A Perfect World by Veronica Bright
Nought
to sixty in 5.5 seconds.
Thomas loves the feeling, cruising in the third lane, checking the
mirror for the ‘nee-naws’, as his daughter calls them.
Everything’s hunky-dory, and he’s alone in a perfect world.
Hunky-dory. That was always one of his mother’s favourite words. He
passes a lorry, and sighs. He remembers why this journey north is so
difficult.
He hasn’t been there for… how long? Guilt rides in the car with
him. Harriet is nearly three, and he’s never taken her there. His
mother’s been up to London of course. The house is small so she has
to stay in a hotel. Meg said they could make room, but he wouldn’t
hear of it.
Thomas pulls into a service station for a coffee. The menu advertises
those pancakes Harriet loves so much. Thomas wishes he had more time
for his family. He often has to bring work home. The pay’s good
though, and he is able to buy Harriet all kinds of treats, cherry
pancakes with ice cream being one of them. He really should make more
time for family outings.
And yet……he’s never really happy unless he’s alone, is he?
There are times when he longs to be all those things he imagines the
perfect parent to be: patient, interested, kind. He knows he is
generous. His own parents gave him expensive presents, didn’t they?
He sips his coffee, and remembers the bike they bought him for his
fifth birthday. It was superb, the envy of the neighbourhood
children. But he’d done something so bad, his parents had put the
bike into the loft for three months, and when it came out again, it
didn’t seem so wonderful after all.
“Has it shrunk?” he wanted to know.
“It’s an illusion.”
He frowned, puzzling over this new grown up word.
“You’ve grown somewhat during the school
holidays, that is all,” his mother said.
He has
a sudden urge to go back to that first house. He had a climbing frame
in the garden. Once, at the park, he’d pushed that prissy
dark-haired girl off a swing. He’d wanted a go himself, and that
seemed the best way to solve his problem at the time. Now he
remembers his mother’s exasperation. Why wouldn’t he share? Take
turns?
“I don’t understand you,” she said.
In Thomas’ mind he can see their former house
clearly, set in a quiet cul-de-sac. That bike was something else. He
used to take it outside and the crowd would gather, small eyes
looking at it longingly, little fingers stroking it, somebody
squeezing the hooter. He used to laugh, push their hands away, and
ride off along the pavement shouting, “Can’t catch me!” No way
would he let that lot have a go on his
bike.
Thomas
drains the last of his coffee, sets down the cup, resumes his
journey.
Nought to sixty in 5.5 seconds. Again he experiences the satisfaction
of speed, of driving away from problems, cruising fast and free. His
mobile rings and he ignores it. He’s made up his mind.
He detours to go and park outside the house where his childhood
began. He gets out of the car, and presses the key fob switch. The
locking system gives a satisfying clunk.
The front door is the same, polished oak. He rings the bell. He hears
some-one coming; prepares a charming smile.
“I’m
sorry to bother you. I used to live here,” he says.
The woman turns her head slightly, peers at him.
“My name’s Thomas Dawson. Does that mean
anything to you?”
“Well!”
The woman breaks into a smile. “We bought the house from the
Dawsons…… Must be thirty years ago.”
She
calls her husband who emerges to say hello. They invite him in.
Thomas
steps over the doorstep, into the past. Immediately he feels
frustrated, oppressed. He fights a desire to escape. He follows the
couple into the lounge; looks around.
“It’s
very different,” he says.
“I
know,” says the woman. “We’ve brought up three children here,
so our furniture had to be pretty sturdy.” She smiles. “Your
parents had some beautiful things.” Then she sighs, and shakes her
head. “Those cabinets full of exquisite pieces!”
“Wedgwood, Royal Doulton, etcetera,” says
Thomas. He can almost see them again, cold behind the glass.
“And that gorgeous pale carpet! We inherited it,
you know, but I’m afraid we had to replace it after a few years.
The children, you know. And their friends.”
“I was never allowed to play in here,” says
Thomas. The old resentment eats into him.
The man makes Thomas a cup of tea while the woman continues to talk,
leading the way into the dining room. The polished table has gone,
of course. Suddenly he remembers why they took his bike away from
him. He’d been banging on that magnificent table with his fork. He
had screamed at them in frustration, thumping his fork down, on and
on, bang, bang, bang, leaving rows of tiny holes in the virgin wood.
He wouldn’t stop till they forced him out of the room, banished him
from their sight.
Then he has a flash-back to last week, when he’d hollered at
Harriet for a similar misdemeanour.
“I
don’t know how your parents managed to keep such a beautiful home
with a youngster and his friends tearing around,” says the woman.
“I wasn’t allowed to have children in,” says
Thomas, and his mother’s words echo in his ears. “No-one wants to
play with a naughty boy like you.”
He clenches his fists, and then straightens his hands again, a
habitual gesture as he tries to remain calm. He feels uncomfortable.
He wants to leave, to speed away.
The woman is pointing out at the garden, where Thomas had his
climbing frame. Now there’s a toddler’s swing.
“For my grand-daughter.” She picks up a
photograph. “There’s nothing like the blessing of grand-children.
Mind you, sometimes you need the patience of a saint.”
Again Thomas thinks of his mother and Harriet.
“Believe me,” says the man, coming in with the
tray. “Children are another species.”
Back in the car, Thomas forces himself to concentrate. Only half an
hour and he’ll be there. It’s not so easy to sit in a cosy nought
to sixty bubble on these country roads. Besides, new thoughts crowd
his head with every bend. The memory of his mother persists. There
she is, neat and tidy, polishing the brasses, wiping sticky
fingerprints off the walls. Why oh why had she always wanted
everything to be so clean and sparkling? So perfect. She’d have
been better off with a nice quiet girl, he thinks; a girl to match
the pale pink carpet, bows in her hair, and pretty manners. Instead
of which she had a boy, certainly not a docile, do-as-you’re-told
one.
He slows to take a double bend. The light in the sky is changing.
Surely there was nothing wrong with asking questions? He wasn’t
worse than any of the other boys who lived in the cul-de-sac, was he?
His mother, his bossy, fussing mother, had no idea what children were
really like. The words of the man back at the house return to him.
Children are a different species.
How many times has he been frustrated with Harriet? Too exhausted and
irritable to listen to Meg? He sees that perhaps he is just like his
father was, always busy, a responsible job making too many demands,
taking its toll. Thomas admits he leans heavily upon Meg for solace.
Kind, calm Meg.
When did he last make Meg a cup of tea?
Perhaps the expensive gifts Thomas received as a child were an
apology for the time his father spent away from him. Perhaps his
mother resented having a small child she hadn’t asked for. Now
Thomas finds life so hectic, he has barely any time for Harriet. No
wonder Meg wants them to give it all up and move to the country.
“That’s impossible Meg,” he’d said. “What
would I do in the country?”
“People find jobs in the country as well as
here,” she’d replied. “Or they commute. A train journey can be
quite relaxing, you know.”
She’d said she’d like to see Harriet running across the fields,
finding wild flowers, feeding ducks.
“We have ducks in London, Meg,” he’d said,
“in the park.”
“I’d like another baby, Tom.” Then she’d
gone on quickly. “And I want to grow vegetables, maybe keep
chickens...”
“Chickens, Meg. Are you out of your mind?”
He pulls into his mother’s drive.
The live-in carer opens the door, and leads the way into the drawing
room. The same antique cabinets are full of the same beautiful
things. Thomas’ mother reclines on a chaise longue, a blanket over
her knees.
“Hello Mother.”
“You came alone then?”
“Meg couldn’t get the time off…” His voice
tails away. He feels five years old again, a naughty boy.
“I’ll make some tea,” says the carer.
“Do sit down, Thomas; you’re making the place
untidy.”
“I always did that Mother,” says Thomas,
almost savagely. Then he stops. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long
journey.”
His mother is silent. She looks tired. Thomas takes his case
upstairs. Do we all end up stuck in some dreadful caricature of
ourselves, he wonders, unable to break free.
He
goes downstairs to where his mother waits. Her hair is beautifully
styled; her make-up is tasteful. Thomas sees the effort she has made
for his visit. Yet the illness is winning. She looks terrible.
The
carer brings in a tray. She gives no hint of disapproval that he
hasn’t visited for months.
Thomas attempts to speak calmly of Harriet, and Meg. From the distant
kitchen come the sounds of a meal being prepared, a song on the
radio.
A
silence falls between them. Shadows gather in the room.
“I went back to our first house today, Mother,”
he says.
He tells her about the people who moved in after they left, the
people who stayed for thirty years.
“You hid my bike from me. Do you remember that?”
Thomas
watches as his mother shuts her eyes.
“I
found you such a difficult child, Thomas,” she says. He strains his
ears to hear her. “I didn’t understand you.”
He
thinks of Harriet. He doesn’t understand her, not at all. She’s
so… alive, yes, that’s the word, alive.
“I
do love you, Thomas.”
The
words spill into the gloom of the impeccable room, as if his mother
has to say it while there is still time.
“I wanted to be the perfect parent,” she says.
A log
shifts in the fire. The clock ticks. From the kitchen the six o’clock
pips announce the news
“I
wish…”
“What
do you wish, Mother?”
“That
I could have another go at it all. But as they say, life isn’t a
rehearsal.”
Thomas needs to do something, anything, to prevent the anguish and
guilt and the
desire
to weep.
“I’ll pull the curtains, shall I?”
He stands beside the window, looks out at the darkening sky. The
first star gives a gentle welcome to the night.
“Mother.” He tries hard to see things from her
point of view. He walks over to her, and takes her hand.
“Growing
up in the country was good,” he says. “I don’t really care
about the bike, you know.”
“I’m so tired,” is all she says.
Later, in the bedroom that overlooks the hills, Thomas has time to
think. He has a future, God willing. It’s time to be the person he
wants to be. He imagines Harriet playing in a sunny garden; Meg
picking flowers, growing vegetables, her weary frown long gone. Maybe
feeding chickens. Maybe another child on the way.
Perfect?
No. Alive. He will be alive, like Harriet. And Meg.
Everything will be all right.
Soon it will be tomorrow, and he’ll head for London. He may well be
singing. Yes. Probably one of Harriet’s funny little songs.
Nought to sixty in 5.5 seconds. Not escaping, but going home.
