by Jane Davis
At least when Uncle Pete claims that he wasn't there for the main events of my life, I can remind him that, actually, he was present for most of them. I still have the bear that he gave me for my first birthday. He still has an autographed portrait that I drew of him just after I had learned to write my name. After I remarked that, other than a two-year gap, there isn't a part of my life that he hasn't been there for, he came next door with three beautifully wrapped presents.
'What are these?' I asked him, laughing.
'These are your fourth, fifth and sixth birthday presents.'
'But you've given me too much already.'
Gifts come in all shapes and sizes. When I was a baby, he gave me and my mother a home. When I was three he gave me my daddy back. And when I was twenty-five he put my family back together once again, and gave Nana and me security when we most needed it.
Everyone thought that the shock of finding her grandson living down the same road as her would be the end of Nana, but when Uncle Peter told her, all she said was, 'I knew it!' She was more surprised to find that she is related to Derek, who she had always declared to be a little soft in the head, but she managed to come up with numerous explanations of what she actually meant when she called him 'simple'.
Aunty Faye has taken to referring to Uncle Pete as the 'man of the house'. It's a slight improvement on 'that dreadful man'. The days when she and Uncle Pete tiptoed around each other were short-lived and they now fight like cats and dogs one minute and make up over a bottle of his best malt whisky the next. Nana and I are glad of the wall that divides us, although you can probably guess what her verdict is.
'Mark my words,' she confides to Lydia and me, 'one of these days . . .'
But I disagree. It is their history that binds them together and it is the same history that pushes them apart. They have settled on a way to divert the mud-slinging. When one of them strikes out with a maliciously aimed home truth, the other will shrug and say, 'Nobody's perfect.' Because, at the end of the day, that is the only truth we can be certain of. None of us is. Sometimes, we do terrible things to each other in the name of love. If we're lucky, we get the chance to make up for them.
Nana now refers to Uncle Pete as the family solicitor. And although we have agreed that I shouldn't call him Dad, I have consented in principle to drop the 'Uncle', but it's hard to change the habit of a lifetime. There are some words that just go together. Bucket and spade, Tom and Laura, Uncle and Pete. No, if I am confused about what to call people, I am no longer confused about who they are. To me, Peter Churcher will always be my godfather. When I tell you that I have taken a leaf out of Derek's book, I hope you realize that I don't use that term lightly.
THE END