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1976. Luxembourg/ March 2006, Muswell Hill
Rule 41: always be positive
I am six. Me and my brothers are watching It’s A Knockout. My dad’s on his sofa, at the other end of the room. My elder brother says a word that’s derogatory about the French. He calls them “wankers”. Suddenly my dad springs from the sofa, and smacks him round the head. Hard. He says: “Don’t you ever swear again. You’re a very bad boy.”
We’re caught out. We don’t think it’s so bad to call someone a “wanker”. Especially if they are (1) on television, and (2) French. We’d assumed that’s the point of the French: to be targets for our gathering wit. OK we think the word is bad, but not as bad as smacking someone round the head. But mainly we are surprised Dad has got up. That sofa is his trench. Normally he doesn’t move from it.
The next day, I have this conversation with him…
“When I was thirty,” he says, “I nearly joined the French Foreign Legion. By now I could have been a general.”
I stare at him. For a moment I don’t see him as the man in front of me: smoking a Silk Cut, about to pour himself another gin and tonic, using the bottle I’ve prepared for him on the Soda Stream. I see him as the man he could’ve been: riding a camel… shooting a gun towards an enemy fort. I prefer the second version.
“What happened Daddy?” I say.
“Well… I met your Mum. I had you lot.”
I see that having “you lot” – that’s a consolation prize. That’s getting the peach flavoured yoghurt. I know I’ll never make the mistake of meeting a woman I love. I’ll join the Foreign Legion. I am six. I think girls are for poofs.
I’m thinking about this now, since I’ve found I’m programmed to repeat my dad’s parenting. The worst point of our week is 11 45 on Friday night. That’s when Liv says: “Who’s doing breakfast in the morning?” My first thought is always: “It’s Saturday tomorrow. My job is to lie in bed till lunch. At that point, I must move to the sofa, to have a damn good smoke.” I don’t say that. I just frown. And then she says: “Can you stop frowning?” And I say: “Can you stop criticizing me?” And she says: “I wasn’t.” And I say: “Yes you were. You’re patronizing me. You think I’m a bad boy.” And she says: “What are you talking about?”
At that point every week, I realize how I remember every bad thing anyone has ever said to me. All those criticisms – they stick in the brain like barbed wire. I also realize I’ve over-reacted. That’s why, every Saturday, I try to make amends: I get up, I fix breakfast, I sulk. That’s my system.
This Saturday, Grace makes something over breakfast: straws, Selotaped to a sheet of foil. She can make anything, as long as it involves Selotape.
“It’s a Wisher,” she says. “You make a wish, and blow it down the straw. When the paper rattles, your wish comes true.”
Of course I could say: “Look. I’m trying to drink my coffee. Now can you give me three minutes peace. You’re such an annoying girl.”
But I don’t. I say: “That is beautiful. You’re so clever.” I’ve always wanted my own Wisher, and also I know that, whatever I say, she’ll remember it forever. That makes me want to be positive. So I take hold of the Wisher, and I think: “I want to stop being angry about my dad.”
I immediately remember a story…
One day, when I’m seven, Dad does decide to spend time with us. We tell him we want to go out walking. We’re crossing a cow’s field, when we see we’re in a field of frisky bullocks. They stampede. We sprint for the fence. My older brother leaps over. He holds the wire up. My younger brother starts wriggling through. I fall on my knees and wait my turn. I’m terrified. Waiting to be rammed.
When I hear a sound:
“Stop moving in the back ranks!”
I turn. My dad is standing to attention.
“You! Call that a suede coat? You’re a disgrace to the regiment! Drop and give me one hundred press ups. I don’t care if there are thistles!”
Fifty bullocks are standing round, stunned by my dad’s charisma and command. For that moment, he is a general. A general protecting his children.
Topics
What did you hate / love about your dad? What about mum?
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