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Fighting
The Flames
by Wendy Freebourne
The muscles in John's arms flexed as he gripped the steering wheel
and glanced over his shoulder. 'Hush son, we'll be there soon.' He
spoke gently to the small child in the back seat. Then he looked over
at me, beside him, attentive still to what I was saying.
'It's not easy being a mature student when you're forty.' I told him
something he already knew. It was not easy for him either, considering
he also had his son to look after now; and was a year older than me
anyway.
I watched his knees
move as his feet worked the pedals. Secretly, I watched his strong
thighs. I have always liked well-built men.
I
picked up my thread again. 'My father said he was so proud of me,
studying for a degree. He said he wished he had done that himself.'
I paused, unsure whether to go on. 'Since he died, I've had these
recurring dreams about him. In one he gave me a bunch of white roses.'
'A peace offering?'
'A bit late now he's dead.' I was on rocky ground, revealing more
now. 'I really can't forgive his violent temper. He made mincemeat
of my brother and me.' Resentment was making me bolder. 'Probably
why I'm such a late starter.' Being psychology students, John and
I were familiar with childhood development and the effects of trauma.
'He might have given me some
support when I was younger.' As I spoke, I dramatised slightly, contriving
to lay my hand on John's knee for emphasis, quite unnecessarily. I
had to find a way to melt the ice and had decided today would be the
day. I was staying over at his place that night. 'It's so hard being
a student at our age.' Overstating the obvious.
John
glanced sideways at my hand and smiled, his blue eyes twinkling. He
looked surprised, maybe even aroused. He, too, wanted more than friendship.
We had talked about it, in theory, I suppose, but neither of us was
able to make that move forward.
'I don't know if I'm available emotionally,' he had offered, once
he knew he had custody of Toby. His ex-partner, much younger than
him, was having problems and had agreed to hand the child over. John
did have the support of his widowed mother, but she was getting on
and found the little boy hard work. Toby seemed to like me; so did
John's mother. But I was not sure about being lined up as a substitute
mother. I was planning a career.
'Has he kissed you yet?' my friend Daisy had asked when I met her
in town for lunch the week before.
'No, but he says I'm just his type. He's attracted to small, powerful
women. I take that as a compliment.' I knew he recognised my strength,
but also liked my femininity. 'I know he respects and admires me.
But we've spent a year and a half both talking about wanting a relationship
and yet nothing happens.'
'Well, Ruth, it is leap year,' said Daisy. That decided me.
Now I was aware of the hairs curling above the open neck of John's
shirt, evoking in me a feeling of intimacy. His throat was flushed.
He winked at me shyly. The child's voice piped up again, breaking
the spell between us. 'Daddy, I want a drink.' I sensed his wanting
to be part of our closeness, wanting some of the attention. At that
moment, I wanted John to myself.
'Soon, son.'
But Toby had
picked up my intensity and was vying with me, wriggling in his seat
now. 'I want to sit in the front, daddy.'
'We're getting out soon,' I offered, reaching back to hold his hand,
calming him.
John drove into
Osmotherley. We could see the edge of the North York Moors, rising
behind us, patches of snow still clinging to the hillsides. He parked
the car. It was Sunday and there was a fete in the church hall. Upstairs
they had set up a café.
'Tea
and chocolate cake?' he offered, lifting thick, blond eyebrows and
grinning from ear to ear. John enjoyed taking us on outings. I enjoyed
his enjoyment.
Toby had an
ice cream. 'Don't want my cake,' he announced, after taking a bite.
'I'll eat it then, shall I?'
Theatrically, John lifted the dainty cake off the plate with his huge
paw. He swallowed it before the boy had a chance to change his mind,
laughing as he did so, playing with him, and with me. I, too, engaged
with Toby, feeling light and playful in his company. Somehow my father
and the previous night's dream seemed unimportant.
When
the boy would sit still no longer we moved to a small room, stacked
with second-hand books. 'We're trying to raise money for the church
roof.' An elderly lady stood behind a makeshift counter. We sorted
through the books and bought some scientific magazines.
Toby,
skipping excitedly between his father and myself, found some children's
books. The lady smiled, obviously thinking I was his mother, his fair
hair the same colour as my own. She had not noticed the dark brown
eyes of his real mother.
'OK, let's go,' John's deep Northern accent boomed out, just as an
old book caught my eye. I was drawn to its figured cover. "Fighting
The Flames; A Tale of The London Fire Brigade", the faded gold letters
read, 'by R M Ballantyne.' It had been published in 1887.
I
picked up the book. John came over to see what I had found. 'My father
had a collection of books like this. He bought them in junk shops.
I don't think he ever read any of them.'
'And he was also in the London Fire Brigade during the blitz,' I added
casually.
'Really?' John
was impressed. 'Would you like it, Ruth?'
'No, I'm not bothered,' I put it down and moved on, my attention turning
to some yellowing art magazines. John wandered off.
Moments
later we both stood at the counter. He presented me with the book.
He had already paid for it. 'I thought you ought to have it. I'll
restore the cover for you.' John liked to work with his hands. For
all their size, they were often more capable with intricate work than
my tiny ones. I found this unusually attractive in such a big man.
I opened the book. 'Hey, look,'
I cried, getting interested now. 'It was published in Berners Street,
Soho. That's the street where my father was born. What a coincidence.'
When we got into the car
to go to John's house, I began to feel ill, for no reason. I said
nothing. By the time we arrived I had a full-blown migraine and was
feeling very sick. John busied himself putting Toby to bed and I attempted
to help. Then I sat down in John's kitchen and started to sob. I wanted
to stop, but couldn't. I was sure John was getting annoyed. Why has
he left me here without questioning, I thought. I was feeling guilty,
but angry with him at the same time. He's just ignoring me. I didn't
like that. My mind was in conflict. How can I explain? I don't know
why I'm crying. There's no reason. I don't know what I want from him
at this moment anyway. My head was throbbing.
After
about ten minutes, John came through the door. 'You know, Ruth, you've
been ill since you found that book.' He had noticed. At first I thought
he was accusing me. 'I didn't know what to do, whether to just leave
you alone to get over it. But I've been thinking. It's something to
do with your father.'
Was
he asking me or telling me?
'I don't want to talk about my father,' was my first response. Then
I remembered telling John about my dream. I knew I had to explain.
Reluctantly I told him my story.
'My father was a large man. He used to rage through the house, throwing
his weight around, threatening to punch my brother on the nose, swearing
under his breath at my mother. When I was small I was his special
girl, his little Ruthie. That kept me safe, I suppose. He was my big,
strong dad. I felt close to him. But I was also afraid. I learned
to keep my mouth shut.'
John
did not interrupt me.
'Then,
when I was sixteen, I dared to answer him back, only once, and before
I knew it, he had his hands round my throat. I nearly lost consciousness.
My mother was away at the time. After that, I wouldn't stay in the
house alone with him until she got back. I went to stay with my friend
Josie. She remembers me saying I hated him. I wouldn't talk to him.
And I never forgave him.'
'I wasn't his little girl any more.' I was sobbing again. 'That broke
my heart, and I think it broke his too. Somehow I had to put that
distance between us after what he did. He just turned on me. That
really hurt. I couldn't trust him any more after that.'
John
nodded his head, handing me his handkerchief. 'My father was like
that. He used to get drunk and knock my mother and me around. He had
a terrible temper. The only way I could get close to him was to go
out drinking with him. But that was later, when I was in my teens
and early twenties.'
He added,
almost as an afterthought. 'I just became like him.' He sounded sad
and sorry as he told me this.
We
had never discussed our childhoods in detail before. 'I didn't know
you had such a difficult time.' I did know John had had problems with
alcohol himself, before Toby was born, but that was all in the past
now. It had cost him two marriages, but not his son. He was doing
well at bringing him up.
I
was following a new train of thought. 'I've screwed up a lot in relationships,
you know, John. It's not easy for me to trust men.'
'Well, as you know, my track record isn't that good, either,' John
confided.
'The thing is,'
he went on, 'you didn't know your father before the war, did you?'
'True. I was born in forty-seven.
He was out of the Fire Brigade by then. He'd been a carpenter before
the war. He went back to working in a factory, but I'm not sure he
ever liked it.'
'My father
was a prisoner of war in Italy,' John told me. 'My mother said he
was a changed man when he came home, withdrawn and moody. Apparently,
before the war, he was the life and soul of the party, and very even-tempered.
I never knew him then.'
It
had never occurred to me that my father could have been a different
person before I was born. I never thought about him then. I was too
busy hating him. This was a new concept for me.
'You know, I was reading some research the other day, 'John continued.
'Made me think about it. It said, after World War II, the soldiers
were told to put their experiences behind them when they came home,
not to talk about the war with their families, just to be positive
about the future. The result was they became men whose families could
no longer reach them; what we call emotionally unavailable nowadays.'
I thought about it. 'My mother
told me my father was a conscientious objector and a pacifist. She
seemed to equate that with being a coward. He didn't want to go to
war so, rather than go to prison, he joined the Fire Service.' I had
naturally believed my father was a weak man.
'Your father wasn't a coward,' John assured me, 'even though, in those
days, there was a stigma attached to objecting to war. Anyway, he
must have experienced enough of the war as a fireman. It must have
taken courage to object - and to fight fires.'
I
had never thought about what he did in the fire service. I began to
think about the father I never had, the one who existed before I was
born. I determined to ask my brother more about him. He was already
at school when the war broke out.
'I feel I've been cheated. Perhaps I only knew the worst of him. It
could be the father I knew was the shell of the man he'd been before
the war? I only knew him as bitter, frustrated and angry. Do you think
the war broke his spirit?' I asked, more or less answering my own
question.
'It broke my fathers.
Now I know what happened to those soldiers, Ruth, what they saw, what
they experienced, I can understand what he went through. I had no
idea when I was a kid. We weren't told, were we? My father ended up
with a stroke when he was only fifty-six, and then he died. I was
in my twenties. It was tragic for me seeing him so helpless. He still
couldn't talk to me. He never did.'
'It's ironic, isn't it, John? My father finally died of lung cancer,
five years ago. He smoked himself to death. Seems like he had an affinity
with fire.' My mouth curved upwards for a moment. 'Yet all his own
fire must have burned out before I was born. The only fighting he
did after that was with my mother.'
I
wondered about myself. 'I think he extinguished some of my flame the
day he attacked me.'
I felt
much calmer after these realisations. My father began to appear in
a more positive light; so did John. My migraine disappeared as suddenly
as it had arrived. I was smiling again, grateful he had linked my
migraine to finding the book, that he had deciphered its meaning and
why it had upset me so much. I was grateful to him for taking the
time to explain about our fathers and the effects of the war.
'I think that book's helping
me grieve for the father I never had,' I told him. 'In a way, it's
bringing him back to me.' I thought my insights were helping John
too, giving us both the courage to face our uncertainties.
That Sunday night the wind was howling outside, but I felt cosy in
John's front room. We had not eaten. 'I'll make you some toast,' he
offered.
We were deeply engrossed
in the scientific magazines when we realised flames were belching
from the toaster in the kitchen! My "hero" put out the fire. We laughed
and hugged each other.
'What are we like, Ruthie?' he
said, before kissing me for the first time.
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