George's War

Princess Josephine (image courtesy wikipedia)

He woke late. Emily; pregnant with their fifth child, lay heavily in a warm wet glow from a fitful sleep. He'd lain awake wondering if this would be their second boy. They had chatted before sleeping of the void left by the passing of their first son aged only eight months. Emily had the three girls to help but George coveted a son to share his gardens and joys.

“Stay there Emm. I’ll get the girls to keep an eye on things”.

Kathleen was thirteen and managed well. The younger two between them doing all those little things that mum struggled with now her sight was lost. George kissed Emily’s pink glowing belly. ‘See you soon little man’ he said picking his cream leather helmet from a hook on the bedroom door before turning; 'love you Em'.

He weaved the black chromed motorcycle along baked autumn lanes, a Blackfin tuna in a rippling sea. She was glossy, glimmer bright, fishtail exhausts polished to a gleam brighter than a smile in a child’s eye. She wore a jet black sidecar, languishing like a platinum draped Josephine Baker. She was his joy his release his obsession his mistress.

It was late morning, an Indian summer day October 1938. Chamberlain had returned a few days earlier with his fluttering paper promise. His Princess always out on Sundays releasing her from her wooden temple taking her to visit his parents. It was about twenty five miles along the counties byways and he knew the route like he knew the growing phases of his prize rhododendrons.

The sun baked a shimmer into the road, making it uncomfortably warm. Sweating heavily in jacket and pale gauntlets his helmet squeaked with perspiration; pushing the peak back every few miles was useless, He pulled over. George took a coarse grey knitted blanket from the sidecar, brought to wrap plants from his father’s estate. Removing helmet and jacket the blanket was used to dry his nape and forehead before replacing and adding his jacket. He pushed the helmet down firmly onto his crown thumping it down with the side of a clenched hand to get a good tight purchase. The rough wiry blanket combined with sweat and rubbing of chin straps had left his jowl sore so he’d left them unfastened. He was fewer than five miles from his parent’s cottage.

Cooler now cruising winding roads, thinning woodland flowing past. Torrents of rose and sage leaves rose as he reached them lowered as he passed in a wave of branches. Ahead the road bore sharp right it was simple to cut the angle by skirting the inside kerb drifting back across he had done it a hundred or more times. This time an enormous moss green liveried bull in the shape of an army Scammell took the same bend from the opposite direction. George snatched at the brake.

But for his sidecar he may well have avoided impact. It had slapped the bulbous wheel arch of the beast and flicked the bike into the air. The bike remains of the side-car and George had their momentum violently stopped by a stolid statuesque gilt leafed Elm tree. Wrapped around its trunk tighter than puttee’s, soldiers leaped from the lorry racing to the confusion; dangling like a pink grub eaten fruit from the blackened branches. His right leg severely lacerated by torn metal he was trapped, the bike above him. His helmet had burst from his head clattered against the hanging branches bouncing into the road.  A junior crewman mistook it for his head and fainted. Hot fuel and oil leaking from the tanks dripped, blistering flesh from his cheek and neck. A gunner grabbed a piece of blanket cloth wrapped into the branches pushing it over his face to stop the burning. The cloth soaked up dripping fuel. Crew and passers-by helped yank the bike out of the trees. In that moment the heat from the engine ignited the cloth  instantly melting it into George’s face and neck. Jackets were ripped from backs and three men beat at the flames and body aware that the whole might explode at any moment. They managed to peel George from the crumpled metal throwing him across the road away from the danger. He passed out from the excrutiating pain.

Emily was told of the accident in the late afternoon. A baby boy was born later that day, five days early. It would be several weeks before Dad met son. He was a beautiful baby.Everyone said how much he looked like his mum

©Agides

DON'T GROW UP!

The Sun is on anabolics burning Pea Soup

When I began this it was intended to be an aid to recovery from my personal “slough of despond”. It quickly turned into an on line boast about my beautiful boys.It was never supposed to be this but bizarrely has had and is having the effect of lifting me from my mire in any case. Strange how these things come about.I have tried all kinds of treatments most with little success.This feels (so far) different.

Occasionally the fog falls  but I find it hard to write about this. Something that being 'anonymous' was supposed to enable. Strangely deep within I think I must still feel some sense of shame or similar as I still avoid it. I don’t really want to feel that,particularly as it's contrary to what I teach my lads and counter to all the advocacy I do for others. Writing about the boys lifts me out of the miasma quickly,however it also brings the realisation that this condition prevents much that I need.

A few nights ago I wrote a short blog during an onset slump. I actually posted it for 30 minutes but decided to delete it. I have been trying to understand why ever since. No one that reads this blog knows me personally with a single exception (and they know a great deal about how this came about and are of the most generous of human spirits) so why the reticence?

The truth is – I don't know. Simple as that. Maybe there is no answer maybe brighter minds than mine have an understanding. I still don't know. I hear the obvious platitudes and am guilty of occasionally using them myself. I know it's none of them. The piece I wrote was to see if act of it would prevent the onset of the melancholy; it didn't. What it did do was swallow me into the grey  more hurriedly. At some point I will probably post a self indulgent piece along the'woe is me'line so I apologise now just in case.

It was written in a stream of consciousness way and wasn't mentally edited like my writing is usually. But reading it back I noticed the preoccupation I seem to have with being a failed father. And there is the nub of it.This condition means I am not able always to have the boys. The not being able to have the boys exacerbates the condition. There is a repetitive realisation that I cannot be the Dad I so want to be.

The cure? Well the fog fell Monday night and was lifted instantly the next morning by the phone call I blogged of on Tuesday. My eldest phoned me and asked me to be his Dad for a few minutes. In its own way it is pure magic one telephone call burned away the fog like the Sun on anabolics.

I wrote before of how I encourage the boys to see teachers in all people of all ages. To accept that each new friendship will bring opportunity to understand and learn. So in order to practise what I preach I decided I should point out what I have learnt from my children.

DAD! I KNOW WHAT WE CAN DO!
PUT CHERRIES IN IT!

I have learnt that my children own the world. They glory in it and are mesmerised by it in ways I seem to have forgotten. They have an extraordinary capacity for acceptance. As no one has told them something is not “normal” then they embrace it. Including and especially of and in other people. My boys cope with change more readily as a consequence of this ability to accept. It is absolutely the case that the boys were quicker at coming to terms with the change to their lives when their parents separated, than either parent did! My boys trust not the naive trust one associates with foolishness but real trust. The kind that is supported by the Corinthian plinths of forgiveness. They hold no grudge they simply move on. They LOVE; they love me, the day, their mum, the neighbour’s dog, the walk to the shop, the trip in the car, the bike ride, the swimming, the telly, the football, the cooking, the playing, the cuddles, the bedtime, the stories and everything in between. I have learnt of dinosaurs with wings that lived on the ground. Of wasps that reproduce by laying eggs in caterpillars. I've learnt what type of bike is cool. That WOW isn't for being surprised but for talking about a video game. I have learnt that the best burgers are not the ones with a free toy, but the ones you make with each other. Where you squish and squelch the meat between your fingers and roll into giant balls before slapping them flat with your hand(so much fun!). Add your own ingredients like herbs or chilli flakes (put extra in that one Dad and we'll give it to L... he he he...) or cherries? Yup! chopped up cherries why not? I have learnt to say "why not" more often. That the funniest thing for a child to see is an adult behaving silly. (Mr Bean would be king if my boys were in charge!).

I worry that sometimes my blog makes the boys sound perfect. They are not of course but they do enthral me and that, I am afraid, I simply can't hide. As you will have certainly already noticed. All this and more I have learnt yet the one thing I have to remember is that I CAN get better and they deserve for me to do so. Because they never once have shown anything but love and understanding when it has meant they could not be with me as planned. Never demanded pleaded or sulked. They have always just said,” Sorry you’re poorly Daddy, get some rest and get better and we will see you next time. Love you Daddy, mwah!”

I learn something new every time we speak!

Oh beautiful boys don’t be in a hurry to grow up. It’s seriously over rated!


©Agides