Читать книгу The Throwaway Boy - Alix Chapel - Страница 20

I wake up early every morning

With thoughts running through my head

Just don’t know where I am heading to

But I know right now that I’m here.

‘Right Tonight’, by James K

There’s something about driving that attracts me, I just don’t quite know what it is. I don’t have to be the driver – although, I have to say, I do love being behind the wheel. Whatever the weather, whatever the view… I just love driving. I’ve even been known to take longer routes, going out of my way, just to steal a bit longer; a bit more thinking space; a bit more me time.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been the same. I even went through a phase, when I was very young, of wanting one day to marry a long distance lorry driver just so that I could go along for the ride. I thought that sounded like some kind of heaven. I don’t recall my parents saying anything to put me off that idea although I suspect they were relieved when I decided I’d rather marry Ricky Ricardo.

Travelling through fantastic scenery, while listening to music on a beautiful sunny day, is my kind of wonderful. Driving along the Oregon Coast on our way to California, with Sheryl Crow playing on the radio, was one such time.

It was the summer of 1997 and we were escaping our everyday life – and my health problems – and were once again seeking solace with best friends, just as we had done the previous year.

In fact, the whole of 1997 had been like a mirror image of the one before. I had had another operation over the Christmas holiday and we went through another IVF cycle. The Johnsons again kindly offered to have us stay with them. A godsend really, not only because it saved us the expense of hotel accommodation but also because it gave me the comfort and support of a home away from home, especially during the times when Billy had to stay in Victoria for work.

We got through the whole treatment that time but we weren’t successful in achieving a pregnancy. I was so devastated I didn’t even cry. I felt like it was too awful to cry. Bitterness was setting in.

Looking back at that time, I think I was on autopilot. Work was bittersweet. It was therapeutic to have all the little ones around me but I was constantly reminded of what I longed for. On a daily basis, I was faced with reminders. I was bombarded with overworked mums complaining to me about how hard their lives were. I lost count of the number of times I heard the sleepless-nights complaint. I was having sleepless nights as well, only I wasn’t sharing them with a child – I was just wishing I was. At any one time, at least one of the mums was pregnant with their second or third child and it was hard to watch them getting bigger and bigger. I even had to endure some showing me their ultrasound scans.

I wasn’t minimising their complaints or denying them their excitement; it was just so very hard to be a part of. And, typically, it wasn’t just the obvious things that hurt, it was also the little things that jumped out of nowhere and stung me. Once, as I was changing a little girl, I just froze, while holding a tiny white sock with ladybirds embroidered delicately around the ankle, wondering if I’d ever get to buy socks. The little girl’s chattering interrupted my brooding and, like so many other times, I swallowed the lump in my throat and carried on. As always, though, Billy made it bearable. He could still make me laugh and it helped us get by.

As the miles went by, we either sang along in unison, accompanying the radio, chatted together or sat in companionable silence. After a few days of driving, camping along the way, we found that the temptations of a comfy bed and a long bath were too much to bear so we booked into a hotel. Later that afternoon, we were lounging in our room after a swim in the pool, and we could hear the television on in the background as we chatted and looked at our map deciding our route for the next day. We were aware of the voices on the television but neither one of us was actually concentrating on what was being said. Suddenly, I found myself dropping the map, my body reacting to a newsflash before my brain had a chance to realise what I had heard.

‘What? Lady Diana has been killed?! That can’t be right… Billy, look!’

Billy was bending over to retrieve the map and hadn’t picked up what had been said.

‘The Americans must have it wrong,’ he said confidently.

‘It looks pretty official to me.’

We both watched in disbelief, then, slowly, as more information trickled through, we realised it was tragically true. I shall never forget where we were and what we were doing that day; it was definitely one of those ‘moments’.

We were at my friend Samantha’s house by the time the funeral was held on Saturday, 6 September. She and I stayed up to watch the live coverage on the television which, because of the time difference, aired at 3.00am. Although Billy thought it was a terribly sad thing to have happened, he didn’t think much beyond that and certainly wouldn’t have even entertained the idea of staying up to watch the coverage. I knew he thought I was a bit of a freak to be so affected by it all, but I was used to his feelings towards the Royal Family, so I wasn’t at all surprised at his lack of interest. He believes that the Royal Family are a drain on society, an opinion I absolutely and totally disagree with, but I had long since given up debating the subject. He would ramble on about how much money they waste and how they live so extravagantly – often quoting various ridiculous articles about the amount one of them spent on their laundry or something equally as silly. I would often reply that I wouldn’t want their lives for double the money, as they have no life of their own and no freedom, but I couldn’t ever get my point across and I certainly couldn’t make him change his opinion, so I gave up. He never could come up with anything to justify his point of view and I often thought it rather curious that he had such convictions.

To my comment of ‘The monarchy is what makes Britain Britain’, he would reply, ‘ Piss off! A pint and a steak and kidney pie, that makes Britain Britain!’ We definitely had to agree to disagree!

Of course, Billy isn’t the only one; lots of people have a less than magnanimous view of the monarchy. Some may have valid points to back up their opinions, but I rather think that a lot of them have some sort of chip on their shoulders. I was sure that that was the case with Billy. In fact, I often teased him that he must have had a sore shoulder after all the years of carrying it around and eventually started nicknaming him ‘chunk’ as the chip was so big. In the end, I just put his unsavoury attitude towards members of the Royal Family down to one of his many grudges; residue from a childhood that I didn’t understand.

As it turned out, that was not the only incident during our trip that brought Billy’s stronger feelings to the fore. The second incident happened while we were driving through quite an isolated area a few days later. It was extremely hot so the windows were rolled all the way down, which created loads of wind but minimal temperature reduction. Again, we were singing along to the radio, this time Sarah McLachlan’s voice, singing her song ‘Angel’, mingled with ours. It was hardly much of a surprise, but I found the lyrics eerily representative of the events of the previous week.

Not long after, needing a break, we decided to pull over into a lay-by and get a cold drink out of the cooler in an effort to satisfy our unquenchable thirst. We hadn’t been there long when I noticed an approaching police car. I watched it through the rear-view mirror as it pulled in behind us.

‘What the fuck does he want?’ Billy snapped.

I looked at him totally flabbergasted, although I should have been used to such outbursts. I didn’t have a chance to say anything before the policeman walked up to the driver’s side window. ‘Afternoon, folks,’ he said. ‘Everything all right?’

‘Yes, we’re fine thanks,’ I replied. ‘We’re just having a break.’

‘Good for you. It’s mighty hot, ain’t it? Y’ all have a nice day now, ya hear.’ He tipped his hat and walked back to his car, then tooted his horn as he drove away.

‘Nosy bastard,’ Billy snarled.

Here we go again, I thought. ‘He was just checking we were all right. We could have been experiencing car trouble or something… he was just being nice!’ I pleaded.

‘Regular arse-licker… Aye!’ he shouted bad-temperedly. If anyone had seen his face they would have thought he was very, very angry. The look he had in his eyes was so dark at times. I had become used to it over the years.

Very early on in our relationship, when his temper was raised over something that wasn’t down to me, I would experience the oddest feeling. My skin would become cold and prickly, but inside I felt warm. It was like I was getting comforted, as if someone was saying, ‘Don’t worry, he’s not mad at you.’ I don’t know why, but it was the only way I could really feel properly comforted by another person – except Billy, of course. I suppose the first time I can remember it happening was quite early on in childhood, and then, once I had experienced that, nothing else compared. It happened so much after I met Billy – I guess a testament to how often he got angry – but it never happened when he was genuinely mad at me. And, if he was mad at me, he never got that dark look in his eyes.

That episode with the policeman certainly wasn’t the first time I had noticed the harshness of Billy’s tone but, gradually, over time, he had been sounding worse and it was becoming more noticeable. I couldn’t pinpoint when his voice started sounding so dead and his eyes started looking so blank. Maybe I had been blinded by whatever people get blinded by. His unlikeable and confusing mannerisms used to stop by from time to time over the years, I had noticed, but lately they seemed to have taken up residence – like unpleasant relatives that insisted on visiting and outstaying their welcome.

In any case, on this occasion, he was really getting on my nerves. Mainly because, by my sticking up for the policeman, when Billy ranted about him for no reason, he thought I was not agreeing with him just to be awkward. I didn’t know what planet Billy came from but, to me, to think that the policeman was being anything other than nice and considerate was completely ludicrous.

It was at those times that I wondered who Billy really was. I felt like I knew him so well, then that side of him would rear its ugly head, as if to reprimand me, and let me know just how much I didn’t really understand him. He was like Jekyll and Hyde. Granted, he didn’t behave like that all the time, but it happened enough over the years that I began to know when it was best for me just to bite my tongue. After all, I knew nothing I could say would ever change his steadfast, unreasonable view.

So many of his attitudes were alien to me, and his sweeping generalisation of the police, or anyone in a position of authority for that matter, never ceased to amaze and confuse me. He was never actually rude to their faces, which I was grateful for, at least not unless they were rude first. I wouldn’t have been able to sit by and listen to him vocalising his misplaced thoughts or behaving rudely towards someone. Actually, we wouldn’t even be together if he behaved that way. As it was, he would just get so filled with bitterness and would rant and rave about someone solely based on what they did for a living. It was almost like he was an inverted snob, but it had nothing to do with how posh they were. It was all very confusing.

Sometimes, when I thought he wouldn’t like someone, he did, which only served to confuse me more. I was sure there was some rhyme or reason behind Billy’s unconformable attitudes, something that might somehow justify or explain them, but, whatever it was, I couldn’t figure it out. The majority of the time, I thought he was being absurd, but I knew anything I said in the person’s defence only seemed to fuel him, so I soon just kept my mouth shut, or at least tried my best to. Luckily, it never happened in relation to people I knew, unless it was true, of course, and then I agreed with him, so I never found myself in a position where I felt like I had to stick up for them.

Actually, Billy had always liked my cousin’s absolutely lovely, friendly and funny husband, who is a police officer in England, so I guessed that, by actually knowing the people, whatever misapprehension he may have had would be wiped away – proving that the majority of his views weren’t warranted. Again, I just put it down to another one of his idiosyncrasies that I figured must be related to his childhood.

Before I knew it, Billy was joking about the policeman’s accent and all was OK again. After a while, I decided I just couldn’t let him continue to have such a tainted view, and felt I had to say something. I could not agree with him simply to keep the peace – if I did so, I would be signing our death warrant, if only because, if I suppressed too many of my own beliefs, I ran the risk of resenting Billy later on.

‘Why do you hate all policemen?’ I asked.

Billy wouldn’t answer, so I just continued talking, but he interrupted me and told me, in no uncertain terms, just to drop it.

* * *