by Susan Lewis
‘Do you think I should have a chat with her myself?’ I asked, concerned to hear that Susan had been crying about her mother.
‘No, no. I told her I wouldn’t let on that she’d got upset, so best not to say anything.’
I couldn’t argue with that, because I certainly don’t want Susan to stop trusting her gran.
‘Anyway, it doesn’t do to be dwelling on these things,’ Florrie said. ‘Best to let sleeping dogs lie, is my motto. Of course, you have to deal with it if something crops up, but unless it does, it’s not a good idea to go stoking up fires that are trying to burn themselves out.’
I must say I tend to agree with her, but I can’t help being mindful of what Dr Leigh said, that our Susan’s behaviour was a cry for help. I wonder if we’re managing to start answering it at last. I hope so, and she seems happy enough at the moment, so let’s be grateful for that.
I’m sitting in the front room now, savouring a drop of the port Albert Pitman brought over last week for Christmas. Susan and Gary are upstairs getting ready for bed, and arguing again by the sound of it. I’ll go and sort them out in a minute. I might even remind them that Father Christmas won’t be coming down our chimney tonight if they don’t start behaving themselves. That’ll make them groan and throw pillows at me as they remind me they’ve known for years that he doesn’t exist. It hasn’t stopped them putting their stockings out, though. There they are, hanging off the mantelpiece, held in place by a couple of Eddress’s prized ornaments, because our Susan’s decided we should have Christmas in the front room this year.
Thanks to our Nance I’ve got plenty to put in the stockings, chocolate pennies, tangerines, hazelnuts, dot-to-dot books, crossword puzzles, tights for our Susan and football socks for Gary. Last week we drove up Kingswood in our new Ford Zephyr to have a look round John James, the electrical shop, to see if we could find a radiogram for Susan. As luck would have it they had just what she was looking for, reconditioned, but in very good nick, and I must say it’s a handsome piece of furniture, made of teak with built-in speakers each side and the facility to hold eight records at a time that drop down one by one to play. There’s a seventy-eight rpm setting as well as the forty-five and thirty-three, so from time to time I’ll be able to listen to some of the old classical pieces I’ve collected on His Master’s Voice.
I take another sip of port and find myself thinking back over the Christmases we’ve spent in this house, most of them with Eddress – this will be the fourth without her. It makes my heart churn to realise how much time has gone by, and even now I still half expect her to come waltzing in through the door. We always used to treat ourselves to a glass of port on Christmas Eve before she was ill, usually after we’d finished sorting out the presents and stockings. I wonder what she’d make of the way I’m coping with the children on my own, or of the present I gave to Anne when I took her for a drink last Saturday night. More chocolates, a Dairy Box this time, and a copy of Edna O’Brien’s The Girl with Green Eyes, because she mentioned the night we went to the pictures that she hadn’t read it, but would like to. I gave her a card too, saying Merry Christmas Anne, with best wishes from Eddie. In the card she gave me she’d written Wishing you all the best for Christmas and the coming year, Anne. She had a present for me too, The Oxford Companion to English Literature, a marvellous book that I shall spend many contented hours browsing through.
I wonder if a day will ever come when she spends Christmas with us, or us with her in her lovely Georgian house set back amongst the trees. I can’t say it’s something I feel comfortable giving a lot of thought to, because this is where we belong, in Eddress’s home. Still, there’s no doubt Anne is a very kind and proper person, with exemplary morals and a gentility of spirit that is most becoming. Not at all like Eddress with her raucous laughter and boisterous shenanigans. She filled up the house in a way that can probably never be repeated, but we’re starting to manage without her, I think, if only just.
They say you can wait half your life for a miracle to come along, and then half a dozen might turn up at once. I’m sure I was on the receiving end the day I met Eddress, and now I’m hopeful that one or two more will come our way over time, turning me into a father my children can be proud of, and our Gary into a professional footballer, or whatever he wants to be.
As for our Susan, one of the biggest miracles of all wouldn’t be if she ended up doing well for herself, though that indeed would be big and welcome, it would be that for once in my life where she’s concerned, I could end up having the last word.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
It wouldn’t be true to say that the troubled years were all behind us from the point at which I end this book, because I’m afraid they weren’t. Much to my dad’s dismay I left school at fifteen with no qualifications, nor much ambition to speak of, though plenty of grand ideas to be sure.
After a series of temporary office jobs around Bristol, at the age of eighteen I finally found myself at HTV West’s which was when the beginnings of a serious career got under way. From there I moved to Thames Television in London, aged twenty-two, and after working for some years in the drama department I started to write my first book, Cloudesley, a children’s fantasy adventure which has never been published.
As for my dad, I wish I could say that he went on to find happiness with Anne, but alas, after several months of ‘friendship’ she made the mistake of asking him to choose between her and his children, and alas, he made the mistake of choosing us. As far as I’m aware he never met anyone after that; certainly there’s no mention of anyone in his diaries, nor did he speak of anyone to me. I was in my thirties before he got round to telling me about Anne. Contrary to what I’ve written, I have no actual recollection of her, but I have a fair idea of how, in my self-absorbed teenage years, I’d have viewed a rival for my dad’s affections.
He remained passionately interested in literature, poetry, philosophy, engineering, the physical act of writing and politics, throughout his life. However, during the early eighties, at the age of fifty-four, he was made redundant from his job. It broke his heart to see what happened to the unions during that time, most particularly the NUM. Like so many, he never really seemed to recover from it. His depression was long and very difficult for us all, but Gary and I never stopped loving and caring for him, and when eventually he received the right medication he and I started to become real friends. We spent many long hours talking about his life, and Mum’s, which is mainly how I was able to write Just One More Day, and this book too.
He died in 1990, going peacefully in his sleep, aged sixty-two, at a time when I’m sure he truly believed that his children no longer needed him. (This is what he’d told the doctor he would do after my mother died, and it appears to be what happened.) Gary was doing well in his job with a sign company, and was about to get married, and I was on the eve of having my third book published. Dad was very proud of my success, but was forever insisting I should keep my feet on the ground. I think his early rejection from a publisher was a blow that he couldn’t bear to think of me having to suffer.
I could wish he’d hung on just a little longer to meet his grandchildren, because I know how much joy they’d have brought him, but I guess by then he’d had enough and was ready to go.
Whether he’s with my mum now I have no idea, but I’d certainly like to think so, because I know in his heart it was what he waiting for.
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Copyright © Susan Lewis 2011
Susan Lewis has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
This book is a work of non-fiction based on the life, experiences and recollections of the author. In some cases names of people have been changed to protect the privacy of others. The author has stated to the publishers that, except in such minor respects not affecting the substantial accuracy of the work, the contents of this book are true.
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is available from the British Library
ISBN 9780099560074
