Row

There’s a hole of misunderstanding. It hovers between us, just big enough to stop us reaching out our arms and throwing them around each other. Just wide enough to stop us both in our tracks, the edge of unkindness digging hard into both our bellies, keeping us an equal distance apart. And for a moment our minds are somewhere else, rattling about desperately in the back of our heads, picking up and dropping thoughts, carelessly. And we aren't really sure why we are stood here, saying these things, we just stare at the hole and through each other. It is hard to imagine at this moment there was love there at all. For that moment there is just deep loneliness, where the face I kiss I have forgotten and another person is there instead.  

Time

I'm sitting in the car, wearing my new, dark red converse trainers. They're so new they still have perfect white soles - there’s not even a scuff. I'm sitting in the car, because it's pissing it down with rain outside and I'm at my little sister's football match.

The text I received from my Mum earlier in the morning went like this:

I am going to leave for Kate's football about 10. KO is 10:30. Can you get here near 10?

Being the sister who liked warm duvets and Disney films on a Saturday morning (rather than running around a cold wet football pitch in studs), I didn't realise that KO meant 'kick off'. I also didn't realise from her text that I'd be coming to watch the match, come rain or shine.

I peer out from the backseat window, raindrops smudge my picture of the sodden muddy pitch containing a dozen fifteen year old girls and a football.
It is definitely more rain, than shine, I think as I hug my leather jacket around me to keep warm. The zip broke ages ago, but I love the way the leather is all worn out and snug. I can’t bear to throw it away.

My eyes run along the sodden side line of the pitch, scanning mothers in anoraks and dads with huge multicoloured golfing umbrellas; all giving up their Saturday morning to support their girls. There are a couple of women who have bought deck chairs along. They hoick up their wellies and push their glasses well and truly to the top of their noses (to avoid any drips falling from their hoods); shuffling about to find the best spot. All of them are wearing suitable shoes.

I spy my Mum, hopping from one foot to the other to keep warm, leaning on my brother, who at twenty-four, is a good two feet taller than her. His hood is up, and I can easily picture his expression from the way his arms fly up in the air each time Kate runs for the ball. Even through glass window of the car, I hear him yell Time! Time! to my little sister across the pitch.

My sister is easy to spot; the one with a big white number 12 on her back. She's also tall, and one of the only girls who seems completely unafraid of the ball. I watch as she thunders into this tiny twig of a girl who instinctively flits out the way just seconds before she might get squashed. I remember when I was Kate's age. I'd been picked to play in one lacrosse match for my school's B Team. I hated every minute of it. My Dad had stood at the side line yelling, "Get in there! Tackle her, come on!" I was a skinny little thing, looking up at this gigantic girl lassoing her stick around her head and thinking I'd rather be anywhere else in the world than on that cold, muddy pitch, about to be whacked.

I'm feeling hungry as well as cold now. I fumble about in my huge handbag for a moment, finding only the remnants of a crushed pack of Polo mints at the bottom. I peel open the foil carefully, picking out the big pieces, popping them in my mouth before dusting off the sticky crumbs that have fallen across my lap.
Slightly more satisfied, I turn to look out across the field again, and that's when everything stops.

There's a tiny, but familiar figure way across the field. I hadn't noticed him at first. Well, he is wearing an anorak just like everybody else... I lean up close to the glass, so my nose presses against it and it goes all steamy.

It's my Dad.

I know it's him for sure, because he's kicking a football around with a tiny gangly person with no coat on, who is unmistakeably my littlest brother.

I look instinctively over to my Mum, wondering if she's seen him.
Mum must be having a fit that Henry has no coat on. After all, it is teaming down with rain. I imagine her hissing something along the lines of, "What's he doing allowing him to run about with no coat on in this weather?"
I stare for a minute at the man I haven't known for eight years. Everything about his stance and the way he moves is familiar, yet completely alien to me. I watch as he kicks the football with his left foot, arms still clasped tightly behind his back as if he either isn't able (or isn't willing) to let himself go completely.

A long whistle blows. The girls, muddy and cold with flaming red cheeks run over to the pile of jackets and water bottles splayed in a heap in the car park. Sodden spectators begin to wander over to hear the manager's team talk at half time, clearly relieved to be half way through and able to start moving their toes again.

I begin to panic as I notice my Dad is also striding towards the car park. As he gets close enough, Henry spies me peering out from the car, and gives me half a wave, his hand shooting down quickly to his side in case my Dad sees him.

I don’t know what to do. I hop out the car, forgetting my perfectly white soled converse trainers and land clumsily in the mud. One arm flies up instinctively to protect me from the spitting rain, as all the court orders, injunctions, tribunals and solicitors letters hang like clouds above my head.
Henry runs over and throws his arms around me. I love the way my little brother smells; damp and Henryish.

When I look up and let him go, Dad is standing directly in front of me. I don’t know where to look, or what to say. Instead, I scan his face, taking in each new wrinkle that I hadn't remembered seeing before. Mum is busily fussing over my sister, looking for her asthma puffer, doing anything rather than look directly at him. My other brother, George is concentrating on his boots, arms crossed, puffing his chest out to make himself look bigger. He doesn't need to, really. Dad seems smaller than I remembered him. After an awkward minute nobody's spoken, so I croak a weak ‘hi’. When he replies, his eyes look pale and watery. His hair is greyer and he seems somewhat frail. Maybe that's what fighting does to you.

My brother takes a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it, holding his hand up to shelter it from the wind.
"Alright, George?" My Dad asks.
He nods his cigarette in response, his eyes still fixed on his boots.

As if it was the most normal thing in the world to be standing in a field in the pissing rain with your ex wife and your estranged children, Dad then turns to my Mum, and asks casually; "Do you remember Paul Duskin?"

I watch as Mum, the natural communicator of the two, hesitates, taken aback by his casual tone. She grips her umbrella even more tightly to compose herself, before rushing a very animated; "Oh, yes! Didn't he play for your old football team? The tall guy?"

It isn't normal for my parents to even talk, let alone reminisce. Henry (clearly not as dumbfounded as the rest of us by this rare exchange between our parents) seems to have found a toy gun from the car and begins shooting foam pellets at the girls huddled around their manager for the team talk.

I’m jumpy, nervous; I fiddle with the zip on my jacket and wait for something to go wrong.

My Dad continues.
"Yep. Really great guy. A wife, nice family... Died last year."
"Oh no... How sad." Mum pipes up appropriately, her voice slightly shrill.

He allows for a dramatic pause, which makes me wonder where he could possibly be going with this. 

"...Yes. He died from lung cancer...” Lowering his voice in disgust, and nodding disapprovingly at my brother, he adds; “...from smoking."

My Mum winces. My eyes flit between my parents and my brother, who is getting redder by the minute. He's picking at my brother. Picking where he absolutely, one hundred percent shouldn't. I dig the white toe of my converse into the mud, and wait for 'the scene' to happen.

Suddenly, from out of nowhere, there's loud POP! followed by a dull thud.

Everyone stops.

My Dad has taken the toy gun off of Henry and shot George square in the chest. 

My brother's lips curl up at the edges. He tries desperately to pin them down. My Mum stifles a laugh.

And without the faintest warning, eight years of anger is dispelled across a rainy football pitch. Because we could finally allow ourselves - for just a few minutes - to forget.

If only I was Santa...

I've not posted on my blog for some good few weeks now, and so quite frankly, I wouldn't blame you if you had started to wonder if I might be Father Christmas.

Here I am, finally coming back to post after a well deserved rest from my miraculous feat of delivering presents to children all over the world, recovering from having eaten millions of mince pies and suffering perhaps the greatest sherry hangover in history.

Sorry to disappoint, but whilst I believe wholeheartedly in the Spirit of Christmas, I'm pretty sure I am not it.

I wish I had been in Lapland, wrapping presents and writing lists, because in the last few weeks, I have been having what could only be described as a 'major drama'. As one part of a large family, 'major drama' is something you just come to expect, like chicken pox and homemade left-over-vegetable soup for dinner. It's a proven recipe for disaster; you mix people who possess similar genes, who live in a similar environment, who have very different opinions and you will almost certainly get 'major drama'. (Anyone who has spent Christmas with family will know exactly what I am talking about).

Falling out with strangers is easy. You say some angry words (either under your breath, behind their back, or to their face- depending on how brave you are) and then forget about it once your pride has taken a little knock.

Falling out with family is so much more difficult. So, you're having a bit of a word, because quite frankly, you don't agree. You're just about to bring up that thing which you know will wind them right up, when you hear a niggling little voice. Annoyingly, it reminds you to be careful about what you say and how you say it, because whether you agree or not right now, they'll probably be back in your life at some point in the future.

You huff, because that's the last thing on this Earth you'd want after they've just said that.

The voice persists and niggles you again. It says that whether you think you do or not, you actually love this rather annoying person with these outrageous opinions. But because you're human, emotional and have a very different point of view, you ignore the niggling voice and go right ahead and say that thing- loudly, so that everyone else can hear.

There. You feel better for all of about two seconds. Then it hits you worse than an anger explosion. It's the lurker, the meddler of all emotions; guilt.

Let me tell you, nothing is worse in a 'major drama' than the guilt. It's going to get you and get you good, until you do something about it.

It pokes you when you're eating your coco-pops in the morning, prodding as you're chatting on the phone about dinner, slyly creeping in as you're quietly driving home or nudging you in the shower. It even gets you in the middle of the night.

Some people live with the guilt poking them for days, weeks, months and even sometimes years. They learn to live with the bruises (which have been known to turn them blue). They'll insist that it gets better, that the pokes turn into taps, which eventually brush right past you. They swear it disappears.

But I don't buy it. Not for one minute. After three weeks of pokes that jabbed right in my stomach and consumed every last part of me until I had turned almost completely blue, I stopped. Just before Christmas.

There is no good time to have a 'major drama', least of all at Christmas. All around me were signs of peace, light and joy. I couldn't help but notice fairy lights on the Christmas trees, lit up wreaths on bright front doors, candles glowing in windows all around the town and that warm Christmas spirit in the air, telling me that there was truly light in London. But there was not a bit of light shining inside of me, not even enough to write one letter to create the first word of a new post.

So I picked up the phone and I called. The right words were the hardest to say, and dropped like my shoulders as I slid weakly on the bed. During those moments in our conversation when I felt human and emotional and had a very different point of view, I fell silent, not daring to interrupt that niggling voice in my head.

There's nothing good about holding it in, about being too proud and stubborn. But I promise you, there's something brilliant about being brave and speaking up with the right words- even if it wasn't all your fault. Because at Christmas time there should be love. And if you give out love, there will be light, no matter if you've been nudged for just a few hours, a couple of days, several weeks or half of your life. It's just a case of mustering up enough of your spirit (Christmas or not) to do it.