four of us haven’t eaten together since the Horror started. I thought it was going to be a dismal affair. I felt my anxiety travelling round the table. Daughter is not judgemental. And gradually the conversation ebbs and flows. He discards the heroin addict persona for this night. It must be a relief to adopt normal person mask for a few hours. If a visitor stepped into the glowing room. He would see a happy family. Eating, drinking and laughing. French windows open. Scents from the garden drifting in. They mix with aromatic fragrance of the food. The sun going down. The sky orange and gold. Ha. What a lie it is. Or maybe it’s another facet of our lives. Another sort of truth. A couple of hours of euphoria. The cracks concealed on this summer evening. Truth is such a fragile thing. We all play our parts in the charade. I am ready to believe in us all. We all share the past. Family life, identity and home. We all have our memories which we alter to suit the occasion. We’re all woozy with nostalgia. And in all our hearts there’s always Manchester. Son and Daughter share an appreciation of music. As Manchester rebuilt and grew. The music swirled out of the cracks in the pavements. Out of shops selling vinyl to baggy trousered youths. It swept through the back streets of the Northern Quarter. Guitars twanged. The sounds throbbed in the air. We breathed it in. It coursed through our northern veins. Arteries hardened by many pies loosened and danced. Through it all strolled The Smiths and the glorious, elegant Morrissey. Then in swaggered Oasis. The Gallagher brothers with their parkas. Liam with his hands clasped behind his back. Shouting into the microphone. Daring you to be alive. Idiosyncratic Stone Roses. Happy Mondays with their shambolic charisma. Many, many more. Some came and went. Some stayed. Daughter and Son talked and argued about their favourite bands. Husband looked on bemused. The conversation between them grew heated. Then they were laughing and reminiscing. Soon, we were all, in our dreams, wandering those Manchester streets. The room was suddenly dark. I got up, switched reading lamps on. The dark red walls glowed. I closed the French windows. The spell was broken. We cleared the plates. I made coffee. When I returned Son had quietly gone upstairs. Husband and Daughter were yawning. The evening was like a jewel in my pocket. I could touch it and recapture the memory. For a while at least. Manchester had sprinkled a little stardust. We were willing victims. I switched off the lights. We slowly climbed the stairs. The house settled into darkness. The enchantment gone... |
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