The x-rays showed twelve broken ribs. Five belonging to my father and seven to my mother.
According to police, the accident was due to a mirror which had been placed unwittingly in front of the antique shop. In heavy rain, visibility being poor, dad thought he saw an approaching car. Instinctively he pulled the wheel to the left and crashed head on into the lamppost. Miraculously, my sister on the back seat survived unscathed.
Three years later, I sat in my silver stream pram at the bottom of Highgate Hill. Mother came out of the grocers’ and replaced me with a bag of round green vegetables. “You can jolly well walk now Nicholas, “she said. This was a great shock because up till that moment, I never imagined ever having to walk and certainly not uphill. With my first step I stumbled and in typical French style, was given a clout round the ear. I have hated Brussel sprouts ever since.
At the age of six, I carried out my first devious act. It was a short drop to the flowerbed and I landed skilfully on both feet still clutching my plate. I chose a spot amongst the daffodils, dug a hole and scraped the horrid vegetables into it, patting the soil firmly to hide all trace. Then climbing back through the window, I called Dad. Seeing the plate was now empty, he smiled. “Well done son, you can go off and play now”.
I was a creative little boy and enjoyed playing James Bond. Particularly fond of Dad’s suppositories, I pretended they were bullets, and was ready for all the perils, which might befall a spy. But Dad’s exasperated appeals of “Oh Nicholas, for God’s sake?” accompanied by a pained expression of disgust, was not enough to prevent me carrying out my mission. How else, I asked him, could I possibly save the world?
Some days were spent driving round London with Dad in a taxi. Piccadilly Circus was particularly interesting for a small boy. The gigantic advertisements were educational and taught me how to read. I marvelled at the Banana with a zip and especially the giant women’s’ bras. Slogans like “A new Sarongster criss-cross girdle will make you look five pounds thinner” gave me a lot to think about.
On day, we stopped off in Knightsbridge. Dad tipped the cabbie and told him to wait while he visited someone inside a building. The meter ticked by and an hour later, he re-appeared escorted by a dark mysterious woman. She put her head through the window and said nice things to me. I wished she could have been my mother but she wasn’t. As we drove off, her exotic scent remained in the car.
It was a similar story with my mum. The difference being I had to work for her boyfriend. Wheeling a heavy bag around a golf course was not my idea of fun at all. The day ended at the house with the inevitable wait in the car, a bag of crisps and a coke as reward. When I asked mother what took them so long, she informed me that her new friend had shown her his magnificent clubs and taught her new putting skills …whatever that meant?
As Dear reader will have guessed, my parents did not get on well. It all started with mother’s moods, which could last anything up to a month at a time. When she was not in a mood, she would terrorize the family with the vacuum cleaner and nag about anything and everything. The moods were also expensive. The only way to snap her out of one was for Dad to give her a fistful of banknotes and send her off shopping. On those days, she would go to Harrod’s on a spending spree and return ecstatically happy, wearing dazzling new clothes. All signs of moodiness gone. On bad days she would come back with little else but a tin opener. There was a certain amount of peace in the home after that and if lucky, the effect lasted only a few days at the most.
During arguments, my parents played a game I called poltergeist. The rules were simple. Grab a piece of furniture or any object you can find and hurl it across the room at your opponent. The goal was to see who got hit first. Dad tried to be selective when it came to throwing things spontaneously at Mother. If he realized he held something of antique value, it would be rapidly exchanged for something less precious. Unfortunately, the time lapse involved in taking this decision usually meant he would get struck first. Long after his death, my mother gave me a family heirloom. A buckled stainless-steel mirror. “Here, darling, I thought you should have this, I once threw it at your father”.
At 5 o’clock in the morning it was still dark. Only a yellow street lamp shone eerily into my room. I heard a sound and opened my eyes. For some reason, Brigitte, our new French au pair, was kneeling on her suitcase trying to close the lock. Then it went “click” and she saw me. Coming over to the bed, she kissed me. “I have to go now Darling. I can’t stand it any longer, Be a good boy. Goodbye”. At which point, she pulled open the sash window, pushed the case through, and jumped out onto the flowerbed where I had buried the Brussel sprouts. I dozed off back to sleep thinking I’d had a repetitive dream.
Out of the twenty-three au-pair girls we had, from different parts of the world, there were only three who survived their ordeal. My Mother used them as cheap labour mostly and as an excuse to vent her dark side. She also brain washed them into believing my dad was a terrible monster. As he worked away from home, he had little chance to prove otherwise. But not all our au pairs were so naïf and luckily our favourite au-pair, Anja, saw through the charade. She quickly understood that Dad was not a monster but actually quite a nice chap. She was a beautiful, blond, sweet natured Danish girl of seventeen, an angel in disguise and as destiny would have it, the one who would deliver us from evil.
My passion for drawing is what saved me. I could submerge myself with this pastime for hours on end and found it an excellent escape from the dreadful family scenes, which took place.
Dad was a writer and therefore paper was in abundance. “What can I draw Daddy?” He handed me a sheet. “Draw a Viking ship son.” I knew a lot about Vikings because Anja’s father was a Viking. I had met him when he visited us at Broadlands Road. But to be honest, I was rather disappointed. The street was not flowing blood or strewn with dead bodies as Dad had promised. “He had to leave his warriors on the other side of Highgate Hill” was the excuse. I sulkily accepted this explanation and got on with my picture. Two hours later; “What shall I draw now, Daddy?” I asked again. “Draw your sister Lollos” he said. It seemed like a good idea. I’d never thought about that. I made a full-length portrait of her, making sure not to miss out the red spots which were dotted all over her body and which distinguished her drastically from all other children. My sister, suffered from terrible eczema. She was covered from head to toe with scabs. At night she would cry a lot, and it was always Dad who got up to sooth her while mother stayed in bed with wax in her ears to get a good night’s sleep. She was disgusted by her illness and would scrub her in the bath tub with a stiff brush in an attempt to remove the spots until she bled. This made my sister scream quite a bit. But when my dad was home, things were different. I watched as he bathed her in herbal baths and anointed her with cream until finally (and this was the part I liked most) bandaged her entire body from head to toe until she looked like an Egyptian mummy.
Sometimes my parents were invited out to dinner but as time went by, the invitations grew less and less. Dad found it difficult to make excuses for Mum’s odd behaviour. On one occasion he wished they could have served Heinz spaghetti, which was conveniently cut into short threads. Because had they done so, the evening might have gone alright. Naturally in a top Italian restaurant, like Pasqualino’s, such an idea would have been unthinkable. To be fair, my mother was not entirely to blame but the spectacle she made of herself on that occasion was something which would not be forgotten in a hurry. The waiter had added too much pepper to her carbonara which is what caused her to sneeze. The sneeze surprised all six guests including herself and she was answered with a chorus of “Bless you”. But the blessing did not stop the strand of spaghetti from ejecting itself through her nostril. Any table manners she might have possessed, abandoned her. Instead of holding the napkin to her face and retreating gracefully to the ladies’ room, like any normal person, she decided to deal with the problem on the spot. Being of a practical nature, she attempted to extract the extrusion using a combination of her fork and violent snorting, much to the amazement of all the guests.
By marrying my mother, the true significance of what he had gotten himself into, now weighed heavily upon him. “Quelle vengeance sur l’Angleterre”. (what a vengeance upon England) His Father-in-law’s famous last words imprinted themselves upon his mind, making him very depressed in the process. If only he had read the small print, before signing the contract.
2
Dad was restless by nature and found it difficult to stay in one place. As a result, I went to twelve different schools all over the country. I had few friends but lots of boys envied me. One day my mother turned up at the school to collect me. She was ecstatically happy and had obviously just returned from a shopping spree at Harrods.
To my embarrassment, she wore a gold mini-skirt, gold Lurex top, gold net stockings, gold knee-high boots and last but not least, a gold handbag. It would have been alright if she had looked like Twiggy, but her proportions were all wrong and she didn’t.
“Allo my Darleeng” I flinched as she greeted me with her exaggerated French accent, which drew venomous looks from other mothers but also thrills from the fathers, who could not keep their eyes off such a provocative apparition. On those occasions, I wanted to melt into the tarmac of the playground.” Dirty boy Nicholas” She looked at me and got out the dreaded hanky, spat on it and wiped my face.
“Cor, I’ll swap your mum for my mum any day” said a schoolmate standing next to me. I considered his proposal and probably should have done a deal on the spot, but unfortunately, I was not very good at business.
With the discovery of a movie camera under a pile of playboy magazines in Dad’s office, a whole new world opened up for me. It was a magic box with one eye and a heart of clockwork. From day one, this inseparable playmate became an extension to my body like a prosthetic limb. When I was not pointing my third eye into other peoples’ business, I was extremely busy shooting a blockbuster starring my sister and the Vicars daughter for a film competition on the BBC. In half an hour class would be over and I would be able to get back to important work.
Teacher’s voice droned on in the background like a bee on a lazy afternoon. I could barely keep my eyes open. Then, his booming voice woke me with a jolt. “Steven wants to become a film director. (Everybody in the classroom laughed) On what planet are you living Steven, tell us? Mr. Boxall mocked. “Hmm, Planet Earth Sir?” I suggested. “Planet Mars more likely,” said Boxall. (More Laughter) “Lathe Operator, Policeman or Crane Driver. All sensible careers for a young man Steven. Make the right choice boy” he begged. I wanted to oblige the poor fellow but the idea of making screws for a living was depressing. I daresay my fellow classmates might have derived pleasure from pounding the beat or lifting bricks with a hook from a height of 80 feet, but me? the mere thought made me giddy. Thankfully the stubborn side to my character took command. “’Dreadfully sorry Sir, I’m still going to become a Film director!”
“Steven. You are a dreamer and your stupidity is beyond anyone’s comprehension. “Write down 500 times, “I- must- not- dream- in -class”
Boxall’s punishment was unfortunate but not unexpected. Ever since the movie madness set in, the man seemed determined to destroy my fun. What irritated him the most was my apparent lack of interest in numbers: my inability to add, subtract, multiply and divide. A shortcoming which I paid for on a regular basis by standing in the corner of the classroom facing the wall.
Actually, it was quite unjust, because in fact I was interested in numbers but just not in the way he wanted me to be. Numbers 64, 24 and 8 were particularly interesting because they allowed me to manipulate the speed of time: 64 frames per second for slow motion, 24 frames per second for normal life and 8 frames per second for all things funny. And…If I filmed holding my camera upside down, I could even make people walk backwards!
The school bell rang. It was 4 o’clock. As I left class, the mans’ expression of defeat was pitiful.
“Steven you Wanker” Film director? What a Toff. Fink yer better than us, do yer?” My arse! Go back to Mars Big Nose!” “Yeah, Big Nose, go back to Mars”
I wanted to tell Johnson and his thugs that actually all famous people in history have big noses but then from where I was now standing, namely, at the bottom of a ditch, I knew better than to waste good dialogue on them. So, I shut up and waited for the siege to end. I was pelted one last time with a hail of stones from their catapults. One of which nipped my ear lobe. It stung like hell but at least there was no blood. After what seemed an eternity, Johnson and his gang got bored and left. I waited another five minutes just to be sure everything was safe, then, I crawled out of the brambles and up the banks of the ditch, pulling the handlebars of my bicycle with me. Back on the path, I took a good look at the bike. Not too bad I thought at first glance but then I understood the front wheel was buckled. Damn! I would have to leave it behind. My brand-new bicycle. I hid it behind a tree and set off on the three mile walk home. What a pity, I was going to be late for tea.
Aunty Daphne made a new pot of tea and some delicious scones to go with it. I gobbled them up. Then she drove me the three miles, back towards school. I scrutinized every tree en route until a flash of chrome caught my eye. “There it is” I said. My Aunt pulled up onto the pavement. I hopped out and ran towards the bike. It was still there at least. We opened the boot of the car and together crammed the twisted metal inside. “Oh those horrible boys” said my Aunt “. “Don’t worry Aunty. I’m sure I can fix it”
3
Out of all the schools I went to, one in particular left its mark. “Fernden Preparatory School for Boys”. The place was run by a collection of eccentric ex-naval commanders. For the first time in my short life, I found myself with boys brought up with the same family values, where Marmite and Enid Blighton were banned. No longer was I persecuted for speaking posh. No longer was I referred to as “A toff” or “His nibs” and no longer was I pushed off my bike into ditches by thugs.
These new lads were different. We were made of the same stuff. We shared the same interests and jokes and we were all toffs.
On arrival, I was fitted out with a smart new uniform. A red and green striped jacket. As a junior, I had to wear shorts, which would have been ok, had it not been for my underpants. The costly school fees meant my mother had to cut down on such extravaganza and so I was forced to wear hand-me-downs donated by my cousin John. My Cousin John was very tall. So great was the difference in height between us, that it meant my new underpants were much longer than my shorts and hung down below like a frilly dress. I fought off the embarrassment to the best of my ability by constantly pulling them up in an attempt not to look ridiculous. But then when the head Matron, Miss Philimore, caught me tugging at something inside my pants, she warned me that such activity would lead to blindness. It was difficult to understand. How on earth could pulling up my underpants make me blind? Over time, however, pieces of the puzzle began to make sense.
As my first term was in full swing, awkward situations arose. It began with the erections that would shoot up at any time like a railway traffic signal. There was no accountable reason for this phenomenon and it was not triggered by anything in particular. It just happened, with a mind of its own and at the most in opportune of moments. I could be reading the Lord’s prayer at chapel or else taking a cup of tea to the headmaster’s wife. Whatever the circumstances, I had no control. To make matters worse, my pole was impossible to hide.
I tried hitting it with a wooden spoon but it was painful and only seemed to make matters worse. In the end, I dealt with the situation by walking in a bowed position in an attempt to conceal my portable tent. But this led to further complications. When head matron spied me propelling myself across the playground like an old man, she was convinced I had a bad back and I was sent off to the sanatorium.
It was there I first met Miss Mackay, our new matron and Gods’ gift to the dormitory. As far as we were concerned, she was trendy and pretty beyond our wildest dreams. (Especially in her blue and white uniform.) From day one my classmates and I had her twisted around our little fingers. We took every advantage of the fact that she was new and blackmailed her into bowing to our demands.
The deal was simple: A kiss on the lips every night before lights out, “Or else!” Or else what? you might ask. To be honest we had not worked out the details behind our threat but for whatever reason, it paid off. Jane succumbed to her fate with surprisingly little resistance, apparently enjoying her task and perhaps considering it to be good practice. Starting at the top of the dormitory, she worked her way down, leaning gently over each bed and offered her lips to each of us one by one with a sweet chirping sound. But it was not so easy for the juniors. Seven-year-old Herbert, not wanting to be labeled a wimp, pursed his lips tightly hoping the ordeal would be over as quickly as possible. He then wiped his mouth thoroughly with his bed sheets to remove any contamination. (probably a good idea) and when it came to my turn, I would close my eyes to receive the peck on the lips, believing that I had at last tasted the forbidden fruit. I would then promptly fall into a delicious sleep and dream I was Tarzan. Happily, my portable tent too, no longer posed a threat as I had learned ways in which to tame the beast in no uncertain manner. It might have had something to do with my new friends.
Roundhead or cavalier? I turned and encountered Sandon and Wells, both toffs from my class. Whilst pondering the meaning of their odd question, they suddenly unzipped their trousers and showed me their penis’s. Being a new boy and slightly taken aback, I thought it wise to do the same. There we stood, all three of us in a circle contemplating each other’s manhood. “Oh, a roundhead” said Sandon solemnly. “Well, nobody is perfect” said Wells as they both reinserted their members back into their pants. I did the same and we parted company. That was that. What chance does a roundhead have against a cavalier I asked myself?
Our biology master, Mr. Anderson, was younger than the rest of the staff but by no means less eccentric. During his class we would gut and skin dead moles which we caught in the vast private grounds of the school and hang them out to dry. Hundreds of them. Our Sunday line of duty meant laying traps all over the place. On one count, we managed to kill 150 of the little beasts. Mr. Anderson showed signs of great joy. “Only another 50 and I’ll have enough for my wife’s coat.” I had heard of mink and fox, but moleskin coats did not strike me as being very smart.
My best friend became Amir. I liked him because he too was shy like me. I understood shy people. He didn’t talk much and was struggling with the English language. He said something about his dad being a shah in Persia. But that didn’t bother me. “My dad’s a writer in Telly, “I told him. He didn’t know where Telly was. But he wasn’t bothered much either. So, we became friends. My first and only friend I had ever had at the age of twelve. The day finally came when I invited him home for the weekend. At the time Dad had rented a pretty cottage in the country right out in the wilds. Rumour had it; there were witches in the area. (It was comforting to think my mother might make new friends). Everything was arranged for the following Sunday. Dad came to get us from school and my sister Lollos begged him to promise mum would behave. But alas, her wishes were to no avail. For this typical Sunday-lunch-to-be chose to pursue a more sinister twist.
To begin with, Mum behaved as good as pie. She enjoyed having nobility at her dinner table and went out of her way to make Amir feel welcome. It was going to be a great day, thought I. Then Dad entered the dining room carrying the roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Amir looked worried and his gaze fell to his plate. Was he perhaps vegetarian? I hadn’t thought of that. No, there was something else. I looked up and saw. My entire dream fell apart. The dream of perhaps a perfectly normal Sunday lunch in a typically happy and humble British home. Apple crumble and orange squash, followed by Hide and Seek in the garden. But no, my family had to be different. So, there he was, my dad, standing before us covered in blood, pouring from his neck, down his shirt. Rivulets gushing into the tray to join the roast beef that he was holding. My Mother had obviously slit his throat and he was just held together by some miracle of nature. Like a chicken, that goes on running about after it has been beheaded. I expected him to collapse to the floor but he didn’t. What made things worse, was that he was smiling. Was I in a sick Polanski movie or what? Dad sensed that something was wrong by our expressions and then he noticed his shirt. “Oh, Sorry boys, I forgot the Brussel sprouts” he said and did a quick “about turn, double march” straight back into the kitchen. Then it began. The familiar muffled shouts behind the door followed by a loud crash of a flying saucepan as it hit a wall. They were playing “Poltergeist” again. I tried to distract Amir by suggesting we go out in the garden and play. But the damage was done. I learned later that Mum had pretended to kiss Dad but in true cannibal fashion, had bitten him savagely through his ear lobe instead. It was the first and last time Amir came to lunch.
Later that term, my parents showed up unexpectedly at school and serious discussions commenced in the headmaster’s office. It was all too clear that my days were counted. Dad could no longer afford the school fees and what had seemed like a lifetime at Fernden was about to come to an end. I said goodbye to the masters and to my friends, wondering if I would ever see them again. As we drove off down the drive, my face was glued to the back window. The school became smaller and smaller and was suddenly and all too soon, out of my life!
4
“Barbie bitch…all you care about is her!” Said my mother all of a sudden. Dad put his foot down hard on the breaks and we screeched to a halt. Mother’s venomous mood was to be expected. Ever since her discovery of the love letters from our au-pair Anja to my father, normal family life had flown out the window. Dad got out in the middle of the countryside, and opened the passenger door dramatically,
“Get out, woman, I’ve had enough!” His tone of voice was unexpectedly powerful, like someone possessed. Mother shut up like a frightened mouse and did as she was told. We left her there, in the middle of the road and drove off home. Two hours later, she had still not returned. Starting to worry, Dad got back into the car and we drove back to where we had deposited her. She was nowhere to be seen. After ten minutes of prodding through the bracken with an umbrella, we located her cowering behind a bush covered in undergrowth that she had been trying to crawl through. Her face was smudged with lipstick and mascara ran down her cheeks. Her gold Lurex top was also torn to shreds. “Get in” Dad ordered. No sign of remorse. Having gone through similar scenes once too often, he had reached the end of his tether. From that moment on, things accelerated with remarkable speed. The choice between Barbie Bitch and Cruella Deville was easy to make. What Dad had postponed doing for ten years, was at last and finally put into action… He called his solicitor.
June 5th 1969
It’s Sunday and drizzling. We’re sitting in the car outside the pub. Dad comes out and hands us coke and crisps promising they won’t be long. We know that’s a lie. Out of all the cars parked, ours is the only one that doesn’t fit in. A yellow Zodiac. We call it the yellow submarine after the song. All the other cars are Rolls Royce’s, Jaguars or Porsches. We live in the stockbroker belt, whatever that means. I understand the “broke” part, because Dad says that’s what we are most of the time.
The drizzle has now stopped and amazingly the sun comes out. Lollos and I get out and play. Two hours later, it’s closing time and my parents come out. Everybody is jolly. Mum is all luvvy duvvy and seems to have forgotten that they’re going to get divorced. She’s not our mother when she’s drunk. Dad is drunk too but he doesn’t slur like she does. Sunday lunch drags on till five o’clock. Every Sunday, it’s the same routine. Most of Dad’s friends are rich and / or celebrities. They like him a lot, probably because he’s always buying them drinks. During the summer we have more fun because everyone takes their drinks outside. We know a lot of famous people and they like us.
Malcolm is a famous composer who has won an Oscar for his music “Bridge on the river Kwai”. It’s true, I’ve seen it with my own eyes and it’s real gold. Malcolm likes Lollos my sister and has taken her to Cornwall twice already. I’m jealous but he promised I can come too next time.
June 12th
It’s Sunday. We are at the pub again. My parents have been fighting non-stop. Luckily Malcolm is there and saves us and keeps his promise. We climb into his jaguar and drive down to Cornwall. He too is drunk and decides to stop at several of his favorite restaurants on the way.
One of them is a very smart place. Lollos and I trail in his huge wake feeling like nobility and people bow and open doors for us. We are on our best behaviour. There’s a grand piano in the corner of the restaurant. After our meal of lobster and champagne, Malcolm goes over to the grand piano and plays a concerto. Everybody listens in admiration and also wonders who we are. There is applause. Malcolm bows and returns to the table. He takes out two large Havana cigars, lights them both and gives one to me. I do my best and am quite good at not coughing but don’t quite manage to smoke the whole thing.
By half past eleven at night, we are still not even half way to Cornwall. Finally, after two more stops, we arrive. It’s three o’clock in the morning. His wife greets us but doesn’t seem to be too pleased.
It was a nice weekend and we played on the beach. Malcolm slept most of the day. When he woke, he gave Lollos a present: an original score of one of his compositions. I’m jealous. Malcolm had to leave early. We said goodbye at the station and he went off to the Royal Albert Hall to rehearse with some band called Deep Purple. Funny name. Never heard of them.
February 12th
It’s my birthday actually. I’m thirteen. We go to the Three Horseshoes as usual. It’s a beautiful day and I drink my first beer. It tastes disgusting but I drink it anyway because I’m thirteen. A Porsche rolls up and out steps Russell Brockbank. He’s a cartoonist and a good friend of Dads’. He does cartoons of cars mostly and I am delighted when he does one especially for me. “To Nicholas, Happy Birthday!” it says. He has drawn a picture of a car eating a mechanic. I like it, it really makes me laugh. Then he goes back into the pub and everybody gets drunk. Usual Sunday actually.
At closing time, we are about to leave when Stefan the local artist arrives. “Nicholas Wait” he says. I wait. Stefan is a famous artist too and makes giant enamel paintings, which are so big he needs an aeroplane hangar in which to paint them. One of them even covers the side of a skyscraper in New York.
Stefan opens the boot of his car. “Here you are Nick, Happy birthday.” To my amazement, he gives me a very large and very heavy enamel painting. I am very happy. It is an abstract painting with beautiful colours. My sister Lollos is jealous. It’s been a great day!
26th June
Sunday again. It seems we’ve been here all day. This time Lollos is inside the Pub because she’s sixteen. What a stupid law. Me, I’m stuck outside in the car. Drizzle. The crisps are soggy. The Coke is finished. Feeling rotten. Can’t think what else to say, so will shut up. Now, forever.
30th June
Today I played with our new cat, Bric-a-Brac. I spent the whole day building her a tree house. I even built a drawbridge. But she wouldn’t go onto it, which is very annoying. Stupid cat. I taught her a lesson and tied her to the garden swing. It’s amazing to see how high she can go. I reckon it was at least 180 degrees. She didn’t seem to mind too much except when she came off. She was catapulted literally to the pet cemetery at the bottom of the garden. It’s true, cats do land on all four feet and I now know where the word “catapult” comes from.
3rd July
We went into Farnham on Saturday and Mum bought Pascale a guinea pig. It was a sweet cuddly little ball of fluff. I say “was” because today it’s dead. Stupid twit sister decided to take the creature to bed and sleep on top of it. That’s why it’s dead. Suffocated to death. Murdered. Dad thinks it must have had a heart attack. Anyway, I dug a hole at the bottom of the garden next to the other pets and buried it. Pascale has been crying all day and begging Daddy to buy her another. Silly twit.
15th July
Today we dyed the Geese. All three of them. It was my idea. They look really great. Blue pink and orange. Mind you it wasn’t easy. When I rang up the Dylon Company in London, they said I would have to boil them for twenty minutes. But how can you boil a goose without killing it? In the end we put them in a dustbin filled with hot water and lots of salt. They didn’t seem to mind too much. My arms turned blue from holding the bird under water so long and Lollos got bitten on hers. Pascale was useless as usual. She didn’t do anything.
July 22nd
There were lots of day-trippers passing by our house today. A man came to ask if he could take a photo. Dad told him the Geese are a rare Chinese breed called “Blue-bottomed, Throstle-tit warblers. The man fell for it. What a twit.
July 29th
It has been raining all week and I had to stay in. The Geese have lost all their colour. But it’s just as well because the R.S.P.C.A came round today and asked odd questions. “All rumours” Dad said. People will invent anything just to stir up trouble. They didn’t have any proof of anything so they left. Anyway, it wasn’t boiling water.
Round at Stefan’s house all day. Nothing much happened. Everybody got drunk. Lollos and I went for a walk in the woods after lunch. It was great. They’ve got a real swamp at the back of the house. I caught several newts and saved at least twenty beetles from drowning. It was great fun until Lollos got stuck in the bog. She’s so useless sometimes. If she hadn’t panicked it would have been alright. Mind you, she was sinking. So, I ran back to the house and tried to tell Dad but of course he was in the middle of one of his War stories. I wanted to tell him about my sister sinking but he gave me one of his looks; “Don’t you dare speak Nicholas or you’ll be in deep trouble” Actually it was my sister who was going to be in deep trouble.
While I waited for Dad to finish his story, I reckoned she must have sunk another six inches. But it was rude to interrupt too. In the end I was saved by Stefan’s wife, who thought I wanted to go to the loo. Everything turned out alright in the end. Dad and Stefan managed to pull Lollos out of the bog but she lost her gumboots.
August 25th
Today my sister got her call-up papers to join the French Army. They seem to think she’s a man. It’s a mistake. Daddy says it’s because of her name. They spelt it wrong in her passport. Mind you I think she would quite like to go. She’s so into boys. It’s disgusting.
September 2nd
It was a solemn day. Dad invited the village priest, just in case she made a scene. With a man of God in her presence, he reckoned mum would probably behave. The divorce had been an ordeal, which had gone on for months. But after eighteen years of misery, Justice had finally prevailed. The court decided that we kids should stay with Dad. Hurrah!
The taxi arrived outside the cottage like a hearse. Nobody spoke and Dad carried out her luggage. We could hardly believe that this day had arrived. There were no tears, just formal goodbyes and promises to keep in touch. Mum said nothing but turned and got into the car. We held our breaths and watched as she drove off into the trees and was gone.
5th September
The envelope looked up at me from the kitchen table. I at once recognized the BBC logo in red italic letters. It had been two months since I’d sent off my film to the competition and today was the day. The moment of truth! I ripped open the letter: Dear Nicholas, it read. After much very hard decision making, we are pleased to tell you that you have won 2nd prize in our BBC Children’s film competition. We are only sorry that you didn’t win the first prize. Your prize money of 7 guineas will be on its way very soon by registered post. Thank you so much for sending us such a marvellous film.
Best Regards,
Patricia Allen (Producer)
5
I waited up as long as I could but then fell asleep on the couch. Before opening my eyes, I smelled her perfume as she gave me a kiss on the cheek. With the arrival of Anja, it was as if a hundred-year curse had been lifted and with a wave of her magic wand, peace and happiness was restored.
In celebration of our new life, Dad threw a party. 6 crates of whisky and ten crates of beer were delivered to the house and a pavilion was set up in the garden.
No extravagance had been spared and long-lost friends were invited from far and wide.
The first guests to appear on scene were Fleur and Jean-Paul having driven all the way in a Rolls Royce from Paris. They had been arguing non-stop the whole trip and were in a filthy mood. Their arrival at our village was also spectacular. Fleur drove the Rolls straight across the village green during the Sunday cricket match. Would you believe it? She ploughed deep noble tread marks into the velvet grass, forcing the players to panic and scatter in every direction. It was total chaos and naturally, I fell in love with her at once.
The escapade did not make her very popular. It took all of Dad’s considerable charm to defuse the situation. After several rounds of beer and invitations for the teams to join our party, potential incarceration of our elite Parisian guest was put on hold.
The record player was piled high with Beatles albums and played non-stop through the night.
“Nicholas, have you washed between you-know-where lately? “It was my dad, trying to be funny. Everybody laughed and I offered an irritated smirk in response. At fifteen, his sort of behaviour was thoroughly inappropriate I thought. Why did he have to do that, in front of everybody? “Leave the poor boy alone Tony, you beast?” It was Fleur who came to the rescue. By now, everybody was drunk or else high on Marijuana. Out of all the beautiful women at the party, Fleur was by far the most stunning. She was dark and slender with a pageboy haircut and a fringe that fell just above her eyes. Typically, French.
By midnight, the party was in full swing, Fleur ignored her husband and flirted with everybody in sight, ploughing her way through the cricketers, one by one, until finally it was my turn to bat. She took my hand and dragged me onto the dance floor. Thanks to the countless beers I had drunk, I could not resist.
It was an excruciatingly exciting moment and she held me close to her breast, the closest I had ever been to a woman, a claim which not even my mother could make (for the simple reason: I was bottle fed).
We danced through “Imagine” and by the time the song ended, a spell had been irrevocably cast. I was indeed imagining all sorts of things. Taking my head in her hands, she then kissed me on the forehead, leaving an embarrassing pink imprint right in the middle. “Nicholas, you’re so gorgeous, I could eat you up… if only you were ten years older”. I flushed instantly and could feel the blood rush to my head. Butterflies fluttered everywhere. Why wait I thought? I wanted to be eaten up right away, right there on the spot, not in ten years. I didn’t give a hoot about her husband Jean-Paul. He could go jump off a cliff as far as I was concerned. I wanted Fleur. Even if she was twenty-three, surely that wasn’t too old… was it? As these tumultuous thoughts raced through my mind, she then abandoned me brusquely, like a discarded toy and went off in search of a drink.
The talk of a witch’s coven in our part of the countryside had aroused great excitement among our guests and the words “Witch hunt” was now on everybody’s lips. “Are you coming, Nick?” somebody yelled. Had I been asked before the dance; I would most likely have led the hunt but now the idea seemed relatively dull. My hunt lay elsewhere. “I’ll join you later,” I replied, knowing full bloody well that I wouldn’t. Since my last act of deviousness, aged four when I buried the Brussel sprouts, I had been an exceptionally good little boy, so now at the age of 15, I decided it was time to test the limits. And this time, it had nothing to do with Brussel sprouts.
Jean-Paul escorted his gorgeous drunken wife upstairs. What could she possibly see in him I wondered? I felt incredibly jealous until I heard the slap, which resounded through the floorboards above, followed by shouts of “Merde Putain”. Jean-Paul returned downstairs nurturing a bloody scratched cheek. (Hah! Serves you damned right, I thought). He continued mumbling a string of obscenities, took one look at me and sensibly decided to leave the house to join the others.
With the door shut behind him, I was now almost alone in the house. An unknown force possessed me and guided me on a hunt of my own and I was damned if I was going to fight it. I crept upstairs in search of Fleur, entered the dim lit bedroom and could just make out the curves of her body lying there curled up on the bed fast asleep. The muffled song of “Eleanor Rigby” drifted up through the floorboards. I slipped off my shoes and climbed onto the bed beside her. Our bodies separated by just a hairs breadth, close enough to hear her breathing and inhale her wonderful scent. The emotions which raced through me were a mixture of desire combined with that of terrible guilt. Our bodies were so very close indeed, but the thought of touching her was taboo, fearing that if I did, the spell would be broken.
I closed my eyes instead and allowed naughty thoughts to wander through my mind until finally sleep got the better of me.
I woke at 5am. Fleur was still asleep beside me. Realizing where I was, I jumped off the bed in a semi state of shock. I had done nothing but I knew it would be best to leave the scene before anyone entering the bedroom might think otherwise. I put on my shoes as quietly as I could and at that precise moment the woman of my dreams looked up. “Qu’est ce que tu fait là Nicholas ?” Fleur asked, unaware that we had slept together the whole night. “Sorry, I was…I was just looking for my camera” I answered. She turned over and went straight back to sleep, obviously not yet ready to face the world. Downstairs I stepped over broken bottles, sleeping bodies, and other debris, including Jean-Paul’s ugly carcass stretched out across the sofa. (still holding a glass of whisky in his hand). I made an extra-large detour around him. The monotonous scratching of the record player caught my attention as it went round and round aimlessly. I picked up the arm, placed the needle back in its cradle and switched the player off.
As dawn broke, a thick fog hung over the common. Opening the front door, I inhaled cold air and without thinking, walked straight out into the countryside accompanied by a throbbing pain at the back of my head, which beat like a drum. But with every step I took, new life crept into my bones. And with every step I took, I could not help but think of Fleur. I walked on and on, and the more I walked, the more everything seemed like a wonderful dream.
Then something “crunched” under my foot and my train of romantic thought was replaced by something rather sinister. I stopped, looked at the ground and saw the remains of a headless chicken. I was standing at the centre of what had been a circle of fire. Witches! So, the rumour was true. The fog lifted and with it, my headache was gone. I loaded a new roll of film into my camera, and pulled the trigger.
