David Mathew - O My Days

Dott? I call out.

Can you feel it, Billy?

Your turn to nap.

I said, can you feel it? grinning broadly. Something’s tickled him.

No. Feel what? I want to know.

It’s working. I can feel it—I’m getting older again! God, Billy.

Not God. King Billy is sufficient, I say again, not much appreciating for the once the awestruck tone my travelling companion’s adopted.

It takes a few shakes of my head to knock the sleepiness from my senses. Not that I don’t acknowledge this has probably been the best snooze I’ve had in a month.

Suddenly Dott is on his feet. Let’s go, Billy! It’s catching up on us!

My first thought is of desert animals, but up till now Dott has shown no more than an acerbic interest in what lives in the dunes; this isn’t about wildlife, instinct tells me. Following Dott to where the horses are lying down, I demand of him the answer to the question of what’s catching up on us.

Time, Billy, time! Come on!

You haven’t slept!

I might never need to sleep again!

With which he boots his horse in the left flank; the animal whinnies and stretches up to its full height, its own companion copying the action.

We have to get to the roses first!

What about the rest of the food? I ask, pointing back towards the fire.

Fuck the food! Your belly full? Dott inquires brusquely.

For now. It won’t be forever.

We won’t be riding forever! We’re close!

It took you weeks¸ Dott, the first time you went there, I protest.

But then I didn’t know where I was going, he answers. I didn’t have time chasing me down. I do now.

He mounts his horse in the sort of fluid motion I can only wish for. I clamber aboard my patient steed with all the grace I exhibit when lugging my frame onto a prison ship.

Which way are we going? I ask as Dott’s horse takes off.

Which way, Billy? Dott shouts. Towards death, of course!

Dear Bailey

If you’ve as much as half a brain in your head, and I think you must have because I’ve got my intelligence from somewhere in addition to Mum, you won’t be in the least bit surprised to learn I could happily—quite happily—slap you purple, slap you blue. Let me count the reasons; in advance, let me count my excuses. I’ll give myself an alibi. I’ll plan it carefully. I’ll find you one night when you are vulnerable, and I will strike you down for your crimes against the family you helped create. Does that sound irrational? I’m feeling irrational. When I got Mumsy’s letter I experienced what I can only describe as a fit. I was dragged off to Health Care. Now I’m not saying categorically that my reaction was entirely the result of what Mum wrote, but to be blunt about it, it didn’t help—not on top of the couple months I’ve just been through. I read it twice. I was halfway, roughly, through my third reading when my vision—it kind of overlapped and I was reading everything twice or not at all. The words did not make sense, and as for the sentences—forget it! No way, Jose! Then I started on a spastic seizure on the floor; I banged my head on the curve of the toilet bowl; I bit my lip open. And though it only lasted less than a minute, it left me exhausted and feeling sick, and next month, apparently, I’ll be taken out of the prison to get a brain scan for signs of epilepsy. Define ‘irony’. I’ve been trying to get out—out in physical body as opposed to spirit (don’t ask)—for what seems like half a lifetime, and it takes the actions of a wasteman like you to wave the enchanted wand. Indirectly, granted, but it’s the behaviour of Bailey that’ll set me free for a day. Bailey? Well, I never knew you as Harvey so I’ll stick to Bailey, at your request. Why not ‘Dad’? You’ve got to be pulling my leg. That’s a word you earn, mate—please don’t think you’re getting the key to the kingdom just yet. Am I being harsh? I do hope so. I intended to be harsh; if I’m failing in any way, do let me know—seriously. I want you to understand precisely how disgusted I am in your ethics and savoir-faire. Perhaps you’ll visit. Why would I want you to visit, you may well ask. Number one reason—obviously!—is to give you that slap. I really will hit you, Bailey, when I see you—for what you did to the mother of your children, and for your cowardice. Don’t for a second believe I’m exaggerating. You’ve had it coming for nearly twenty years so don’t pretend you’re in any way subjugated by my mysterious words and deeds. If ever you were a man of honour—which is in dispute, but let’s give the notion the benefit of the doubt—then you will understand. The knock-on effect will be I’ll not be permitted any visits in the immediate future—not after I slapped Julie that time for spending all my money, which I’ll come on to shortly if I can sluice the bad taste from my mouth.

But both these things aside, I can’t help it—I can’t deny it. I would like you to visit me—which I assume means I’ve just killed any chances of you doing so—because I would sorely enjoy hearing your side of the story. Oh, and watching you squirm, just a little—if you’ve got a conscience, that is. See, we’ve met but we’ve never met. You’ve held me (presumably) but you’ve never held me. You’ve fed me (supposedly) but you’ve never fed me. Where were you when I didn’t think I needed you but really did? Where were you? Inside? Like father like son? Yeah: well, a letter at any point would not have gone amiss. Maybe I’ll send you one a day from now on, simply to make up for lost time. And to pester you with some of those pesky inquiries. Namely: I’d imagine it’s none of my business to learn how much you were paid to leave the family you began with my mother. But I’m going to ask anyway. I’m going to ask you because I am curious about the value of human life, in your opinion. What’s the going exchange rate? What were the markets like back then, when I was scarcely out of nappies and Mum was scarcely out of post-natal depression? Go on—tell me. I’m genuinely curious, with no malice aforethought. Or none that is obvious to me, writing this, at any rate. Look! I’ve even got a smile on my face. My mirror hasn’t seen one of them for a while, and I don’t expect it will see another one soon. Shame you couldn’t be here to share it with me. Did I ever once offer you a smile, as a baby? Did you ever once offer one back? I’m told I have a lovely smile. Very recently I heard tell from Mumsy that you have a lovely smile too. As I say, like father.

How much was it worth? Describe it. Yes, I’m angry. Of course I’m angry. At the very least you could have let me know you were alive—not that I would have made any show of giving a fuck either way. And by the by, don’t give me shit about bad language. Not at this late stage, mate. I’m a grown man now. I will speak to you and to anyone else as I see fit. This is my time of taking no nonsense. All right. If you won’t be surprised to learn I want to slap you, then you won’t be surprised either to learn, I need to thank you. O my days!—that is hard to confess. Thank you? Thank you? You who drove something worse than a knife into someone’s arm—you who drove a circuit breaker between the lobes of a good woman’s fucking brain. But you have no way of reminiscing on those days, have you? Because you weren’t there to view them. And I do mean view. Mum was like television in the first few years I can go back to in my memory, so I obviously don’t include babyhood. Would you like a leaf through the pages of that old magazine? Well, here is tonight’s programming. Four o’clock, see the kids home from school and start tea. We do our homework—or rather, I don’t do my homework, but I pretend to do my homework. But what’s this? What’s this, Dad? Why’s Mum given me a cup of hot white water? Silly Mummy! She’s forgotten the teabag again! And the first couple of hundred times she did that were quite amusing. The next couple of hundred times she did that were not. Because that was when Mummy started to scream when you mentioned she was a silly Mummy and she had forgotten the teabag again. And that’s why, after a while, you didn’t mention that silly Mummy had crushed a stockcube into the cup in place of sugar. Silly Mummy! That’s why you simply looked at your sisters and assented with warm brown eyes and shallow nods to drink a quarter pint of gravy instead of a brew of tea. Because silly Mummy wasn’t really silly Mummy anymore—silly Mummy was going away. Poorly Mummy was coming to take her place for a while. And poorly Mummy didn’t like to wake up some mornings. And poorly Mummy didn’t care which of us took the key to the flat on behalf of the three of us kids. And poorly Mummy forgot to boil the kettle and gave us cold tea. Poorly Mummy poured boiling water on our breakfast cereal instead of milk. Poorly Mummy forgot to go to the shops for food. Poorly Mummy got lots of letters that she tore in half without opening. Poorly Mummy was really rather poorly indeed, for a while. Of course, none of this is your fault, Bailey; none of your concern. She might have got sick if you’d stayed. Only this second’s it occurred to me that maybe she was getting sick when you left. If that’s the case, fuck me!—you really did bottle it, mate, didn’t you? At the first sign of trouble, off you went. But I don’t know if this is true, to be fair; and to repeat myself, it’s none of your fault—not directly—or your concern. Perhaps (I have to accept this rumination) none of your vaguest interest. For which reason, I’ll halt.