Martin Bridgeman

It was like a slap but this was different. I’d had a slap or two in the little fights or if the road football match was going wrong, things like that were to be expected, but this hurt in a way that a slap did not. I’m sure I was in some sort of childish row about what I can’t remember, but it was so important at the time. I had a temper and easily risen to anger but this caught me.

This was a sick feeling in my stomach, the ground was moving, almost like it was coming up to meet me and it was going to hurt and I could do nothing. I knew it was going to hurt and I was confused. What was going on?

What did it mean? That they were not my real Mammy and Daddy? I didn’t understand the sentence, what did “real” mean? Then, like so many more times, I took my cue from the look on other peoples faces. Some of the girls looked sad, the boy who said it knew he had done something really bad. His sister shouted at him and he ran into his house with her following.

I turned around and walked out of the garden and ran down to my house. It was a long way. I’ve walked it many times, and it’s less than 100 metres, but I felt like I would never get to my garden. I can’t remember if anyone came with me, but I hope someone did.

I banged on the door, not loud, but rattled the knocker. I waited. My mother answered, wearing her housecoat, flour on the front, interrupted, wiping her hands to answer the knock.

My face was wet, but I imagine she was wondering : was it tears for another fall, another little tiff, wound up by a older child who knew how to needle a sibling but knew I didn’t know to counter attack because I was an only child? Had the temper come out again?

I must have looked a right state. There were no obvious scrapes, childish war wounds, just tears, snot and a worried little face.

I blurted it all out in the hall, half falling in to her, breathless, confused, angry, sick in my stomach, trying to make sense, saying the words he had said out loud, almost like a question.

A “don’t mind them” wasn’t going to cut it this time. Maisie brought me upstairs. She washed and dried my face, held my hands after drying them. Looked at me, smiling, and did her best to smooth out my hair (that always did what it wanted despite brushing and the finest oils known to the local barber).

“Have a lie down, chicken. You’re too upset to go back out. Dad will be home soon”. The ‘don’t mind them’ was implied. She did rise to anger, and there wer

Maybe I was dreaming but I was sleepy now. In the daytime too. It just didn’t feel right.

She was, as she was almost always, right. Right then I felt like I could have fallen down. I lay down on my bed and looked up at the ceiling, thrummed the bed cover with my fingers, feeling the ridges, hearing the sound of the kids playing and enjoying themselves, forgetting me so easily, while I was so sad. Wanting to be out there but knowing I couldn’t go out, maybe ever. Something had happened and I couldn’t say what it was, it wasn’t making any sense and I felt sad like I had never felt before. Seeing the faces in my head again, the “funny” silence, the whispers when I ran for home. They knew something was not right either.

Mick arrived home soon after. It was his half day or something, but he was home early and I heard his key in the door, my mother’s footsteps in the hall, low voices.

I sat up as he was on his way up the stairs. He smiled at me.

“Hello sundown”, he said. His funny name for me. Took me ages to figure out the pun. For now, it was lovely to see him, his smile. My Dad. Home as usual, some things hadn’t changed.

He put his hand in his pocket and out came a packet of Toffos. I took them, said thanks and opened one and then offered him one. He said no, and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Tell me what happened?”

I puzzled the words out, almost unsure if I was supposed to say anything. Was I “telling on” the boy that said the words? Was I being bold? How could I make my Dad understand the words when I didn’t understand them myself?

He lIstened, let me get it out.

He smiled.

“We’re your Mam and Dad and we love you very very much. Nothing will ever change that.”

He stopped. Took a breath. Looked at me again, right into my eyes.

“We wanted a little boy for a long time and we prayed to Holy God and then you came along and we love you and that’s the most important thing. Don’t mind what he said, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He was only being mean.”

I felt better. I was still not sure what happened but I felt much better.

This, though, was very different. Perhaps it was a day they hoped would never come but knew it had to. Luck was on Maisie’s side, Mick was home soon, so they would be able to handle it together. It may have been discussed with them with the agency, but they were on their own with this. No chance to discuss strategies , no forewarnings, almost pure instinct. Not the way they wanted things to happen.

It worked.

I had the one thing that we all need. Love. From that came security, certainty, confidence. My Mam and Dad loved me.

Life carried on. I did go back out on the road, no actual apology but it was obvious to me that he had gotten into serious trouble so that was the end of it. We were never that close anyway so it wasn’t a big deal and things had definitely changed.

I imagine that there were more than a few strange conversations in the houses of the other children that had witnessed it all and I’m sure their parents had to navigate some tricky waters. I can’t remember anyone ever saying anything like that to me as a child again.

But, back then, I knew I was loved by my Mam and my Dad and that did me. The “real” part, whatever that was, didn’t matter very much to me after that.

As I will continue to say to anyone who cares to listen: it’s complicated.