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On Father’s Day

June 18, 2023
by the gentle author


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My father


On Sunday – when I was a child – my father always took me out for the morning. It was a routine. He led me by the hand down by the river or we took the car. Either way, we always arrived at the same place.

He might have a bath before departure and sometimes I walked into the bathroom to surprise him there lying in six inches of soapy water. Meanwhile downstairs, my mother perched lightly in the worn velvet armchair to skim through the newspaper. Then there were elaborate discussions between them, prior to our leaving, to negotiate the exact time of our return, and I understood this was because the timing and preparation of a Sunday lunch was a complex affair. My father took me out of the house the better to allow my mother to concentrate single-mindedly upon this precise task and she was grateful for that opportunity, I believed. It was only much later that I grew to realise how much she detested cooking and housework.

A mile upstream there was a house on the other riverbank, the last but one in a terrace and the front door gave directly onto the street. This was our regular destination. When we crossed the river at this point by car, we took the large bridge entwined with gryphons cast in iron. On the times we walked, we crossed downstream at the suspension footbridge and my father’s strength was always great enough to make the entire structure swing.

Even after all this time, I can remember the name of the woman who lived in the narrow house by the river because my father would tell my mother quite openly that he was going to visit her, and her daughters. For she had many daughters, and all preoccupied with grooming themselves it seemed. I never managed to count them because every week the number of her daughters changed, or so it appeared. Each had some activity, whether it was washing her hair or manicuring her nails, that we would discover her engaged with upon our arrival. These women shared an attitude of languor, as if they were always weary, but perhaps that was just how they were on Sunday, the day of rest. It was an exclusively female environment and I never recalled any other male present when I went to visit with my father on those Sunday mornings.

To this day, the house remains, one of only three remnants of an entire terrace. Once on a visit, years later, I stood outside the house in the snow, and contemplated knocking on the door and asking if the woman still lived there. But I did not. Why should I? What would I ask? What could I say? The house looked blank, like a face. Even this is now a memory to me, that I recalled once again after another ten years had gone by and I glanced from a taxi window to notice the house, almost dispassionately, in passing.

There was a table with a bench seat in an alcove which extended around three sides, like on a ship, so that sometimes as I sat drinking my orange squash while the women smoked their cigarettes, I found myself surrounded and unable to get down even if I chose. At an almost horizontal angle, the morning sunlight illuminated this scene from a window in the rear of the alcove and gave the smoke visible curling forms in the air. After a little time, sitting there, I became aware that my father was absent, that he had gone upstairs with one of the women. I knew this because I heard their eager footsteps ascending.

On one particular day, I sat at the end of the bench with my back to the wall. The staircase was directly on the other side of this thin wall and the women at the table were involved in an especially absorbing conversation that morning, and I could hear my father’s laughter at the top of the stairs. Curiosity took me. I slipped off the bench, placed my feet on the floor and began to climb the dark little staircase.

I could see the lighted room at the top. The door was wide open and standing before the end of the bed was my father and one of the daughters. They were having a happy time, both laughing and leaning back with their hands on each other’s thighs. My father was lifting the woman’s skirt and she liked it. Yet my presence brought activities to a close in the bedroom that morning. It was a disappointment, something vanished from the room as I walked into it but I did not know what it was. That was the last time my father took me to that house, perhaps the last time he visited. Though I could not say what happened on those Sunday mornings when I chose to stay with my mother.

We ate wonderful Sunday lunches, so that whatever anxiety I had absorbed from my father, as we returned without speaking on that particular Sunday morning, was dispelled by anticipation as we entered the steamy kitchen with its windows clouded by condensation and its smells of cabbage and potatoes boiling.

My mother was absent from the scene, so I ran upstairs in a surge of delight – calling to find her – and there she was, standing at the head of the bed changing the sheets. I entered the bedroom smiling with my arms outstretched and, laughing, tried to lift the hem of her pleated skirt just as I saw my father do in that other house on the other side of the river. I do not recall if my father had followed or if he saw this scene, only that my mother smiled in a puzzled fashion, ran her hands down her legs to her knees, took my hand and led me downstairs to the kitchen where she checked the progress of the different elements of the lunch. For in spite of herself, she was a very good cook and the ritual of those beautiful meals proved the high point of our existence at that time.

The events of that Sunday morning long ago when my father took me to the narrow house with the dark staircase by the river only came back to me as a complete memory in adulthood, but in that instant I understood their meaning. I took a strange pleasure in this knowledge that had been newly granted. I understood what kind of house it was and who the “daughters” were. I was grateful that my father had taken me there, and from then on I could only continue to wonder at what else this clue might reveal of my parents’ lives, and of my own nature.


Me and my father


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15 Responses leave one →
  1. Julian Rothenstein permalink
    June 18, 2023

    Wonderful writing! A joy to read.

  2. James Potter permalink
    June 18, 2023

    An amazing story, and so beautifully told.

  3. June 18, 2023

    So beautiful, so many things to read between the lines.

  4. Matilda Moreton permalink
    June 18, 2023

    Your honesty and your sensitivity are astonishing! Beautiful and poignant. Xxx

  5. Christine Saunders permalink
    June 18, 2023

    Isn’t it strange how children perceive events. I can only wonder how your mother must have felt knowing where your father was taking you. Nevertheless marriage takes many different forms and who is anyone else to judge what works for them. Happy Sunday

  6. June 18, 2023

    We always think of our parents as just that when we are children. We take the selfish view that they exist for us My father was at times, a very difficult person to get on with and my parents’ relationship, turbulent. When clearing their house, I found a series of letters which I wished I hadn’t. I don’t know why Mum kept them. Perhaps it was for me to see what a difficult time she had had, some of which I remember. But, despite it all, they stayed together. I have the dilemma of what to do with said letters. I feel I should symbolically burn them.
    Your parents seemed to reach something mine never did – comprise. As see through your childish eyes, this is fascinating. Thanks GA.

  7. June 18, 2023

    Sometimes, within a lavish piece of great writing, we find a gem that lifts us far above.

    “…….in this knowledge that had been newly granted.”

    This phrase, near the end, made me just stop and go into a reverie. It so perfectly captures so many impossible-to-quantify things. Happily, it did not break the spell of this story — but brought me inside, where I could explore all the shadings.

    Newly granted, indeed.
    Thank you, GA.

  8. Don Marsden permalink
    June 18, 2023

    house of ill repute providing services which enabled a family to stay together & satisfying the desires of men unable to cope with their emotions or sexual desires, probably did your mother a great service all in all, shame it’s not on the NHS service providers today. can’t believe they didn’t put a lock on the door!

  9. June 18, 2023

    amazing experience, and change in perception and understand over time

  10. June 18, 2023

    Incredible. Thanks for this. I’m sure the poignancy of your memories will resonate with many in different ways.

  11. Dorothy V. Malcolm permalink
    June 18, 2023

    Love your stories, so vibrant, humorous, and sensitive. This one was priceless, like a masterclass in the study of innocence!

    — Dorothy V. Malcolm

  12. June 19, 2023

    What a memory afforded you by time. I wonder if your mum had much say in what was going on , I’m imagining not. I wonder why you were taken along. Whilst finding your telling of the story very engaging , it has left me feeling rather sad for your mum. Unless of course , it was a mutual arrangement.

  13. Cherub permalink
    June 19, 2023

    Years ago I think a lot of things like this went on discretely, it was a different era. Children are very curious by nature.

    Sadly my husband did not have a good father / son relationship with his dad as his late mother was a very difficult and domineering woman. His dad worked 60 hour weeks partly to get out of the house and when he was at home took her side on everything, purely for a quiet life. He was also barred from having a social life or drinking alcohol. My husband always maintains his dad wasn’t a man in his own home and he should have faced up to his mother more as she had some very extreme views. He has a loss of respect for him because of this. His mother would easily fall out with family, neighbours and friends and never speak to them again (myself included, when she died in 2019 she hadn’t spoken to me for 34 years.)

    Thankfully things have mellowed slightly since my mother in law died. My husband sees more of his father now when he visits London, but only because his father is now in his late 80s and he does not want to have bad memories of him. He visited his mother a lot when she was dying but sadly she was still bitter and twisted towards him on her death bed. Some things never change and we have to just get on with it.

  14. Mary Gillender permalink
    June 19, 2023

    Wow. That was like watching a short, stylishly-directed film. Amazing.

  15. Georgina Briody permalink
    June 20, 2023

    As I started to read today’s story, my thoughts immediately returned to my father taking me out on a Sunday morning to a park or market and then, wow, I stopped in my tracks when I read on and realised who the ‘mother and daughters’ were. The innocence of childhood and then, over time, the realisation.

    Very brave of you to share such intimate family details and poignant. What a memory to carry with you through life. I’m sure we all have difficult memories to come to terms with and rationalise.

    Thank you for telling this story.

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