Promise
"Good night Mum, I'm gonna fix this OK?"
Phil promised as he kissed his mother on the forehead to conclude
his nightly vigil at the local hospital. She was so weak it looked
like it was almost too much effort to raise her eyelids to bid him
goodnight.
"Night son, you take care of yourself, don't
worry about your old Mum" she croaked, words rasping in her dry
throat. He could see she was fighting the onset of sleep just to be
polite.
He lifted his polar fleece from the back of the
chair and put it on before leaving the ward. His mother's words of
advice ringing in his ears from his childhood. "Don't forget to
take your coat off inside, or you won't feel the benefit when you go
out!". His bottom lip trembled a little, thinking of the irony
of how the roles in this relationship had been cruelly reversed.
As a child his mother, Cynthia, was a big strong
woman, raised as a the daughter of a mechanic she was a Tom-boy as a
girl and the backbone of their family unit. She lived for her
family, held down numerous jobs to provide for him and his older
brother Jake. She vigorously upheld family values and shaped their
family into a close knit unstoppable force to be reckoned with. No
one crossed the Jones' without her knowing about it.
Everything that went on in that household was the
business of the whole family. They all went to school plays,
graduations, swimming galas, sports days, parties, funerals and
sometimes even doctors appointments. She felt that family life was
about sharing the highs and lows and becoming stronger from it.
Little did she know that she would end up laying dying in a second
rate NHS hospital with hardly any visitors.
Jake's career took him overseas as a motivational
speaker on the effects of positive thinking. He was so committed to
his work on "positivity" that he had left behind a
collapsed marriage and three dysfunctional children. Such was the
power of "positive thought" that he really didn't give a
shit about anyone else and had grown up into such a selfish git that
he couldn't be arsed to visit or even phone his ailing mother during
her initial sickness.
Cynthia would be devastated to see the trail of
damage and bullshit he was haemorrhaging around the globe. A long
way away from the two boys she brought up so lovingly. Rubbing Vick
on their chests when they had a nasty cold and putting on a paraffin
night light if it was particularly bad. Getting up an hour before
them so their breakfast and clothes were ready and waiting. Jake and
Phil skipping to school thinking they were glowing like a couple of
Ready Brek kids with their stomachs full of porridge.
This was not to say that the boy's father was
absent in the family, like Cynthia, her late husband George had been
just as firmly committed to his family. He worked tirelessly as a
jeweller and they lived above his humble shop in Walthamstow.
Unfortunately the neighbourhood was not affluent enough to sustain a
jewellery business alone so George decided to expand his business
into watch and clock repairs, at which he was particularly adept.
The repair business completely subsumed the jewellery trade so that
in the end George was known as "Mr Fix-it" and could turn
his hand to the repair of most mechanical and electrical household
items.
Phil fondly remembered peering over his father's
work bench to see a multitude of disassembled devices, incredulous
that his father could meticulously reassemble the parts back into a
fully functioning device. George taught Phil how to pragmatically
tackle problems of devices he never understood, decomposing it to
simple manageable parts so that anything seemed achievable.
Isolating the failed components via a series of logical deductions.
George was Phil's hero and inspiration. Sadly Jake did not follow
Phil's enthusiasm in his father's business. Much happier burning
through the profits of his father's labours in college funds,
university grants, house purchases and failed business ventures.
Where Phil saw a fountain of knowledge and wonderment, Jake saw a
badly attended open wallet ripe for the picking.
Phil inherited his dad's logical prowess and
thirst for understanding how things work when he was presented with
his first home computer in 1982 at the age of 12. George's eyesight
was beginning to fail due to a lifetime behind his jeweller's
monocle, and with the early onset of Parkinsons his hands had
occasional shakes too. However he regularly spent a Sunday evening
with Phil reading out program listings from a magazine as Phil's
younger nimbler fingers keyed them in. Often spotting the typo's
well before his young son.
Between them grew a love for computers, but George
sadly had to admit defeat of the modern miracles only because his
body was gradually failing him. Providing him no longer with the
physical and mental dexterity he had as a younger man.
Jakes love a computers only transpired as far as
endlessly playing computer games, monopolising the family television
set and making a tidy profit circulating pirate copies of games in
the school playground.
Then one Sunday afternoon Phil was waiting for his
father's slow heavy footsteps on the stairs to announce the onset of
another father / son programming session. Normally this was their
special shared time, the only day of the week that the shop
downstairs was closed. All other chores and homework were out of the
way.
He looked at the clock, it was 4pm. As a clock
repairer/maker George's punctuality was exceptional. He was never
late for anything.
The clock on the mantelpiece seemed to tick louder
and slower than ever. It was late autumn and dusk was beginning to
settle outside casting long dark shadows through the net curtains.
Phil had the computer plugged into the TV and the magazine folded
crisply at the page ready for typing. His dad hated it when he
started without him because he said he struggled to follow the flow
of the logic unless he was involved from the start.
Jake was in his bedroom blasting out the top of
the pops chart countdown whilst simultaneously recording it on his
cassette recorder. No doubt he would try and flog off a few copies
of the chart hits to unsuspecting punters at school by sneakily
cutting the recordings short before the DJ's spoke.
4:10 pm still no sign, Phil was feeling
uncomfortable and a little anxious.
4:30 pm the phone rang and he heard his Mum
answering it in the hallway. He could hear her muffled voice, a
series of polite "yes", "OK", "ah-ha's"
followed by a timid "thanks for letting me know". Then a
clunk as she dropped the phone on the floor. Followed by a
disturbing, sliding, crumpling, collapsing thud of his mother
feinting and tumbling from her hallway phone seat.
Phil rushed into the hallway confronted by the
sight of his mother spread eagled and unconscious. The "drrrrrr"
tone of the dead phone ringing in his ears. Strangely the first
thing he did was return the phone to its cradle as his parents had
constantly reminded him how important the phone was, it was not a toy
and you could easily run up massive bills if you don't hang up
correctly etc.
Finally his senses really kicked in and he
realised he should be comforting his mother. He called out to Jake
for help, but he was far too engrossed in the latest Dexy's Midnight
Runners hit to be of any real use. When he finally opened his
bedroom door after Phil's constant hammering it was to give him a
mouthful about spoiling the recording of this weeks number one.
Only when he spied his mothers prone body over
Phil's shoulder did he reply with a slack jawed "oh, shit!".
Between them the boys managed to sit Cynthia up.
Jake being the stronger older brother he lifted her from behind
whilst Phil slid her legs around. Leaving her resting somewhat
awkwardly but upright against the kitchen door. The colour began to
return to her cheeks, her eyelids fluttered and slowly she came to,
as Phil held her hand nervously.
"Are you OK Mum?" asked Phil
tentatively, "Can we get you a glass of water or something?"
"You went down like a sack of spuds, Mum"
Jake added jovially trying to lighten the mood.
But Cynthia just stared blankly towards the phone
not responding to either of her boys. A single tear welled up in her
right eye and slowly rolled down her cheek and onto the curl of her
top lip.
Phil looked at the tear with bemusement, he
couldn't remember the last time he had seen his Mum cry. She never
cried, not even when their old dog died she soldiered on and dealt
with it all in a good old "stiff upper lip" fashion.
"Mum...." , "...Mum?" "who
was on the phone, what is it?" he croaked, finding it difficult
to form the words in his throat, asking the question that he didn't
want to ask, didn't want to know the answer to.
"Mum?, Mum?" echoed Jake "c'mon
were on the edge of our seats here!", that was Jake subtle as a
brick, oblivious to people's feelings and emotions.
Then she began to wail, a low guttural wail,
almost like an old fashioned siren approaching from over a hill.
Both boys had never heard their mother make a noise like that, never
heard anyone make a noise like that.
The next few minutes were a bit of a blur. A man
from the local church knocked at the door, came in and took Mum into
the living room. The boys were sent to Jake's room to listen to the
radio with orange juice and a whole packet of bourbons. Normally
this would be seem as an unbelievable treat but they just sat
opposite each other on the bed slightly numb.
"It's dad, isn't it? Something has happened"
queried Phil.
"You don't think he's left her do you? Done a
runner with one of his customers?" joked Jake.
"I'm serious Jake, something is up, he's
never late, and Mum is acting weird." replied Phil.
"Mmmm, yeah" murmured Jake. It was
clear that his goldfish like attention span had subsided and he was
on the far more pressing task of labelling his latest C90 cassettes
with the playlist of todays charts. Phil sat knees up on the bed
cuddling them and rocking gently.
It was then that the man from the church entered
the room. Phil noticed he had a tiny bit of fluff trapped in his
left eyebrow. He was good at noticing small details, his dad always
credited him on that skill. Hearing the words "... about your
Dad..." sprung his mind back into the conversation. This fluffy
eyebrowed man from the church was talking about his Dad, he wondered
if he had missed anything important.
"... we pass on our condolences to you and
your family" the man said sombrely.
"condolences" thought
Phil, "isn't that one of those big words they use when
talking about dead people?" "Erm,
yeah, thanks...." he politely replied. His parents would be
proud of his manners, he was a good kid, had been brought up well.
Jake busied himself
untangling a mangled cassette from the cassette recorder and trying
to salvage the twisted tape the best he could with the aid of a HB
pencil. He had not heard a word the man had just said and all Phil
had caught were his "condolences".
The man backed out of
the room and replaced his hat, clearly he had removed it earlier as a
mark of respect to whatever had happened. Gently closing the door
behind him after courteously conducting his civic duties.
Slowly the gears meshed
into place in Phil's mind, the planets aligned, the penny dropped,
the bell rang. It finally dawned on him that his father was dead.
He was clueless to find our how? Why? When? His brother was all
consumed in his record empire and is mother was probably still a
gibbering wreck.
With no-one else to
turn to he sought solstice in the only "friend" he could
turn to. He returned to the living room and was bathed in the
fluorescent glow of the television. The friendly prompt flashed on
the screen begged for his input. Happy to perform whatever
operations he wished.
"Ready?"
