I carry on walking, suddenly realising where I’m heading. Itwas Liam in the café, talking about the wildlife hide. It jogged yet anothermemory I’d completely forgotten about. Going there with Dad and Dylan.
Striding out along the lane feels good. Maybe it’s the sunnyday and the exercise and the fresh air, but I’m starting to feel calmer now.The fierce heat of high summer has given way to September’s freshness and moremellow warmth, and the air is filled with the earthy scent of blackberriesripening in the hedgerows.
It feels strange walking the route I followed so often as ayoungster, with Dad and Dylan. And yet it’s oddly comforting at the same time. Ihaven’t thought of it for years. But now, it’s all flooding back.
As a child, I’d skip along beside Dad as he pointed out thedog roses in the hedgerow or the pretty white May blossom. He’d pick up gleamingconkers that had fallen from the horse chestnut trees we passed, handing themto us to examine and roll around in wonder in our hands. At the hide, we’d sit,the three of us, huddled close together on the wooden bench inside, Dad usuallyin the middle, peering through the long, narrow window that looked out onto aview of woodland and long grasses and swathes of wildflowers. Dad would tell usthe names of the birds that came to perch on the special table and drink therainwater that had fallen into the hand-carved wooden bowl, and he’d talk reallysoftly – almost in a whisper – because he didn’t want to scare away the wildcreatures.
Looking back now, as an adult, it occurs to me for the firsttime that the wildlife hide must have been Dad’s happy place.
I picture him now, smiling and relaxed, looking as if hedidn’t have a care in the world, just enjoying the time he was sharing withDylan and me.
By contrast, we’d walk the return journey – back to thehouse – in virtual silence, and the deep crevice would appear once more inDad’s forehead. My mood would be less exuberant, I’m guessing now because Isensed that Dad was lost to us again. He was back in the mysterious, grown-up worldwhere troubles made your shoulders droop and you shouted at each other andsometimes cried (Mum did anyway, although it was only ever when she was alonein the bedroom) and although you said you were sorry afterwards, the atmospherewas still weird, as if the next argument about the bottles clinking in the bin wasalready lurking around the corner.
Dad lost his job. That’s when all the bad stuff startedhappening. He was a talented artist, working for a big publishing company inLondon, but the business went to the wall, taking Dad with it. He tried to getanother job in the same field, designing book covers, but he couldn’t.
Now, thinking about it, it would have been a hugefrustration for Dad that he was no longer able to provide for his family theway he used to... that he was having to take jobs he hated,which probably paid less and which in no way suited his talents...
To my surprise, I suddenly find I’ve reached the wildlife hide.
So lost in long-forgotten memories, I can’t even recallwalking the last half-mile, and with a slight shock, I realise my cheeks aremoist with tears. I step into the hide and slide onto the narrow bench. Andnext moment, I’m smiling through the tears because I’ve suddenly remembered howDylan used to tease me. He used to say that in the woods over there lived amonster – a hideous giant, who ate little children when their parents weren’tlooking.
I didn’t really believe him. I remember I asked Dad about itand he laughed and said Dylan should be a writer, he had such a goodimagination. Dad put his arm around me and said it wasn’t true and that even iftherewasa monster, he would always be there to protect me.
I still jumped out of my skin every time Dylan pretended tobe the monster, though.
The Hairy Wolfman.
Of course! That was what Dylan called him. Remembering thismakes me snort with laughter, in spite of everything.Dylan, you absolutehorror, tormenting me like that!
I’d secretly enjoyed it, of course. Although despite Dad’sreassurances, I was neverquitesure that the Hairy Wolfman wasn’t real...
Thinking of Dylan and how sparky and full of life he waswhen we were kids makes me feel sad. I hate him for abandoning me with nothingmore than a scribbled note saying he was going travelling and it was betterthis way. (Better forwho?) But back then I adored my big brother, noquestion.
And suddenly, as I’m sitting there staring at a blue titpecking away at nuts in the nearby bird-feeder, another memory slips into myhead.
Playing with Dylan on the swing Dad rigged up for us – anold tyre hanging from a sturdy branch of the big oak tree in the back garden. Ahot day during the school summer holidays. I must have been about six. I wanderedaway to make a daisy chain while Dylan was seeing how high he could swing. Thenit was my turn again, but somehow I fell off and landed awkwardly, cutting myarm on some fallen twigs. The sight of the blood was shocking and my arm was stinging.I wanted to run in to Mum, but we could hear the row that was going on indoors,and we both knew without saying a word to each other that it was better to stayaway.
I shiver, recalling the times Dylan and I were scared toleave our bedrooms. When he was drunk, Dad’s behaviour became frighteninglyerratic and he’d shout and get angry about things that didn’t really make senseto me. Mum started staying in the bedroom a lot. Looking back now, I realiseshe was probably terrified herself – not that Dad would harm her or us, becausehe never did, but because his drinking turned him into a different person. Hewas so angry and bitter. Not like the dad we loved at all.
Mum had helped him get sober soon after they met. But afterlosing the job he loved at the publishing house, he spiralled down again. Iremember we lost our lovely Granny Hilda around that time, too. She was only inher early sixties when she died and it must have been a real shock for Dad. He’dhave been coping with the grief of losing his mum as well as everything else...
Not that Dylan and I were aware of all this back then, ofcourse. We just knew our parents were fighting and home was no longer the safeplace it used to be.
I remember wishing Dad would take us to the wildlife hide inthe woods, like he used to, so we could look at the badgers and the birds and theother little creatures that sometimes appeared. But it got to a point where hedidn’t want to do that. I asked Dylan if we could go ourselves, but he said itwas too far and we’d get told off. But it made me sad. I missed watching thebirds and the badgers with Dad...
My arm was bleeding after falling off the swing, andDylan – a year older than me and still only seven – examined the cuts and toldme to wait there. He ran to the house and brought back the special antisepticspray and some bandages and, very gently, he tended to my wounds and wrapped abig bandage around my arm. I remember he made me laugh by telling me a sillyjoke and then he brought out some fizzy pop and some biscuits, and we sat onthe wooden bench by the tree and had a sort of picnic. And Dylan said we shouldmake a ‘pinky promise’ to be there for each other, whatever happened. I feltbetter after that, because I knew that while Mum and Dad might not have timefor us anymore, my big brother was there for me.
He always would be.
Just as I’d always be there for him...
Now, staring out from the hide at that lovely woodlandscene, a lump fills my throat.
When you’re a child, everything is simple...it’s all black and white, right and wrong, with no murky waters in between thatpoint to human frailty.
It always surprised me that Dylan became a drinker. For me,seeing what it did to Dad and the family, I was never interested in alcohol theway my friends at school and at the care home were. But people react to badsituations in different ways, and Dylan’s way was to lose himself in thebottle. He tried many times to get sober with my help, but it never lasted,although I knew he hated himself for being so weak.
I blame alcohol for most things that have gone wrong in mylife.
