He was curmudgeonly and robustious, my old man. I was always a little ashamed of him. No, that’s a lie. I was always a lot ashamed of him. There was very little to admire, truth be told. He had no breeding, or class, my old man.
Now my mother, she was something different. Every inch the lady. They both had brains, my parents, but when it came to class there was no contest. I sometimes think that without her genetics I’d have been some scumbag with more asbos than tattoos, rather than the respected lawyer I am today. I never really understood why she married a much older man with no breeding.
I look across and study her care-worn face. It’s obvious she’s been crying: the muddied trail of mascara tells its own story. I watch her eyes as she follows the coffin into the ground, holding back the tsunami of tears tearing their way to her eyes. She doesn’t really manage it and the dam bursts, flooding and cascading, swirling and eddying. The sound of that primal force of nature is soul-rending. I stifle my own sobbing and go to stand next to her, holding her arm and giving it a reassuring squeeze. She’s more composed now. More dignified, again. As if she could be anything else.
The vicar said something – I really can’t remember what. I suppose the same as he says at all the other funerals. ‘A good man.’ ‘Sorely missed.’ Twaddle that sticks in the back of your throat and burns. He really didn’t do much with his life so what is there to celebrate? Mediocrity? Hypocrisy? Obscurity? I realise with a start that the service is over, the coffin now covered with freshly dug dirt, looking for all the world like a heap of grey chocolate shavings on a coffee chain cappucino. I smile to myself at the image forcing itself upon me at this most inappropriate time. People are approaching me, squeezing my hand and saying soft words of comfort. I don’t hear any of them. I’m too busy rejoicing that I’m now free of the legacy of my father and guilt-tripping at the same time about how I feel.
I’m now free to re-invent myself: to colour my past in any shade I choose. And I choose royal blue. That most noble of colours.
“David, it’s time to go now. Please help me to the car.”
“Okay, mum.”
Sitting in silence as the cortege made its way to the wake. A wake, of all things, where people who hadn’t seen him for 30 years could get drunk – for free – and pretend to give a crap that he was gone. A wake that showed the true heritage bestowed upon me by that most plebeian of fathers. Still, if mum could get through it for a few hours then so could I.
“David, I have something to tell you.”
So, this was it. At last I would learn that he wasn’t my father. I’d always known, always hoped. Somehow I knew that today would be the day.
“What is it, mum?”
“David, Reg wasn’t your father.”
Silence. She was expecting some response. It meant nothing to me because I already knew.
“David, did you hear what I said?”
“Yes, mum, but I’ve always suspected it. I mean, he was nothing like me. He was a pig.”
The slap on my face was as unexpected as it was vicious.
“You ungrateful little bastard. That man raised you as his own all those years. I could never have survived without him.”
“I’m sorry. You’ve always known that’s how I’ve felt though, haven’t you?”
“Yes. David, I’ve known.”
“Your real mother died when you were born. She died giving birth to you, David.”
What? What did she just say? My real mother? Died giving birth to me? What did that mean? She was right here in front of me. Was I hearing things? I must have drunk too much already.
“David, I’m your father. After your mother died in childbirth I drifted for a while – I got confused. I couldn’t live a lie as a man with those feelings I’d bottled up when I was married to your mother. I had a sex-change when you were three and I moved in with Reg. I had nowhere else to go; nobody would employ me. We weren’t married, just living that way. Reg has taken care of both of us because your mother was his daughter, David. Lara’s death destroyed him. The man you despise so much was your grandfather.”
“All these years I’ve lived as your mother and now Reg has gone I can’t pretend anymore. I should have told you sooner, but you were such a delicate child. I thought it would break your heart. Forgive me, son. Forgive me.”
Forgive her. Him? My life had just been turned upside down and he, or she, or whatever the hell you call it wanted forgiveness.
As I walked away, battling to leave the room before breaking down and losing it completely, I heard her voice, his voice, chilling in its stillness.
“David, life’s not always easy and neat. You’ll understand soon, son.”
I did understand soon. Sooner than I ever wanted. The full, tawdry story was published in a trashy magazine a few months later. Published for the whole world to see.
My father and mother are dead. I wish my father and mother were dead.
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