Gazoopi

Possession

Possession : the state of having, owning, or controlling something.

“But it will only be for 20 hours a week. You will be at work and won´t even notice I´m not here.”

“That´s enough! I don´t want to hear another word about it. Do you hear me? I am the breadwinner in this house. Your job is to be at home and look after us.”

This was my Mum and Dad. For as long as I could remember, my two brothers and I had listened to our father, demanding respect, beating us when we were, in his opinion, naughty and ordering our mother about as though she was a servant, or even worse, his possession.

He ruled the house with a rod of iron. A leather strap hung on a hook by the mantelpiece and it was regularly used, especially on me, the naughtiest and youngest of the three of us. I can still remember this argument. I was ten years old, my two brothers being fourteen and sixteen respectively.  The older two had taken the brunt of Dad´s strictness, especially John, the eldest. He had become a very introverted, quiet lad, broken like a horse at an early age. Tom, the middle brother, was timid from the beginning and therefore did all he could to avoid the strap. That left me, the bloody little devil, as Dad would refer to me. For some reason he could never break me as he had John. I wasn´t afraid of him, or his strap. One day I would give him a taste of his own medicine, but that is not the topic of today.

Before I paint such a negative or even terrifying picture of Dad, I should explain that there were many good things about our childhood too. If I was ever ill or hurt in an accident, my memories are only of being looked after by him. He would sit by my bed if I had a fever, all night long if necessary, putting his ´healing hand´ on my forehead, or a cool damp cloth.  He would be the one to take me to the hospital when I broke my arm in a fight, or had my head split open at the kid´s playground. At weekends I would be with him in the garden. He would give me some wood and tools to make a rabbit hutch, or a patch of the garden to grow my own vegetables. He was a good Dad in many ways, but terrifying in others.

At the age of ten, I hadn´t understood, but now looking back I can see that he considered himself to be not only our father, but we all belonged to him. Yes, Mum, three sons, the dog, the cat and all of the rabbits and chickens, were his property. He owned us all.

And so, on this day, it was simply yet another attempt by Mum to regain a little dignity and take a part-time job at the local Mothercare shop in town. She had been for an interview and they had offered her a part-time job from 10am until 2pm each weekday. As she had explained to Dad, it wouldn´t interfere with her getting us ready and off to school, and she would be home before we returned in the afternoon. Even at my young age, I could see that it made sense and would help her to meet people and not go stir crazy between our walls.

But after all of the years, being continually dominated by Dad, she ended up becoming quiet and with a tear in her eye she mumbled, “I will let them know that I can´t take the job”

******

And so it continued right through the rest of my childhood. Gradually we all moved on. John went to university to study chemistry. He unsurprisingly never returned to live in the family home, but remained a quiet, studious, gentle man. Tom, couldn´t cope at all with the dominance of Dad, and left home at nineteen to live in a very small bedsit until he finished his apprenticeship. I remained a rebel until the situation at home became impossible. I was the last to leave. Mum cried the day I left. At the time I thought it was because she would miss me so much, but now many years later, I realise that I was the last of her children to be leaving, and she would be left alone with him. By then, like the horse, she was also broken.

At this point it should be mentioned that Mum´s sister, my Auntie Win, lived in the other half of our semi-detached house. After the war, when Dad was demobbed in 1948, along with Uncle Les, there was a double wedding. Dad and Uncle Les bought two new adjoined semi-detached houses. My cousin, Pat lived next door. After we had all left home, including Pat, my mother only had her sister for any moral support. They spent many hours together, in their almost empty houses, while their men were at work, talking about how badly they had done in life. Their children were their only pride and formed most of their conversation. Well, that and of course complaining about their husbands.

The final blow for Mum came when Dad retired. He was at home all day, every day. He began to control everything, even the domestic chores that had been Mum´s realm for over forty years. He cleaned the house, cooked the meals, and took care of the garden, all under the guise of “helping Mum”. Win and Les bought a bungalow, some distance away. Mum was now even more isolated.

One day I was home for a visit with my children and was shocked to see how Mum had deteriorated. She had put on a lot of weight. Her eyes were permanently sad. She knitted most of the day, eventually unpicking unworn, knitted jumpers in order to re-knit them into something else. There were hundreds of them. They were beautifully knitted, and I was sure there could be a good market for them. That is when another familiar old row started.

“Mum, these are beautiful. You should really see about setting up a little business to sell them. I´m sure you could do well,” I said.

She looked across the room at Dad, before she spoke. In fact she didn´t get the opportunity to speak.

“What on Earth does she want to do that for?” Dad said. “I was always the breadwinner and now we are both retired I don´t want her gallivanting around selling bloody jumpers to strangers.”

“But Dad, she needs to do something to occupy herself. You do just about everything for her these days.” As I said it, I could see Mum becoming nervous. Dad would get angry if I didn´t drop the subject. It became quiet for a moment as the atmosphere thickened. Eventually, I wouldn´t let it go.

“Mum, don´t you think it would be a good idea? I could help you set something up,” I asked her. She didn´t even get the opportunity to answer.

“I told you no! We don´t need money and I certainly don´t want her filling her head with such nonsense. Her place is here with me.”

I became angry.

“Her place! Her place! Who the hell do you think you are to order Mum around like this?” I bellowed at him. “You act as though you own Mum, just like you owned your chickens.”

“She is my Wife! Mine. Don´t you understand. I say what goes on in MY house. Now, if you are just coming round here to interfere and cause trouble, don´t bother in future.”

I looked at Mum. I felt so helpless. She was locked into a situation to which there was no solution. I gave her a hug and we left.

******

The years rolled by. I moved to France and was therefore able to visit far less often. My brothers visited for the obligatory birthdays and Christmas, but nothing more. Mum became ever more solitary, spending many hours a day, knitting, until her hands became too stiff with arthritis. After that, she would spend all day reading or doing crosswords. Inside that quiet, subdued old lady, was a good brain. I marvelled at her ability with the crosswords.

At the age of eighty-five Dad was taking her breakfast upstairs to bed, as he had started to do a few years before, when he slipped on the top step. He somersaulted backwards down the stairs, with tea and cornflakes splattering the walls, landing at the bottom in agony. Mum rang the hospital and he was admitted. Incredibly, nothing was broken, however his back was black with bruising and the doctor suspected concussion. They said he would need to stay in hospital for a few days.

“I´m not staying here. I need to go home to look after my wife. She needs me at home. She won´t be able to look after herself.” He was agitated at the thought of losing the control of his last possession, his own wife. The doctor assured him that someone would visit her, but he must remain in for observation. Reluctantly he stayed.

The following morning Mum took a taxi to the hospital. In reality, she was fine. She had made a nice breakfast and was planning to do some baking in the afternoon, something she hadn´t done for years. It appeared that she was actually happy for a change.

It should be explained that for the last few years, Dad and another elderly chap, Ron, had walked down to the newsagents each day to buy their copy of the Daily Mirror. It had become a daily ritual. They would meet in the street at eight o´clock in the morning, after Dad had taken Mum´s breakfast in bed. He would come back, read the paper and do the cleaning before Mum got up.

That morning she visited Dad in the hospital, and brought the copy of the Daily Mirror with her.

“Thanks Madge,” he said, and then his face changed. “Did you walk down to the paper shop with Ron?”

“No, he came round and asked about you. He saw the ambulance yesterday. He brought the copy of the Daily Mirror round, as you weren´t there this morning. It was really nice of him. We had a cup of tea before my taxi came.”

“What! As soon as my back is turned, the neighbours are sniffing around. Ron´s wife died years ago, and now he comes around poking his nose in, as soon as my back is turned,” he bellowed, grimacing at the pain of his bruising, as he waved his fist around. “You are my wife. Not his.”

Later that day, an ambulance pulled up outside the house. Dad had signed himself out. By that time I had arrived on a flight from France and was sitting with Mum, planning to take her to the hospital the next day to visit him. She was more alive than I had seen her for years. People had been calling to ask if she was ok. Then came the knock at the door. A paramedic said that Dad was in the ambulance and wanted to know where he will be taken. We put him on the couch.

“You are in no condition to be home,” I said.

“This is my home. This is my wife. This is where I need to be, “he blurted.

Mum and I went into the front room, in order to let Dad sleep. It was time we had a heart to heart conversation. She explained how angry and jealous he had been, when he heard that Ron had called round to bring the newspaper.

“Do you really think he is jealous?” I asked. “I mean, you are both eighty-five years old, been married for over sixty years.”

“Oh yes,” Mum replied. “He always has been, ever since we met. I was never allowed to even talk to other men. He thinks of me like one of his arms or legs. He can’t be without them, but they are his, and his alone.”

Then she said the saddest thing of all. “I´ll be dead soon and then this will all be over.”

******

Dad was also extremely religious, but didn´t believe in organised religions. He prayed every night before going to sleep, something that he had started during the war, when he joined up in 1942. In hindsight, this fitted in strongly with his character. No one could tell him what to do. Even advice was normally rejected. Therefore, going to church, being preached to, told how he should behave, would never have occurred to him. He strongly believed in heaven and an afterlife. He believed that he would be with Mum forever, in life and afterwards in death.

Shortly after Mum´s ninetieth birthday she became very ill. I was spending more and more time in England in order to look after them, make sure bills were paid, shopping done etc. Dad had become extremely forgetful and was no longer capable of taking care of the home. While Mum had been healthy, it had functioned. Her good brain and his strong body had supplemented each other. It had reached the point where Mum had to remind Dad that it was lunchtime, not breakfast time, for example. An ironic twist came into their lives. Mum began stating what needed to be done, and Dad did it.

Mum´s illness was short. She was taken into hospital, which turned out to be kidney failure. She never came home again. Dad, against his will, was taken to a care home, after a few weeks in hospital due to another fall. Both were in hospital at the same time, but never saw each other again.

After Mum died, I had the task to inform Dad. By then he was in the care home. Upon seeing me, his eyes lit up and he asked when he can come home and how is Mum? I sidestepped the first question, braced myself, and explained that Mum had passed. He cried quietly and asked to be left alone.

The following day I visited. His eyes lit up and he asked when he can come home and how is Mum? He had forgotten. We went through the same conversation as the day before.

This repeated every day for a week. Each day I would come, sit with him, explain, cry with him and leave. I even considered lying, in order to spare his repeated grief, but decided that would be wrong.

After a week, I entered the care home. Dad was in the lounge for a change. His appearance was different, somehow paler and older. “Hello son,” he whispered. “Mum is gone isn´t she?”

“Yes,” I replied.

This time there were no tears. We sat quietly together, without speaking.

Dad never spoke again. He closed his eyes before I left and refused and food or drink. He died three weeks later, having shut the outside world out completely.

Anyone reading this account, I´m sure, will feel a sadness, as I did sitting at his bedside as he took his last breath. I put my healing hand on his forehead and said goodbye.

It took some days before I realised that I wasn´t as upset as one would expect. Dad had known, despite the worsening dementia, that his time was over. His wife was in heaven and he had to get there as quickly as possible. This is how I imagine and account for his thoughts during his final three weeks.

Maybe there is a heaven. Maybe there isn´t. But Dad believed there is and he has done all he could to go there. I just can´t help wondering whether Mum, when she sees him coming, will greet him with open arms or hide behind a bush with my Aunt Win, hoping not to be spotted.

The End

Context: I wrote this story for my twin grandsons, Ted and Arthur, for their 6^th birthday, which is on 7^th September this year. After writing it, I thought it might also be nice to enter it in our little competition.

Once upon a time, long long ago, when your Granddad was just a boy, he had a friend called, Richard. Richard and Jimmy (that was your Granddad Jim´s name when he was little) went everywhere together. They would meet outside in the street each day and walk a long way to school. In those days there weren´t many cars. Most families didn´t have one at all, so there was very little traffic on the roads, and it was safe for small children to walk to school, without their mums and dads. Nowadays it is very different. Everyone has a car and the roads are far more dangerous, so probably your mum or dad have to take you, to keep you safe. Richard and Jimmy sat next to each other at school too, and also walked back home afterwards. Because they were always together and the same age, lots of people thought they were twins, just like you two. Even more strange was the fact that they were born on the same day, January 28^th 1956, nearly sixty-nine years ago. So, they were almost just like twins, except that Richard had a different mummy and daddy to Jimmy.

One cold January day in the coldest part of winter, just before 28^th January, Jimmy and Richard were walking to school, talking about their birthday, which would be in a few days’ time. It was snowing and Jimmy´s mum wasn´t very happy to be letting the boys go to school on their own, but they convinced her that they would be fine. The real truth is that they wanted to have a snowball fight with some of the other boys, but didn’t want to tell her that, in case she spoiled their fun.

“What would you want the most for your birthday?” Richard asked Jimmy.

“Whoa, that´s easy”, said Jimmy. “I would like a real snowman.”

“What´s a real snowman? I mean, all snowmen are real ones aren´t they?” Richard asked, looking a bit puzzled.

“There are lots of different types of snowmen. There are toy snowmen. I know because I´ve seen one. Then there are snowmen made of snow, like my Daddy made for us last year. And then there are real snowmen.”

Richard was still confused. “But a snowman made of snow is real too, isn´t it?” he asked while squinting his eyes against the snow coming down.

Jimmy though about it for a moment and then said, “Well, I suppose they are sort of real, but I mean a really real snowman. One that can talk, and run around and never ever melts.”

Richard started to giggle. “Don´t be silly. There is no such thing. How could a snowman ever speak or move around, and everyone knows that snowmen will melt when the weather becomes warmer.”

Jimmy became quiet because he wasn´t quite certain enough. He thought he remembered he had seen a walking, talking snowman, but he couldn´t remember exactly when it was, but was sure it was only a few days ago, at the weekend. It had been snowing really a lot, and he went to bed, hoping to be able to build a snowman the next day with his best friend, Richard. He woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of something against his bedroom window. When he looked, he thought it was just the snowfall bashing against the glass. He watched it for a while and saw that it came in waves. First came a lot of snow, making the noise that had woken him up. Then it was quiet for a minute until another load of snow hit the window. After three more times, he stepped out of bed and stood on a stool, still holding onto his brown teddy (because he always slept with his teddy), and peered out into the garden.

The first thing he noticed was that it had stopped snowing, so it couldn´t have been that, which had woken him up. Then he noticed that the sky was crystal clear. He could see the stars and the moon was almost at its fullest, shining brightly down onto the garden. Then he saw a snowman. He was moving, and just about to throw another snowball at Jimmy´s window, when he saw Jimmy staring down at him.

“Well, it took a long time for you to wake up, I must say. I was just about to leave and visit another little boy, to have some fun with,” the snowman yelled up at him.

Jimmy quickly opened his window and shouted down to the snowman. “No, please Mr. Snowman. Don´t do that. I will come down to play with you.” He raced down the stairs in his pyjamas. He had nothing on his feet, but didn´t care at all. He opened the back door and ran across, through the deep snow, towards the snowman. He soon realised that the snow wasn´t cold to his feet. That confused him a little, because everyone knows that if you walk in snow barefoot it would be really cold. You might even get frostbite and have to go to see a doctor. But Jimmy was far too excited at the thought of meeting a real snowman, to worry about a couple of cold feet, even if they weren´t actually cold at all.

Mr Snowman was huge, much bigger than he had appeared from Jimmy´s window. He was even bigger than a car.

“Hello Jimmy,” said the snowman. “It´s nice of you to come down on such a cold night”

“I love cold nights,” replied Jimmy. “

“So do I,” the snowman said.

Jimmy giggled. “Of course you do. Snowmen must love the cold, otherwise they would melt.”

“Oh, no. You are wrong,” said the snowman, with a more serious face. “Only manmade snowmen are afraid of melting. Real snowmen, like me, will never melt. We live forever, but only come out when there is snow on the ground.”

“So, you weren´t made by anybody?” Jimmy asked.

“No, of course not, otherwise I wouldn´t be a real snowman, just one of those melty things that can´t talk, walk or anything really. I am just like the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus and lots and lots of other special people who live forever.”

“Wow,” Jimmy said. “It must be amazing to live forever.”

“Enough of this talking,” said the snowman. “I came here to have some fun and play with someone. I might not be able to come out for a while if it doesn´t snow after today.

So Jimmy and Mr. Snowman played all night long. They threw snowballs at things, rolled around in the deep snowdrifts, built a couple of those ´fake snowmen´, as Mr. Snowman called them. They had so much fun, and played until the cockerel was heard to crow in a nearby garden.

“Oh, it´s time to go,” said the snowman. “You mustn’t be caught out here playing with me, when your Mum and Dad wake up. I am not allowed to meet grownups, you see. I can only meet and play with children.

Jimmy was a good boy, and realised that sometimes, even when you are having so much fun, you have to go to bed when it is necessary. He gave Mr. Snowman a big hug and sneaked back into his bed, before his parents woke up. As he was falling asleep again, dreaming of his new icy friend, the thought went through his mind that he wasn´t cold or wet from the snow. He was warm and as dry as a bone.

“Why have you stopped talking to me, Jimmy,” Richard finally asked.

“Oh, sorry. I was just remembering something from last weekend, when I met a real snowman,” Jimmy replied.

“Even though you are my best ever friend, Jimmy, you are so funny sometimes. A living snowman! There is no such thing.”

Jimmy didn´t say anything. He knew what he knew, even if his best friend didn´t believe him. They arrived at school and then there was no more time to think about such things.

******

Richard and Jimmy both went to bed very excited on Friday night, the day before their birthday. They were wondering what little surprises they might have for the next day. Mummy and Daddy always thought of something. Little did they know, what had been prepared for them.

After they were both in bed and fast asleep, Richard´s parents called round to finalise the plans for their boys birthday. They had decided to prepare a joint party, as they had most years, because their two sons had the same birthday, as written earlier, just like twins.

The two sets of parents, Richard and Jimmy´s mummy and daddy, were planning a big party in the garden. They knew that the weather forecast was for a lot of snow to come during the night, and they had organised sledges, bouncing castle, and hot soup for all of the children in their school class.

The final part of the winter party would be a snowman competition, where the children would be split into pairs, and each pair would build a snowman. Some coal (because in those days everyone used coal to light the fires at home, in order to stay warm) for the eyes, sticks for the arms and some straw to make snowman hats with. Every pair of children would make the best snowman that they could and the winner would be judged by all of the mums and dads.

In the morning Jimmy looked out of his window and the snow was so deep that he would need his extra-long wellies in order not to freeze to death. After breakfast, all of the children began to arrive. Everyone was wearing thick gloves, woolly hats and winter coats. There was a lot of noise, as all of the children were excited about the heavy snowfall, and upcoming birthday party for Richard and Jimmy. Presents and birthday cards were given and soon the party was in full flow. Kids skidded on slides, threw snow at each other, rolled around, just as Jimmy had with Mr. Snowman a week before.

Finally, it was time for the snowman competition. Naturally, as they were best friends, Jimmy and Richard were partners and worked hard together to make the best snowman.  Jimmy had the best ideas, because he tried to make an exact replica of Mr. Snowman. After one hour it was time for the competition judges to decide on the winner. There were some very good ones and Richard wasn´t sure if they would win. Jimmy, however, was very confident.

“But I´ve never seen a snowman with ears before. No snowman ever had ears,” Richard grumbled.

Jimmy looked at him. “Maybe not, but real snowmen have them. Mr. Snowman definitely ……”. He stopped talking. Nobody would believe him anyway.

The judges inspected each snowman very slowly and carefully. When they came to look at Richard and Jimmy´s version, Richard looked at the floor, not very confident that their snowman, with ears, would win. Jimmy however, stood proud and was very confident. Eventually the winners were announced. The senior judge stood up to make the announcement.

“In third place is Brian and David´s wonderful snowman. We especially liked the pointy nose, made from a piece of dough from the kitchen, a wonderful idea.”

Richard and Jimmy started to become excited. Maybe they could win after all.

“And in second place are our lucky birthday boys. Their snowman is the biggest of them all, with very realistic eyes, nose and mouth. They were only beaten out of first place because of the ears. No snowman ever had ears.”

Jimmy was just about to shout out, “but Mr. Snowman does,” but he thought better of it. He kept quiet.

The judge took a big puff of breath and announced the winner of the competition.

“In first place we have Ruth and Jenny, whose very special snowman had a woolly hat and scarf.”

Jenny cried out “yippee!” Ruth didn´t say much because it was her hat and scarf they had used for the snowman and by now she was very cold.

Richard was awfully disappointed. “I told you the ears would ruin it for us. You should have listened to me,” he complained to Jimmy, and went off to join the others for some hot soup.

Jimmy stood watching them, when he was suddenly distracted by a “psst, psst.”

He looked up and his snowman winked at him.

“I´ll come and see you again next year, Jimmy, as soon as the snow comes.”

Jimmy went for some soup, and was very happy on his special sixth birthday, the day he made his own real snowman.

The End

Good night both.

Love from Granddad Jim and Grandma Bettina

Bleda once said to me that he thinks we all have a book in us, but the difficult part is to get it out in a satisfactory manner. Some of my readers will remember the tragic disappearance of my brother, John, in 2016, and the discovery of his body in Tamworth three months later. It was a dreadful time. The suspicious circumstances of his death, the interviews with the newspaper and finally the inquest which ended with no final conclusion, haunted me for months, even years. The nightmares were the worst part, dreaming of him gradually decaying in the dark, lonely woods.

As I was already a long time member of this little writing group, and valued the creative mental gymnastics of submitting a story each month, it wasn´t long before I had the stirrings inside me, that John´s story must be told and, as his brother I am the only one to do it. For the last seven years I have been going hot and cold on the idea. Can I commit myself for enough time to do the book justice? Are my literary skills developed enough to be able to write such a book? Even more importantly, is it morally acceptable to open up the details of John´s and his family and friend´s lives to public scrutiny? Is it self-indulgent of me to plan such a project?

All of these questions and many more have been bouncing around in my head for these last seven years, culminating in one real question that I needed to answer for myself. Am I simply just too afraid to try, too afraid of the commitment, too afraid of the consequences to living family and friends and repercussions therefrom? Am I afraid of failure?

Towards the end of last year I came to some stark conclusions. Yes, I am afraid. I am extremely fearful of all of those considerations. I reached my sixty-eighth birthday in January. Time is running out. There is little time left for pondering, faffing about, looking for excuses. So I have made a resolution, a promise to myself that I am going to write this book. It must be done.  For once, I am completely uninterested in the book´s success, or any financial benefit. I want to document what I consider to be the most tragic, sinister but also fascinating set of circumstances that I have seen throughout my life.

This was the reason that I broke away from our group, in order to focus on my book.

But then I realised that the opposite might happen if I stay with the TCWG. I can use the group for my own ends. I can try out scenarios and ideas. I can feed off your inputs and reactions. I am sorry if this sounds like exploitation. That is far from my mind. We all, each of us, have our own individual reasons to write in this group competition each month. I am simply laying mine on the table.

******

If, at this point, anyone is still reading, I would like to tell you a little about the method that I am following and the initial framework for the book.

I am following the snowflake method, by Randy Ingermanson. The idea is to begin writing with a single short sentence, which describes the book and to build the snowflake from the inside outwards, gradually developing the characters and plot, before the actual book writing begins. This is the stage that I am currently at.

I should mention that the book, if it is ever published, will have all names altered in order to protect people who were close to John (Richard)

******

As I mentioned, the first step of the snowflake method is to produce a short sentence, a maximum of fifteen words is recommended. This sentence can be modified over time, as the book develops, and can serve as part of the ´selling tool´ if it ever gets that far. This is my sentence:-

The life of a quiet man, a chemist, finally destroyed by treacherous misdeeds.

******

The next step is to expand that sentence into a paragraph of four or five sentences. Each sentence will form approximately a quarter of the book. This is my paragraph:-

Richard was the eldest son of a working class family, with two brothers, a traditionally docile mother and obsessively strict father. His initial escape into the outside world came at the age of eighteen, when he attended university and formed his earliest fruitless relationships with the opposite sex. The need to succeed and placate his father eventually led to a nervous breakdown and a failed doctorate, and his subsequent exploitation by a confident, but narcissistic divorcee. Little was he to know that their marriage would continue a downward spiral of his personal spirit, until the only remaining trace of his courage would be to enable his final tragedy. Richard’s life is a story of immense sadness, loss of integrity, and a lifelong, gradual destruction of dignity, caused by those closest to him.

*****

So, now I have a high level view of the novel and am busy working on the characters, their names, their roles and a summary of each of their storyline. This would, of course, be too much detail for inserting here. For now, that is the end of this month´s submission.

I grew up in the 60s and 70s. If I am honest, I was a bit of a tearaway, always up to no good, teasing my brothers, out with my mates scrumping, and on occasions returning home with a bloody nose, when I had been in a fight. I can still hear it now, six decades later, my mother concerned that I wasn’t hurt and my father more interested to find out whether I had given as good as I received, or better.

“You didn’t back down, did you my boy?”

“Come here and let me clean your cuts. You shouldn’t encourage him, Dad”

My father was over six feet tall, a strong man who had grown up in the rough end of Tottenham. He was loud, strict and could be fierce when in a temper. There was many a time when I felt the whip of his belt across my backside. Yet I had nothing but genuine respect for him. Maybe I was cut from the same cloth, a “chip off the old block”, as he often used to say. He was the strength in our family. He built our house with his bare hands, worked hard and expected the same from the rest of us. He was proud to be the ‘breadwinner’ and looked after us the best way he knew.

My mother was almost his exact opposite. She was quiet, delicate, barely more visible in our house than a piece of furniture. Dad was the boss, the decision maker, the leader of our family. With three sons, and no daughters, Mum was the only female in the house. She cooked, baked, cleaned and saw to our daily needs. It was expected, and none of us boys ever questioned that status quo.

I left home at the age of nineteen, and moved away, knowing that my Dad would always take good care of Mum. My brothers had left the family home before me, and my parents were, in a very short time, reduced to a day-to-day family of two.

******

A busy life, working at generating a career, bringing up children and paying those ever increasing bills, gave me little time to think about much else. I met my brothers at birthdays and Christmas, along with Mum and Dad, but they were times dominated by small talk and mainly focussed on the children.

So, as the decades rolled by, almost subconsciously, I never changed my opinions about the hierarchy of daily positioning between my parents. If truth be told, to my eternal shame, I didn’t ever give it much thought.

Dad was the strong one, the go-getter, the protector. Mum was the ‘weaker’ sex, quiet, and a gentle person, never to contradict my Dad, for fear of his temper. Yes, Dad was her rock.

******

I retired early, in my late fifties. As my wife wished to work for another two or three years, I had much time on my hands, which enabled me to learn new skills. I learned to cook, taking great pleasure from presenting new exotic recipes to her and friends. I baked my own bread, experimenting with all sorts of strange concoctions, some of them actually not bad. I also took up writing.

It all began in 2011, just after I had retired. I was living in France, where my wife was working a three year secondment before she retired too. One day I called my mother, who was by then eighty-seven years old. She was very hard of hearing and the calls had become very difficult. I noticed that she was feeling a little stressed trying to hear me and respond accordingly. So, I wrote her a letter, probably the first letter for decades. She was so thrilled, as I had written a good few pages and added some photos of our activities. At my next visit to the UK she explained how she could read and re-read them and. I suspect even more importantly, show them to her friends. I began to enjoy writing, and came around to the idea that if I could make my parents happy with a few well-chosen words, maybe I could  write on a wider platform and reach a bigger audience.

This was when I found the Telegraph Writer’s Creative Writing Group. I began writing almost each month, slipping a copy of my stories into the letters that I sent to my Mum. At one visit to the UK, she told me that she had always wanted to write, but Dad had poo-pooed the idea, and that she was quite thrilled to read my stories each month. From that point on I had a double motive to write each month, one for the competition and one for my mother.

******

As both of my parents became close to 90 years old, their health began to fail. My mother’s body slowly gave up on her. She had a lot of necessary medication to get through each day, but mentally was 100%. She continued with the daily crossword in the newspaper until the end of her life. Dad was different. He became very forgetful in his late eighties, and by eighty-nine had great difficulty remembering basic things. However, physically he needed no medication and remained in tip top health.

After 68 years of marriage the rock had begun to crumble. My mother gradually took over the role of organiser, decision maker, and yes, became his rock, for without her strength of spirit and devotion, he could no have longer managed.

For me, this was an incredible eye-opener. It was as though I was seeing my mother for the first time in my life.

One day, while Dad was sleeping in his armchair, and I was over in the UK visiting them, my mother asked me more about my writing. There was something different about her. She was excited, anxious, nervous, all rolled into one tense moment. She reached under her armchair and pulled out an old shoebox. She just asked me to take it with me when I leave and have a look when I am back in France. I sensed something special was happening and did as she asked.

******

I didn’t wait until I was back home. On the plane I spent the whole flight going through scraps of paper, with all sorts of written prose. There were poems, short stories, even some memories, as one might write in a diary. Some of those poems and particularly some of the stories from our childhood brought tears to my eyes. A lady in the seat next to me asked if I was ok. I just smiled and said that everything couldn’t be better.

My mother had spent over sixty years writing for herself. She had never felt the need for praise or recognition from others. I realised that she hadn’t given it to me in order for feedback or to show herself off to me, but only to ensure that they weren’t thrown away with the rubbish when she died.

After reading and re-reading these humble pieces of work, I was overcome with a feeling of guilt like never before. Why hadn’t I recognised my Mum earlier? Why had I only ever seen my father? Why hadn’t I realised that for the whole 68 years, since they had married in 1948, that it had always been my mother who was the rock in the family. She’d never needed to show, never needed to shout or demand, only be there when it was needed.

******

It was not long after this that my mother died. I believe that she had known that her time was coming to an end. I held her hand every day for the last two weeks of her life, exhilarated by the fact that I had come to know my own mother for the first time, after over sixty years. That confusing mixture of guilt and pleasure will never leave me, and has changed my outlook on life forever.

She is still my rock.

I leave you with one of the poems from her shoebox.

You vowed you would love me forever

We were the talk of the town

You were the shows leading lady

I’m just a poor humble clown

My hopes for the future have vanished

My dreams have all come crashing down

You fled to the arms of another

Left me a broken hearted clown

The harsh cold winter is upon us

Trees all wear snow for a gown

Along with the snow that is falling

Are the tears of a sad lonely clown

I’ve now met a local young lady

The daughter of old mother brown

Already the future looks brighter

She has mended the heart of a clown

We were married the following summer

In a quiet little church outside town

The birth of a son that came later

Said goodbye to the tears of a clown

John Grosvenor felt sick, ready to throw up at any second. Despite the desperation he was feeling, he was momentarily distracted by the thought of the headmaster and his desk being covered in a spray of fine, half-digested rice crispies, which brought a sickly grin to his sweating red countenance.
“I’m so sorry John,” he said. “We should be able to get this thing cleared up rather quickly. I can assure you that you have my full support.”
“You can’t suspend me Trevor. I am totally innocent. I never touched her. Emma Graham is simply trying to take revenge for the poor results that she has been given. For Christ’s sake man, suspending me will make the whole thing public. I will be eaten alive out there. You know how the papers love something like this.” He was almost raging. His actions were not helping at all to convince Trevor of his innocence.
Trevor McDonald thought quietly for a few minutes, watching him closely. He was wondering if he really was the paedophile that he had been accused of, or not. This is how it would be from now on. If in doubt “hang the bastard”. He had heard it often enough from other similar cases.
Trevor eventually spoke. “I believe you, John. I always assume innocence until proven guilty in such cases, but protocol is protocol. I have to suspend you until this is cleared up, one way or the other.”
“You see,” John blurted out. “One way or the other.” That’s already half an accusation. I don’t have a bloody hope in hell.”
“One thing I can promise you, John, is that we will try to keep the lid on this as much as possible, until the facts are all assessed.”
The naivety of Trevor almost made John burst out with hysterical laughter. He has no idea. The whole school will have known even before he entered this office.
He stood up, took a few deep breaths, tried to calm himself and left his office. The effort to keep his head up, walk to his car, which seemed like an eternity, was as much as he could take. He sat in the front driver’s seat, head spinning with thoughts about how he was to face his family and friends. Surely they would believe him. Deep down, he knew that many wouldn’t.
******
An hour earlier Trevor McDonald’s office had been full. Mr and Mrs Graham, Emma, Elaine Daws from the Social Services and PC Manda Jones.
Elaine began by asking Emma to take her time, and explain exactly what had happened between her and Mr. John Grosvenor, in the storeroom during the morning break.
Emma spent the next five minutes explaining how she had been asked if she would help sort some of the English text books into order, during the PE lesson, as she couldn’t take part, due to a sprained wrist. She said that she was keen to help and it would occupy her, instead of just sitting outside, watching the netball practice. She described how her English teacher, Mr Grosvenor, came to check on her, just as the morning break was beginning.
Mr. Grosvenor offered to help her finish the job quickly, so that she would still have some of her break time left, if she was willing. Emma said that she agreed.
Then Emma described in a very believable way how her teacher had told her that she had lovely breasts and that she must be very proud of her figure. Before she could respond he reached out and took them in the palms of his hands and began caressing them. Emma told how shocked she had been and it had taken a few seconds before she could react at all, by which time John Grosvenor was beginning to lift her blouse. She said that she ran from the storeroom and came straight to the headmaster’s office, where she told Janice Fairhead, his secretary, what had happened.
She hadn’t left the office since.
The small group of adults all looked at each other. Mrs Graham was trembling with anger.
“What are you going to do about this? “ She asked no one in particular, scanning the faces from social services to the police and finally to Trevor.
“Well first of all we need to hear Mr Grosvenor’s side of the story. We will arrange this for tomorrow morning. It can’t be done today, as our specialist for handling these cases is away until tomorrow,” explained Elaine.
“But surely you are not going to let this pervert continue teaching vulnerable children until then?” screamed Mrs Graham
“No, of course not, “countered Trevor, “he will be sent home on paid leave until this can be sorted out.”
Mr Graham had not said a word, or shown the emotional anger that his wife had demonstrated. In fact, he had been inert throughout the whole meeting. He just sat quietly, listening to his daughter explain how she had been molested by her teacher, a man of roughly his age, without a murmur. He looked almost nervous, rather than angry.
This type of situation was rare in the school, but there had been the odd case of misconduct or sexual harassment, mainly between pupils, over the years, but they all had one thing in common, an extremely irate father. It unsettled Trevor McDonald somewhat, that Mr Graham hadn’t displayed any such feelings.
******
The Graham family pulled up on their driveway. Emma had sat sulkily in the back of the car, without saying a word, for the whole journey. In fact, nobody had spoken. Each were in their private thoughts, working out what to do for the best.
“Richard, I need to nip to the supermarket to buy a few things for our dinner, “said Diane Graham. “It’s best that you two stay at home. I won’t be long.”
They went into the house, waving goodbye to Mrs Graham and Emma went immediately to her room. A few minutes later, Richard tapped on her bedroom door and entered. Emma was sitting at her desk, still sulking and looking extremely forlorn.
“Emma, why don’t you tell me what really happened in that store room.”
“What do you mean?” she responded. “I told you everything. “He did exactly what you always….”
She stopped and dropped her head towards the floor.
“I’m not angry with you, Emma. I just want you to show me what happened.”
Emma began trembling. She knew what was coming. She had experienced it a thousand times, and worse.
She undid her blouse, removed her bra and looked directly into her father’s eyes. “This is what he was trying to do”, she stammered.
Richard took both of her breasts in his hands and began to caress them softly. “Just like this,” he whispered.
******
Mrs Graham arrived at the supermarket, reached into her bag to take a coin for the shopping trolley and realised instantly that she didn’t have her purse with her. In her rush to go to the school, she had left it on the table. With a curse, she got back into the car and drove home.
On entering the house, she was aware of an unusual quietness. She looked downstairs, found her purse and then went to the lounge, expecting to find her husband or Emma there. It may be a mother’s instinct or some other form of sixth sense, but she instinctively began to walk quietly. She climbed the stairs and could hear the murmur of Richard’s voice coming from Emma’s room. She pushed the door open and shrieked loudly at the sight of her daughter. She was wearing nothing on her upper half and Richard was sitting opposite her with one hand on her breast and the other between her legs. Emma was trembling heavily and tears were drying on her red cheeks.
Mrs Graham went berserk. She picked up a ruler from Emma’s desk and began hitting Richard repeatedly on the head, screaming obscenities, damning him to hell.
“I was just….just, “he tried to say, but there was nothing to say. He ran out of the house.
Diane Graham wrapped Emma in a blanket and took her down in front of the fire. She knew well enough that now was not the time to ask questions, Emma needed time to collect herself and her Mum had time to wait. She sat quietly with her daughter, waiting for her to speak, after first making a phone call to the local police station.
During the rest of the evening Emma explained to her mother that this had been going on for many months. He father had always told her that she was so beautiful and her mother would be very jealous if he knew how much he loved Emma. “If you tell her what we do, you will break her heart”, he told her. Emma explained how it all started with her father telling her what lovely breasts she had, and how he liked to caress them. It went on from there.
“What is wrong with these damned filthy men?” Diane protested, “Are they all the same. First your teacher and now even your own father.”
Emma winced at this last remark. She looked up pleadingly into her mother’s eyes.
Diane Graham could see the truth in her daughter’s face. “He didn’t do it, did he? Your teacher didn’t touch you at all, did he?”
Emma broke into tears. “I was just so angry with him. It just came out and the lie grew from there. I feel so ashamed. I’m all mixed up now.”
Diane hugged her daughter as tightly to her as she could. “You have nothing to be ashamed of,” she reassured her.
******
John Grosvenor entered his home shortly before 6pm. He had been wandering about most of the afternoon, weighing up his options. His overriding thoughts were that this was not the first time that he had been accused of a sexual crime. Back in his university days, after a one night stand with another student, he had been accused of rape. The accusation was made and although it was subsequently withdrawn after some investigation, it lingered over him like a dark cloud, ready to burst into a storm at some future point. That point was today.
In reality, he and a fellow student had been out drinking, far too much and had ended up sleeping together. It was six of one and half a dozen of the other. John’s wife, however, knew of it.
Eventually he had plucked up the courage to come home and try to convince them of his innocence. He had considered his position carefully. If this accusation found its way into a court, he was done for. If he was found guilty, his career and family life was over. If he was found innocent, he still had the belief that his career and family life was over. Who would believe in him afterwards? How vulnerable would he be to such future lying accusations? He had come to the conclusion that there were only two possibilities to clear his name completely. The first was for the accuser to come to her senses and apologise for lying. This seemed extremely unlikely for his position. The second was for him to take his own life, leaving a declaration of his total innocence. As his dying testament, it was more likely to convince the people who mattered to him, that he was falsely accused.
But what a price? Could he take his own life? These were the questions that had occupied most of his afternoon. He had decided that it would be the only way.
He made a plan. He must attend an interview tomorrow at the police station, where he will be questioned and asked to give his version of the story. Based on this, the police will probably decide whether or not to formally charge him. He decided that he will attend the interview and if it goes badly he would take the final measure. He wrote a short letter to his wife as follows –
My dearest Susan, if you are reading this letter I am no more. I have been falsely accused of physically abusing a fifteen year old girl at the school. I promise you that I have been faithful to you and Gemma, our wonderful daughter, ever since we have been together. It is for the love of you both, that I must say goodbye, in the hope that you can see this as a declaration of my total innocence and believe in me for always. I cannot stand the thought of seeing doubts or distrust in your eyes and forever wondering if I was really guilty or not. I love you so much. Your John.
As he entered the kitchen, where Gemma and Susan were already sitting around the table, he took one look at them and knew that his decision had been correct.
******
The following morning John looked awful. He hadn’t slept all night, neither had Susan. Although awake next to each other, they had hardly spoken a word. Neither knew what to say except “It’ll be alright” or “I am innocent”. So they both quietly lay, going through their ‘what ifs’ until the alarm announced the start of a new day, maybe John’s last.
He entered the police station at five minutes before 9am. To his surprise, Trevor was there. He had expected social services and police only. Trevor greeted him calmly and said that the police had suggested that he attend, as it is only an information gathering interview at this stage and he would have more information regarding the situation at the school.
John was surprised to feel pleased to have him there. He needed some support from wherever it came.
They entered the meeting room together. The others were already in place. John assumed that they had been there for some time, preparing their line of questioning.
After initial introductions, PC Amanda Jones asked John to explain what, if anything, had happened between him and Emma, yesterday in the storeroom.
“Well, where to start?” he said. “Emma has recently been performing well below her usual standard over recent months. This is not unusual with girls of that age, and I had tried to discuss the situation with her, to no avail. She had become quite withdrawn too. Therefore I had no choice but to grade her results well below average for the recent exams. I know that she took that hard. Yesterday I felt quite sorry for her. She had sprained her wrist and couldn’t join the netball practice, so I asked if she could help me in the storeroom, sorting some books. She offered to remain during the morning break, in order to finish the job, during which I stayed to help her. That’s it. I have nothing else to add.”
“Are you saying that you, at no time, touched her or made sexual remarks, in any way?”
“That is correct.”
“Mr McDonald, do you have anything to say or add in regard to Emma or Mr Grosvenor’s actions recently?” asked Ms Jones.
“I can only say that I have known Emma for a number of years. In fact I have known her mother and father for much longer. We were students together at university. As far as I know the whole family has always handled themselves correctly, no…impeccably. I can’t imagine that Emma would invent such a story. It is just not like her.” He looked directly at his colleague and said,” Sorry John, but it is the case.”
The sick feeling started to return. They had all decided that he was guilty. He could already see the headlines, the shame, the disgust. He put his hand to his breast pocket and could feel the letter by his beating heart. The final action was coming quickly now. Suddenly he relaxed at the thought of knowing that he had an escape that none of them knew about. He would control his destiny, not this group of misguided do gooders. He was just about to blurt out how much he hated the lot of them and their conniving, accusing tone. How he was innocent but didn’t give a shit any longer, as they had already decided what the outcome was going to be.
At that moment, a knock came at the door.
“Please excuse me a moment, “said PC Jones.
Two minutes later she returned, with a half-smile, half frown on her face.
“Mr Grosvenor, I have someone here to see you.”
Mrs Graham and Emma nervously walked into the room.
“Emma has something to say,” said Mrs Graham.
“Sir, I never meant to…I mean I was just angry. I am so sorry.”
Then she turned to the other people in the room and said loud and clear, “Mr Grosvenor never touched me. I made it all up because I was angry with him. Mr Grosvenor has always been a caring and helpful teacher, and I only hope he can forgive me one day.”
John Grosvenor stood, tears in his eyes, and Emma ran into his arms and gave him a cuddle. He sensed that there was more to this although had no idea what. “You are already forgiven,” he replied.
******
John went home feeling completely wrecked. Within the last 24 hours he has been through the wringer.
He pondered over the people who had let him down. The working relationship, let alone the social relationship, with Trevor McDonald would never be the same again. The man was not his friend, as he had thought.
His wife, well who is to say how that will go. She had doubted him at a crucial time. Would things ever be quite the same again.
After he heard of the arrest of Emma’s father, and the subsequent charges, the only person who he had a better relationship with, ironically, was Emma.

It was one of those dark foggy evenings, just above the temperature necessary to turn the shallow puddles to ice, but cold enough to send a shiver down the spine and force the pale white hands deep into warm, cosy trouser pockets.
It was the 23rd of December. I had taken a bus to the end of the lane and was walking along the unlit verge between the lane and the drainage ditches, that followed wintry hawthorn hedges as far as the eyes could see, which wasn’t very far at all, due to the dense fog. I pulled my woolly hat down around my ears, covering my face from the biting cold as much as possible.
I will never fail to be irritated by those oncoming drivers, who obviously have seen me in their headlights, allowing little space as they whoosh past, still maintaining their lights on full beam, and blinding me momentarily.
I was tired, cold and in dire need of our log fire and a nice cup of tea. I had been doing the last of the Christmas shopping and was loaded with a heavy rucksack which contained some meat from my favourite butcher and two bottles of Artadi, Viña El Pisón, Rioja 2012, and a bottle of Tomatin 18 year, sherry cask, single malt whisky, along with a few last minute presents. I had ordered the wine especially for this occasion.
Forcing my hands deeper into my pockets, but enjoying the satisfying decision to take the rucksack with me, thereby allowing my hands to be free, I cursed the next set of full headlights as they approached.
It all happened so fast. One second the lights were ahead of me. I was squinting to avoid losing my night vision as much as possible. I was vaguely aware of the lights slowing down and stopping just ahead. The next second I was on the floor. I felt the tug of the straps as someone was trying to pull my rucksack away, as if in a dream, which I later learned was caused by being dazed after a sharp blow to my head. Then as my guts gave the most violent wretch, I just opened my eyes in time to see the flicker of a toe cap. That was the last I saw.
But, not realising at that moment, I had seen more than a steel toe cap of a boot. I had seen the face of its owner.
*****
The cold tore into me like a ravenous animal, gnawing first at the extremities, then raging into the limbs and body. I had no awareness of time, and as consciousness slowly returned I coughed and spluttered, as the pain in my temples and stomach slowly came to the fore. I was drenched, lying in the soggy ditch, soaked in dirty stinking water and bloody from a gash on the side of my head. It seemed an age, crawling and scrambling to get back onto the hard tarmac. For some minutes I sat bewildered until I gradually realised my predicament. I became aware of the cold and the mile and a half distance between me and home. With an effort, which almost caused me to lose consciousness again, I slowly came back onto my feet. Nothing was broken. Thank goodness. I could walk.
My hands had been far too numb to use a key. I came to the window and remember the ironic contrast between the beautiful scene of warmth, the Christmas tree, the log fire, the wrapping paper and my own momentary world of pain and agony. All I had been able to muster was a weak tap on the lounge window. Luckily she had heard it above the sound of Jingle Bells, which was echoing from the television.
Bettina shrieked as she opened the door. I slid over the threshold, buckling down onto my knees.
*****
I was still lying on the lounge carpet when the doctor arrived, but feeling a little better. No stiches were needed, and after a rest by the fire and some ibuprofen and antibiotics, I was able to talk to the police. They had been at our house for an hour, talking and eating mince pies with my wife, waiting for me to wake.
It was a simple interview. They asked me to explain what had happened, paying extra detail to anything I could remember of the make of the car, or identifying features of my attackers.
I truthfully told them that I had not seen the car. The glare of the headlights had temporarily blinded me, making it impossible to give any useful information. Regarding my attackers, I explained that there were two men, but even that I was not certain, as it all happened so fast. I gave them a description of my rucksack and contents and that was all. They left with a promise to look into the mugging, but had to admit there was very little to go on. We wished each other a Merry Christmas and they left.
Christmas Eve was spent making the last finishing festive preparations. Bettina was busy most of the day, purchasing again the lost items. She even managed to find a bottle of single malt, but not the favourite brand I had acquired. I kept the name of that to myself. I spent most of the day, lying on the couch, trying not to feel sorry for myself, or concentrating on the pain, that was still aching in my groin and head. The hardest pain of all though, was the knowledge of the identity of my attacker.
*****
Every year Christmas day is spend at home. Robert and Josie, our two children, arrive during the morning with their families. They each have two children, and now that they have all reached early adulthood, we don’t get to see them as often as when they were children. The family gathering is so much part of our tradition at Christmas, it would be unimaginable to change it. Luckily, our son-in-law and daughter-in-law both seem to enjoy coming.
Bettina and I had agreed to play down my terrible experience of two days before. In truth, I was feeling much better and we both wanted to ensure that Christmas was not spoiled by long discussions about muggers and what should be done to them.
So, as Robert, Sarah and the two girls arrived, we put on a pleasant face and made a small joke about the cut on my brow. The swelling had subsided somewhat and a plaster covered the cut.
“I would love to see how the other fella came out,” said Robert, with a big grin on his face.
I nearly choked at those words, and found it difficult to muster a smile. If only he knew.
One great thing about being a grandfather of girls, especially when having been in the wars, is that they fuss over you even more. Emma and Louise hardly left my side, apart from placing the presents under the tree. This is another one of our family traditions. When we have finished eating, we all open our presents together, just as we did when they were small children.
Josie arrived with her husband, Bob and lovely Emily, who was home from University for the holidays, while we were already tucking into the first of the mince pies. “Hey, I hope there will be enough for us”, Josie quipped and we all greeted each other. A few jokes about being plastered and having a head as “hard as nails” later, Josh arrived. We were now complete.
Bettina was busy running around serving drinks, pastries and nibbles, while at the same time holding the fort in the kitchen.
“The mountain of presents is becoming shameful,” I joked, pointing to the huge pile of carefully wrapped and decorated parcels around the tree. “Whatever will we do when great grandchildren begin to arrive,” I said, at which point everyone looked towards Louise and Emma as the most likely sources of such offspring.
“Don’t look at me”, Emma remarked, with a happy smile.
Dinner was a strange affair, for me. For the rest of the family it was simply a normal festive get together, where everyone was happy, laughing and enjoying the togetherness of a big family gathering. But in my case, there were moments where I forgot about the robbery and got lost in the banter, and other moments where I drifted into a world of my own, becoming angry, wanting to tip the table upside down and scream. On a number of occasions Bettina squeezed my knee, to gently bring me back to the here and now. Luckily, everyone was so engrossed in pulling crackers, placing paper hats and reading the jokes to each other, that no-one else noticed my troubles.
*****
The presents opening is always the part of Christmas that I like best. We share our presents and I am always filled with pride to see my family receiving more pleasure from what they have given, than from what they receive. It sends little, “We did a good job of bringing them up”, bells ringing in my head.
Only this year was different. The event of two days ago was eating into me. I was switching between sadness and anger. My emotions were all over the place.
We took turns in opening the presents, thanking and kissing the giver, showing our appreciation or, at least, making fun with silly banter over the more unusual ones.
Next was my turn. Josh picked up his gift for me from under the tree and handed it over with a big smile. “Merry Christmas, Grandad”.
My hands were trembling as I unwrapped the gift. I first read the small card, which read “Lots of love from Josh”. Peeling back the wrapping paper, I gradually uncovered the label on the bottle.
Viña El Pisón, Rioja 2012