They were chatting amongst themselves and I was picking up snippets of conversation here and there … “he’s not going back there” … “we’ll turn off soon” … “nope, it doesn’t look good.” Until, eventually, James plucked up the courage to speak to me directly. “Thomas please, turn the car around! You can’t go back there!”
I went to answer him but was addressing all three when I said; “There will be no turning back. I am going to the croft. I need to confront him and nothing any of you say can change my mind.”
Juliet this time, showing her usual concern for my welfare; “But Thomas, look how far you’ve come. You don’t need to go back there. He might be twenty years older but he’s still more than capable of inflicting damage. Maybe not so much so physically but mentally – he is wicked! Please, think about what you are doing. Don’t do it, Thomas, please.”
She is only voicing her concern; I am well aware of that but with more than a little agitation I respond, “Look here, I found out something today which has quite literally blown my mind. George Traynor, who I know to be my counsellor, it turns out we have a more intimate relationship than that – he is my father! So, that godforsaken piece of shite festering away in that croft up there is absolutely nothing to me! And he needs to know that I know. This can only be done face to face, man to man. I am no longer the little lost boy he once terrorised. I need to do this for me. I need retribution; to confront that beast. This day has been a long time in coming! I will give him a piece of my mind and for once, he will have to listen to me.” They are temporarily silenced after my passionate outburst.
George
Now he knows. The enormity of the situation starts to settle in. I could sense that, all of a sudden, he no longer knew how to act around me. Our roles had shifted exponentially and neither of us knew what to do next. I wanted to embrace him, my long-lost son, my broken boy. But this is not the time. I can’t force a relationship and he has many emotional wounds which run deep and need to be addressed before he can move on in his life. I know one thing for sure though, I will be there for him whenever, period.
In time, it is my hope that he can trust me and lean on me. To trust me enough to let me fully into his life and potentially forge a relationship with the grandson I have never met too. At the same time, I cannot let my mind run away with itself too much, fantasising about what might be. All I ever wanted was to meet someone, fall in love, and start a family. It was a cruel twist of fate that the only woman I ever wanted was already taken and that she was married to such a brute.
Then it occurs to me, I have a daughter-in-law sat through there I need to reacquaint myself with in my new role as her father-in-law. But slowly does it. Undoubtedly Thomas will be with her now, informing her about the new status quo. The best thing to do I deduce, is to keep a low profile until either of them approach me first.
I don’t want to barge in when they are in the midst of conversation, so I give it some time then cautiously, I edge towards the door and exit the office towards the living room. I take in the scene … no Thomas. Only Janey is present, sat with her head in her hands. She springs to her feet as I enter.
“George, tell me now, what did that birth certificate say?”
“Has Thomas not spoken with you?”
“No George, he upped and left, making an excuse about needing to go out to get something for dinner.”
This was worrying. It was clear where Thomas was headed. “Janey, I fear I know where Thomas is going.” I motion for her to sit back down. “I never envisioned being the one to tell you and it isn’t right, but I have no choice. Hopefully, Thomas will understand that. I am pretty certain that he is going to the croft to confront Bert. Bert is not Thomas’s father, Janey, I am.”
I watch the whole range of emotions play out on her face. Shock gives way to confusion and, eventually, realisation dawns. This time, she launches herself upwards and towards the door at lightning speed.
“Well, are you coming or what?”
“Of course!” I say a silent prayer for Thomas’ safety and hope that we get there in time before Bert has a chance to inflict any more damage.
Thomas has taken the BMW, leaving us with the Volkswagen Polo. Not a particularly fast vehicle but nevertheless, Janey still manages to take off at breakneck speed. Her foot is flat to the floor on the accelerator pedal, and I have to ask her to ease off slightly. If we are to be of any assistance to Thomas, we have to get there in one piece!
Janey has never been to the croft, so I navigate us there. The conversation is largely related to the giving and receiving of directions until she starts asking questions similar to those Thomas had recently posed: ‘how long had I known?’, ‘for how long and when was I involved with Mary?’ and ‘does Bert know?’
Having answered all her questions to the best of my ability, she ends with one final question: ‘does Thomas know that you and I had a connection after his accident in 1998?’ I explain that no, we hadn’t discussed that, and also that we met in a professional capacity. I am not at liberty to discuss who I am treating at work; it goes against my professional code of conduct. She seems satisfied with my response.
By the time I have finished answering all the questions and successfully navigated us to our destination, we find ourselves ambling up the long driveway towards the entrance of Bert Taylor’s croft. I scan the grounds but can see no sign of my BMW 5-Series.
CHAPTER 28
T
he black veil of foreboding descends as I near my destination. The all too familiar bleak hopeless sense of dread consumes me as I close in. Some of my passionate resolve to confront him wanes as I fight to keep the demons at bay. Instead of the intended grandiose entrance full of bluster and noise, I find myself gently idling the car up the driveway and cutting the engine, happy to sit in the car a minute or two just gathering my thoughts.
This is not lost on my companions. “Are you OK, Thomas?”
“Yes thanks, just taking a little time out.”
James again; “Well, if you turn around, that’s OK, but if you choose to go in, remember, we have got your back.”
“I know that, thanks everyone.”
I had to go in. I had to do this. Even without the latest revelation that George was my father, this visit was long overdue. It is highly likely (given his character) that anything I have to say to him will fall on deaf ears, but it needs to be said. How could I ever fully heal and move on in my life without confronting him?
Just taking those few precious moments to collect myself has the desired effect. I find the much-needed strength to continue on. Unwilling to allow another negative thought to penetrate my brain and stop me in my tracks, I launch myself out of the car and march purposefully towards the front door.
A few loud thuds on the metal knocker is all the warning I give him before I pull the unlocked door towards me and land with both feet on the threshold. “Bert! BERT!” I holler and wait a couple of seconds. With no response, I advance further into the croft.
He has changed nothing. The place feels as though it has been frozen in time. I cast my eyes over the coats hanging in the hallway and notice an old coat of mother’s still hanging there. Also immediately obvious is the stench of the place. It is filthy. This, however, is new and takes some adjusting to! It smells dank and mouldy and rotten. It was never sparkling when I lived here but nothing like this. As I pulled up to the croft, the grounds had a dilapidated, unkempt feel to them. But, on entering the croft itself, the sense of decay and neglect are visible everywhere.
The hallway leads directly to the kitchen and the aroma is nothing short of pungent. Rotting food and leftovers litter all the countertops. There are indeterminable spillages down every kitchen unit I cast my eyes over. Plates and crockery are piled high close to the sink in such a haphazard fashion, it seems unfathomable that they have maintained their precarious balance. How could anyone live like this? The cows in the barn are better accommodated! No doubt he is only concerned about where his
next drink is coming from. ‘Keeping house’ would be of no interest to Bert. That leads me to the logical conclusion of his whereabouts …
I approach the door to the dining room and give it a good shove. There he is. There he is in all his glory, slumped in the same (now threadbare) chair I remember him sitting in. There is a bottle of Scotch at his side, three-quarters of its contents sunk. Scanning around, there are empty bottles of liquor discarded here, there, and everywhere. He appears to be blissfully unaware of my presence in the room. The alcohol has clearly numbed his senses. Well, let’s see what we can do about that!
Looking at this pathetic excuse of a man wallowing in self-pity, it strengthens my resolve and this time I do my utmost to ensure he hears me. “Bert! BERT!!” Nothing. “Wake up, man!” Still nothing, he doesn’t even stir. I venture further into the room and come to a standstill in front of his chair.
Unlike mother, Bert has aged, significantly, clearly a result of his unorthodox lifestyle. His face is weather-beaten and lined with deep furrows. His hair has changed colour and has thinned out drastically. Only a few patches of lank, greasy grey hair cling to his scalp. It appears as though he has tried to fashion this into something resembling some sort of a style, but he has failed miserably. His clothes are shabby, torn, and desperately in need of a good wash but by the look of them, they could fall apart going through a wash cycle. And his cheeks and nose are ruby red, tell-tale signs of an alcoholic.
There is a nasty aroma emanating from him and there is no mistaking it – stale urine. From the look and smell of him, he is drinking himself into a stupor and not bothering with any toilet breaks. Disgusting! None of this is lost on my companions. I can hear their chitter chatter as they take it all in. “Oh, the smell!”, “This place is vile”, “How can he live like this?” Indeed, indeed!
This wasn’t how I expected things to play out. How can I possibly get any closure when I can’t even get a conversation out of him? I try again, bellowing his name but nothing, only the sound of my voice echoing around the room. With no other option available, I lean forwards and grasp both of his shoulders in my hands and give them a good shake. The action doesn’t wake him up. Instead, his body arches off to the left at an impossibly looking uncomfortable angle and his head lolls backwards with no support, causing his mouth to gape open. He was well and truly out for the count!
What now? I can’t just leave! If I leave, there is a good chance I would never come back and I would never have my day of reckoning. At a loss, I look to my siblings for advice. James and Juliet come up with various suggestions which I consider in turn but then rule each one of them out. I then lift my head as I hear Caroline (who has thus far been silent) start to speak. “There is something which could work.” She doesn’t wait for any acknowledgement from me and carries on. “How about this. We get him out of the chair, bundle him into the car and drive around for a while. He might just sober up if we let some fresh air in and turn the music up?”
I consider this. It sickens me, the thought of sitting in such close proximity to this stinking putrid lump. But she could be right and without any other feasible idea I start to think that yes, this could work. The motion of lifting him up and dragging him out of the croft might be enough to rouse him and, if not, blasting his face with fresh air and noise from the stereo ought to do it. We jointly decide to give it a go.
I crouch down and angle my body in such a way that I manage to drape one of his arms around my neck. Gripping fiercely onto this appendage, I raise the dead-weight of his carcass to a stand. I am surprised. There is not much to him. He is a shadow of his former self and it takes far less exertion than I had anticipated to hold him upright. He can’t weigh much at all; his frame is tiny. Perhaps he has succumbed so fully to his addiction, he has forgotten to nourish his body with food, preferring to simply quench his thirst for alcohol instead? Well, whatever, it was certainly going to make my task easier!
Even through all the effort of heaving him out of his seat, he remains in an impenetrable stupor. There is the odd grunt-like noise but no attempt to open his eyes or form any words. Perhaps he will come to life as I drag him out of the dining room? Only one way to find out.
I take it at an easy pace. Yes, he has a small frame, but it’s still no mean feat dragging a lifeless body along. At first, all the effort is on my part. However, as we reach the far side of the kitchen, he applies a little weight onto his feet. On the face of it to look at him, it looks as though there is no cognitive function taking place. But there is some distant thought process is quietly at work of its own accord for the steps he is taking become more considered and pronounced. If I were to remove my grasp, he would simply crumple in a heap on the floor but aided along, he is somehow managing to work with me.
My siblings offer words of encouragement, but I need to stop for a minute to catch my breath. I lean for support against the wall in the hallway and try a last-ditch attempt to rouse him before exiting the croft. It would be far better if I didn’t have to execute Caroline’s plan. If I could only get him to come to life! We couldn’t be any closer, he is draped around me but still no response when I shout his name. I give him another shake (whilst trying to maintain the positioning of his arm around my neck) but zilch, nothing, there is literally no-one at home!
I take a deep breath and dig deep as I negotiate the last section – moving him from the hallway to the car. I am silent now, focussed on this last task. However, my siblings are chatting animatedly amongst themselves; “What a state to get yourself in”, “He is a lost cause” and worryingly, “Someone should put him out of his misery!”
I had hoped the blast of icy cold air when we ventured outside would be enough to engage his senses but, again, nothing coherent or determinable; only the grunts and groans of someone heavily intoxicated. I began to wonder if Caroline’s plan would come to fruition.
Now for the hardest part, angling this lifeless body downwards and onto the passenger seat. There is now a fair old wind blowing and for the first time, he makes an attempt at communication – I hear something akin to “What?” I take full advantage of his newly found lucidity but reason that if I want him to co-operate with me, I should refrain from showing any signs of contempt. “Bert, help me out here, let’s get you to a seat. I am going to count to three and on three, I need you to crouch down then lift your feet into the car and sit yourself down. Can you do that for me?” Nothing. I just have to hope he does what he’s asked. Here goes nothing! “OK, one, two, three …” His eyes remain firmly shut and there is no sign of movement. Fabulous! “OK,” I say, speaking to no-one in particular, since it is abundantly clear he is still very much ‘under the influence.’ “You leave me no option!” I unhook his arm from around my neck and immediately the bulk of him collapses to the earth with gravity, but I intercept this just before he hits the ground and manoeuvre him haphazardly into the seat.
Beads of sweat have formed on my forehead and I press both palms onto the roof of the car directly above the passenger door to steady myself, head bowed until I catch my breath. “Well done,” I hear Juliet murmur. I pause for thought. There is no going back now. I have him in the car but where are we going exactly? Stick to the plan! As Caroline said, if we drive around with the window down and the music up, he should come to life – surely? “Come on, let’s do this.” (A reassuring prompt from James who I am quite sure is loving every minute of this. Any sniff of adventure and devilment – James is your man!)
I am only too happy to open all of the windows when I get into the car – the smell of stale urine and alcohol emanating from him in such an enclosed space is almost unbearable. It makes me gag. I am not alone. My companions are equally disgusted. We set off with the windows down and the radio up loud (that too provides a welcome distraction from the nauseating aroma circulating in the car).
With no destination in mind, I start off by driving the dirt tracks around the croft, ever hopeful that he will just come to life. If that were the case, it wouldn
’t take much to double-back to the croft. I did not relish the prospect of having a show-down with him in the car. I can hear noises every now and then, but he is still maintaining a lifeless slumped posture and his eyes remain sealed firmly shut.
Perhaps the only thing which is going to speed things along now is time. He clearly needs time to sober up. I give him a gentle shove to angle his head further in the direction of the window and the icy cold air which is filtering through the car. I am so angry with him that, for a fleeting moment, it occurs to me how easy it would be to unfasten his seatbelt, push the door open, and give him a jolly good shove. He is utterly defenceless. And that, I am quite sure, would send Bert Taylor off to meet his maker post haste.
However, that was not my intention. I am no killer. But I needed this, I deserved it. I needed my time to have it out with him once and for all. He will not deny me that! Lost in thought, I realise that we have left the grounds of the croft and adjoining properties. We are now traversing one of the main thoroughfares.
“Where are we going?” a slightly concerned Juliet pipes up. I have no answer for her as I am not entirely sure myself.
“Erm, nowhere in particular, just driving around!” Caroline has once again been unusually quiet, and I wonder if she is considering the merit of her plan.
I get lost in traffic. It doesn’t seem to matter what time of year it is; the roads are now notoriously busy on Skye (so George informed me recently). My car seems to have been pulled and sucked into the throng of cars traversing along the long stretch of road.
We have progress. Bert is periodically uttering the odd word here and there. His eyes are still closed but it is some time now since he had his last tipple and I think the fresh air is starting to take effect. This brings Caroline out of her shell. “I told you this would work. We just have to be patient.”
IT’S TIME: COULD YOU RISK YOUR SANITY TO SAVE YOURSELF? Page 23