I am constantly reminded that it isn’t easy being a single parent, especially traveling abroad with a small child. I hear my fellow dancers in adjoining rooms getting ready to go out on the town and to have fun, while I have to stay in my room looking after my son. They find Italian boyfriends. I don’t. They enjoy life. I can’t. But somehow, with the help and kindness of strangers, I manage. The life I am leading is far different from anything I had imagined. I could have stopped myself from going through the hardships; I could have stayed in England where social services would have taken care of Mark and me. But I didn’t. I chose the most difficult road available. It is a character-building education and teaches me strength and endurance and the extent of my capabilities both as a mother and person.
Mark in Italian Courtyard, family photo
author, son Mark, and Lena outside Pensione in Italy, family photo
I begin presetting my costumes and accessories for tonight’s show in the area assigned to me. I hang the costumes in order of appearance on the hook; put gloves, bracelets, and other adornments on the seat of a chair; and place my change of shoes with straps undone and ready to wear under the chair. The other girls are doing their own preparations around me.
I hear Angelo come into the dressing room. “Hey, guess what!”
We turn to face Angelo, giving him the courtesy of our attention.
“I got a letter from Elena. Remember her?”
The other girls and I nod. Elena had been part of the group in Egypt.
“She wants to rejoin the group.” Angelo holds up the letter as proof.
“You’re not going to let her, are you?” The disdainful response coming from Debbie, Angelo’s partner. “She was such a troublemaker, saying nasty things about everyone. I was glad to see the back of her.”
“Oh, she wasn’t that bad,” Angelo offers in defense.
“Not to you, perhaps, because you’re a guy and the boss. She was horrible to the rest of us.”
I take a step toward Debbie. “She was nice enough to me.”
“Oh, Laraine! You should have heard her after you left the group in Egypt and went home to England to have Mark. Do you know she told Mimis that you slept with loads of men when he was away on his trips to Europe, and that your baby probably wasn’t his?”
“What?” I freeze in shock. “She said that to Mimis?” Feathers and sequins start spinning around me. I reach back to grab the wall to stop myself from keeling over. I lean forward. My forehead is sweaty. I feel sick.
I hear Debbie say, “We are well rid of her. Angelo, if you hire her, I’m quitting.”
A chorus of “Me too!” echoes from around the room as the other dancers voice objections to Elena’s return.
I fall back onto my chair, inattentively crushing my costume parts as I give in to gravity. Mimis had disappeared from my life without explanation, until now. He had been told that I had slept with many men to the extent that he didn’t think Mark was his son. If that had been true, that I had slept with many men, then I would have deserved Mimis’s abandonment. But it was not true. It was not true!
This girl’s malicious gossip, done without thought or consideration, had caused me tremendous pain. It made me a single parent, struggling alone to raise my son, and sometimes in desperate financial circumstances. I do not know what is worse, the fact that someone I worked closely with and considered my friend would gossip and even lie about me. Or that Mimis’s Mediterranean hot-bloodedness and ego believed the girl’s story versus asking me directly if the rumor was true. The girl had lied and Mimis had removed himself from my life. Because of this girl’s reckless lies, my son will never know his father. I vow, that from this day forward, I will never lie. I never want to inflict this type of pain on another living soul.
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
I lean against the seawall, feeling the damp, salty wind splash against my face, enjoying the moment as I am embraced by all I remember as being wonderful about my hometown. Portsmouth. The sea, the pebbly beach, the gardens and common along the seaside, the promenade linking the timeline of the city’s history with naval monuments and memorials, old churches, and military fortifications. I look out at the choppy stretch of water known as the Solent. I can just make out the Isle of Wight on the other side because today the salty mist is obscuring the view. I see numerous ships cutting through the gray water, creating cresting waves beneath their bow and ribbons of white foam trailing behind them. Flags of different nations flap rapidly from mastheads, and a variety of red and blue ensigns flutter from the aft deck.
“Hey, Mom, look at that!” Mark jolts me from my reverie. He is pointing to a gray hull emerging from the harbor somewhere to our right. “I think that’s a navy destroyer.”
“You are probably right. We should see plenty of navy ships today, including historic ones, once we get closer to the dockyard.”
author and son Mark, family photo
I decided to have a day out with Mark. My purpose is twofold. I think we both need to get away from the somber mood at home. I hope the fresh air will blow away the cobwebs of melancholy hanging in our minds. I also want to take Mark to visit my old haunts and to share some of my childhood memories with him, the passing on of knowledge and family history, the way my dad had passed some of our family history on to me.
Canoe Lake was our starting point earlier this morning, where I pointed out to Mark the old boathouse, still there housing the wooden boats and my memories. The surrounding flower gardens are a riotous display of color and so very English and appropriate for the damp climate. I had grabbed a few slices of bread from Mum’s kitchen, and Mark and I had spent a few minutes feeding the swans, the birds descendants of many generations of these graceful creatures which for decades could be found gliding across this lake, and no doubt descendants of those I had fed when visiting this lake as a baby with my mum.
After walking around the lake, we climb a hill and find the crossing to take us over the road to the promenade, a wide long path extending for miles along the seaside. Now standing on the promenade, we look out at a vast expanse of the gray-green and slightly choppy water of the Solent, dotted with buoys to guide the extensive array of ships sailing in and out of the harbor to our west.
From the beach you can also see the old sea forts rising from the waters of the Solent. These forts had been built in the 1880s to protect Portsmouth’s naval base and harbor, and during the World War II, submarine nets had been placed to stop the German U-boats from sneaking into the harbor. Portsmouth had been a naval community for centuries, its commerce designed to support the navy and its sailors. It is still the home of HMS Victory, Nelson’s flagship, and other historic vessels, as well as the home port of many of Britain’s modern fighting warships.
“Have you ever been over to one of those forts, Mom?”
“No, I haven’t.” I had often wondered what these old sea forts looked like up close, what they were like inside, but I hadn’t ever made the effort to find out. I think tours might go out there, but I don’t know for sure. “Perhaps another time we can go out and take a closer look.”
“That would be so cool!
“Hey, look, Mom, is that a hovercraft?” Mark’s inquisitive mind has moved on to another topic.
I look toward where he is pointing, seeing an orange craft on a gray cushion gliding along the top of the water. “Yep, it is.”
“Have you ever been on one?”
“When I was a little girl, I went across to the Isle of Wight on one. It is cool when it starts up. You feel yourself lifted up into the air before the craft moves backward into the water.”
“Cool. Maybe we can do that someday too.”
“Maybe.”
We move away from the seawall, now walking along the promenade to the west along the common, a vast expanse of parkland set aside for public use, with ornate flower gardens and park benches for anyone to enjoy. In the old days, the common land was where anybody could graze their sheep or cattl
e, but today it is where people picnic, play ball, enjoy the fresh air. I tell Mark that his grandfather would bring him down here when Mark was a baby and they would play football.
Mark is fascinated with history, and I do my best to act as a tour guide, passing on my knowledge of this deeply historic place where we were both born. Mark soaks it all in with a fervent curiosity. Along the beach is Southsea Castle built by King Henry VIII, with its black-and-white striped lighthouse tower and its surrounding moat. Although it is quite impressive having an actual castle here on the beach, as a child the main attraction was the steep hill on its northern side. The hill was high enough and steep enough so you could roll down it, building up great speed and causing a giddy sensation equal to anything the Fun Fair at Clarence Pier could offer. I smile thinking back to those moments of me tumbling down the hill with my friends. A part of me wants to give it one last try. Common sense tells me, “No! Not at your age!”
We walk on to the War Memorial, and spend a few moments reading the plaques and visiting the names of those local men and women who had died for their country. There are so many names, and many were so young. Even today we find both fresh and dried flowers and an occasional memento placed next to a name. I watch Mark as he traces names with his fingers, his interest in World War II coming to life, and death, before him.
“Hey, Mom! Do you think any of these people might be our ancestors?”
“I don’t think so. Our family is from Scotland, with some Irish thrown in for good measure. As far as I know, I am the first person in our family to be raised in England.”
“I see. Maybe we can find our ancestors in Scotland one day.”
I nod. “That would be very cool!”
After a final respectful glance at the memorial, we walk on past the Royal Garrison Church, also called the “British Military Cathedral,” with its stained glass windows depicting soldiers from history, including the world wars. A church had been standing on that site since 1212. After being restored in the 1800s, it was firebombed by the Germans in 1941, and today the nave of the church is just a roofless shell, its stone walls angled upward, like arms raised to the heavens. As a schoolgirl I had played field hockey and competed in school sports days on Governor’s Green, next to the church. It was a prime example of history living side by side with modern-day life, a reminder to all that no matter what has happened in the past, life still goes on.
Further to the west I can see the tower of Portsmouth Cathedral, first built around 1180, peeking above the rooftops of the old row houses, now historical landmarks, some with ornate plaques proudly announcing they were built in the 1600s and stood to this day. Close by are the Round Tower and Square Tower, standing tall along the edge of the seawall. These fortifications with their thick stone walls had changed little over the centuries and their cannons still guard the entrance to the harbor.
Mark playfully runs between the cannons. “Kboom, kboom,” he shouts in a deep voice, pretending to arm and fire them at the French and the Spanish, no doubt imagining himself as part of a battle scene from two hundred years ago. I take photographs of Mark next to the cannons and then we walk up the old stone steps to the top of the towers, where we are presented with a view of the busy mouth of the harbor.
All sizes and types of watercraft are entering and leaving the harbor, following the guidance of the buoys and the maritime laws. A large car ferry is coming in from the Channel Islands, passing by a ferry headed over to the Isle of Wight. Each boat slicing through the green water, causing white waves to dance their way to the rocks at the foot of the towers, where they splash in one last “hoorah” before melting back into the green brine. Ships’ horns can be heard: three solemn blasts to say “Goodbye” to the port.
“Hey, Mom. We’re not in Vegas anymore.”
The comment makes me laugh. “That’s for sure!”
Continuing on, we walk on through Old Portsmouth past small, narrow row houses, and then on through Spice Island, an area of marine warehouses, and finally through the, Gunwharf abutting the naval dockyard. All around us is the aroma of salt, fish, aged musty and historical buildings. Within the dockyard is the Mary Rose and her museum. She was a naval ship built in the early 1500s and was a favorite of King Henry VIII. She had sunk in 1545 during a battle valiantly defending Portsmouth from the French but had been retrieved from her sea grave in 1982. That she had been recovered from the sea floor and now had a museum to tell her story is a testament to how important it is to recover history and put it on display versus leaving it to decay at the bottom of the ocean.
Walking through the Gunewharf we see the masts of another ship, the HMS Warrior, berthed at the dockyard gate. She was the first iron-hulled, armored warship built for the Royal Navy in 1860, and she was the pride of Queen Victoria’s fleet. Beyond the Warrior in the dockyard itself, we see the masts of the Admiral Lord Nelson’s famous flagship, HMS Victory, the iconic representation of Britain’s victory at the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805. Our British heritage is carefully maintained as a reminder of what it took for us to become who we are today. I appreciate it. I miss it. Mark is right. It is vastly different to our current hometown, Las Vegas, the home of neon signs flashing along the Strip, punctuated with artificial lakes, Disneyesque castles, pirate ships, palaces, canals, palm trees, and fake turf. There is nothing artificial about the brisk sea air, the sound of the waves crashing against the seawalls as they had done for hundreds of years, or the sight of these historical fighting vessels.
Mark and I end our tour with a ride up to the observation deck at the top of the Spinnaker Tower, Portsmouth’s millennium landmark, from where we are able to look down not only at Portsmouth and Southsea, but across to Gosport on the other side of the harbor, and as far north as Portsdown Hill. This new tower gives me a view and perspective of my hometown that I have never seen before, and while Mark spends time taking photographs looking down through the glass floor, I take a moment to myself and stand by a window to reflect on how much my city has changed since I was a child, as have I. In some ways it is the same. The historical areas of the city have been preserved; they are as I remember them. They represent the parts of me that are the same, that will never change. Other areas are foreign to me, such as this marina where we are now, with its modern condominium towers and shopping area with restaurants. These changes reflect the changes in my own life. Even the royal naval barracks along the waterfront have been converted into luxury flats. I don’t like the changes. I want my memories of my hometown to be accurate. I see now that they are not. It is disconcerting. It makes me feel old.
view up Spinnaker Tower in Portsmouth from quayside, photo © Laraine Denny Burrell
view of Spinnaker Tower in Portsmouth from across Portsmouth Harbour, photo © Laraine Denny Burrell
I turn around to check on Mark and find him lying on his belly next to the glass floor, his camera pointed down. The typical American, no qualms about propriety, wanting to get the best shot he could of the ground below the tower. I smile at the sight. Then my smile fades. He had a good life in the States, but would he have had a better life if I had stayed in England? I don’t know the answer, and the uncertainly is unnerving. Over the past few days, as I have revisited my memories, my doubts about leaving England have become niggling, annoying fears that I had not made the right choices in life. Had my choices messed up my son’s life? Have I failed him?
I look around me at the display visible through the windows of the tower and go back to spend a few more moments with my memories. I look across the harbor toward Gosport and visualize the numerous trips I had made across the harbor on the ferry, mostly for dancing competitions and exams. I would practice my routines on the ferry crossing, not caring who was watching. I was a ballet dancer on tiptoe, or a Greek maiden making offerings to a god, a tap dancer or singer in a modern musical.
I look down to my left back to the Round and Square Tower fortifications and beyond to the promenade, remembering the beach days and picnics on the
common with my family, seeing myself in a green-and-white gingham-checked dress and pigtails bobbing behind me as I played ball, ran, roller-skated, played hide-and-seek. I feel myself smile at the warm thoughts, wanting, wishing to remain with that child.
But as I stand at the window looking back in time, the sun emerges from behind a cloud and highlights the window before me. An image appears, not of a child but of an older woman. I look at the reflection, the woman’s face, her eyes, the furrow running across her brow. This is who the child has become. The reflection looks as sad as I now feel. With empathy I reach out to touch her cheek. She feels as hard as the glass, but I also feel the warmth of the sun shining within her. The child is long gone. So much time has passed. I don’t have the power to bring them back. All that is left is this woman standing with me now.
The reflection disappears, as does the sun behind another cloud, leaving the world below me now shrouded in gray. I part ways with my memories and the little girl I once knew, and turn to face the present. Mark is still lying on his belly on the glass floor, now joined by other folks wanting to get their own photographs of the land below. The scene makes me smile. I realize that my life was made up of choices. The different paths I had opted to take and the doors I had selected to go through had brought me to this point in my life today. I could debate with myself forever on whether I had made the right choices, and if my life would have been better if I had gone in other directions. But one thing I know with certainty. The one absolutely right choice I’ve made in my life was the most important choice, and that was keeping my baby Mark.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
The houselights of the theater dim, the overture begins, a hush falls over the audience. The massive red curtain—expanding across what the Guinness Book of World Records recognizes as the largest set stage in the world—begins to rise. I watch as it folds upon itself, ascending beyond the gold-mirrored proscenium and revealing a dark cavernous space broken only by a few lights upstage representing a city skyline. The image of a plane flying across the backdrop is accompanied by a narrator.
Our Grand Finale Page 19