by Joseph Kane
Everything went smooth for the first three months at school. Bonfire night had just passed when I decided to save a few fireworks for myself, from a few of the boxes that my family had stored in the spare bedroom. The idea was stupid, but I did it anyway. The next morning, I took some fireworks with me to school, setting off a few on the grass on the way there. It was only to show off. Later that day I had misbehaved, so one of the teachers sent me to sit in the library on my own, to think about my actions. Apart from the librarian, I was the only pupil in the room, just behind a wall that blocked our line of sight. Twiddling my thumbs, boredom had set in. Reaching for my bag, I played with the fireworks in my hand while pretending to read a book. Playing with the flint on the lighter, an idea came over me to put the flame close to the fuse. If it lights, then I’ll put it out with my finger. If it doesn’t light, then I’ll put it away. The heat ignited the fuse. Panic came over me. Licking my fingers, I covered the fuse to put it out. With the fuse disappearing, it reappeared at the other end of my fingers, burning straight through. With seconds to go, it was about to explode in my face. A thought came over me to pull the fuse out, but I was worried that gunpowder might ignite it. Holding an air-banger in my hand with not much choice, it was either her or me, and it wasn’t going to be me. I threw the fucker straight to the other side of the room near the woman. Knowing World War III was about to start, I hid behind the wall covering my ears until the nightmare was over. The last thing that librarian expected that morning, was a firework to be thrown at her.
“eeerrrrrrrrrrrrcccchhhhhh……”
“BANG!”
Unable to see or look from behind the wall, I quickly sat back in my seat with burnt fingers acting inconspicuous after hearing the lady dive to the floor. She ran towards the library doors looking like she had been dragged through a bush, before looking at me.
“Did someone just come in here?”
“I don’t know.”
We looked confused at each other. Within two seconds, she knew it was me.
“I’m going to get the headmaster; stay there!”
“Shit!”
I had done it this time. Not knowing what to do, I stored the rockets I had wrapped in bubble wrap under the bookshelf on the floor. No one would find them unless they had a good look. Next, I looked at the damage before running out of school quickly. The firework had burnt the carpet, then exploded against a wall. I was lucky. If that room had set on fire, my life would have been over. Ashamed, I went to my mums to stay for a few days. Telling her what happened was the worst thing I ever did. The school and my grandparents knew it was me, and I couldn’t return until I had a meeting with the headmaster. No one had to be a genius to figure out I was getting expelled. That night, my mum got drunk when the moon was full, before turning into something other than human, like she does every night. Strangely, she didn’t kick my door in or wake me up. Instead, she called the fire brigade at 3am.
“Can you please send someone to my son's high school, he has hidden fireworks in children’s books, so when they open them, they will explode in the child’s face.”
I couldn’t believe it. What the hell was wrong in this woman’s head? Why the hell would anyone say such a stupid thing? The fire brigade drove to my school, dragged the caretaker out of bed to unlock the doors, then searched for fireworks for three hours amongst ten thousand books. They found the rockets, but still had to check there were no traps. I made silly mistakes, but my mum’s brain was warped from all the shite she drank, concealing my fate at that school. My grandparents were upset, forcing my dad to come from Bournemouth to attend the meeting with my mum. How inconvenient that must have been for him now I know his little secret. Being the first and last meeting they had attended in my entire school life, the headmaster gave a running commentary of what happened. They kicked me out, with no other way to fix it. In the car park, my mum and dad started bickering about each other’s failures. I broke down crying with my hands over my face. Not over what happened, but from the trauma I went through since birth. My mum went to cuddle me, so I pushed the sadistic bitch away. Then my dad went to hug me as he filled up with tears, while I wept on his black leather jacket. Returning to my Grandparents, I mainly stayed in my room before being hit with even more bad news in the following weeks.
During our holiday to Florida, my gran had found a lump on her breast. Keeping it quiet for a short time, she was sent to do some test at the hospital. What a major blow. Out of all the people in the world, why did she have a lump? Why not my mum or one of my criminal friends that didn’t value life. With the test coming back as cancer, everyone was shell shocked. Intensive treatment started to try and eradicate it, beginning with the removal of her left breast. The thought of it made me quiver. She tried to show me the scar later on, but I couldn’t look. Any sight of blood made me weak at the knees. She kept strong over the diagnoses, but she still had a long way to go. Further test revealed it was in her blood. The next stage was chemotherapy. It made her sick which is what we all wanted to avoid. The chemo was worse than the disease. This was the queen of the family that organised everything. If anything should happen, the rest of us would be in despair. She didn’t represent a branch breaking off a tree; she was the tree. If she fell, we fell. The thought of losing her terrified the family. Mick and my grandad couldn’t even use a washing machine. Being just over sixty shortly after retirement, she wasn’t even old. After weeks pulling her guts up in the toilet, hair fell all around the house. The wigs she had to wear looked stupid. There was no comparison to her real hair. Not realising the seriousness of the matter, the family tried their best to get on with things. Returning to the hospital for further test, it was more bad news. She had terminal cancer. It reached her bone marrow. My grandad promised to get a bone marrow transplant, but we all knew it wasn’t realistic. It travelled through her precious body.
Being the strong stubborn woman my gran was, she continued to prepare for New Year’s Eve, knowing it was her last. With all her energy, she put on the biggest party ever. Going into 2001, the moment had to be marked on a grand scale. We rented out a marquee tent for the side of the house with so many people expected. Live for today, and let tomorrow take care of itself she always said. Everyone had a good time on my gran’s orders. We all had to put on a brave face, but we knew she was running out of time. All we could do was smother her with love as she did for so many.
Weeks after the party, my dad phoned up to speak to my gran. He was upset about something. Stood on the balcony upstairs, I earwigged nearly every conversation over the last few years. From that conversation, he seemed to be crying. She tried to get it out of him as to why he was crying.
“What is it love, tell me.”
“I’m….I’m…I’m gay.”
“Well it's alright, I still love you the same. Me and your dad love you no matter what you are.”
Then I ran downstairs.
“See, I told you he was gay; my mum has been telling me since I was six.”
“Get upstairs you!”
After going back to my room, she relayed the message to my dad.
“Joseph just said Angela has been telling him since he was six.”
After getting off the phone, my grandad wanted to know what all the fuss was about.
“What’s wrong with him now.”
“He said he’s gay.”
“He’s gayyyy.”
My granddad couldn’t believe it, which was surprising after all the fights he had with my dad. They never got along; in fact, they hated each other. Kevin was the hard-working number one son, as Mick always described him. My dad was a rebel. He wanted to get it off his chest before she died. My mum had been drilling it into my head for years.
“Your dads a fucking queer, a bisexual that sticks his dick into another man’s ass.”
She pushed her index finger up and down in the air motioning it.
“He only had you to prove he wasn’t gay. I found a gay porn magazine under his bed.”
It's great knowing my origins from the age of six, along with how the birds and bees worked. I always called my friend's gay; it was a popular insult. It never occurred to me when my dad went mad, every time I called Mick a faggot. Chris had been calling me a faggot for as long as I can remember, thanks to my dad beating mum up. At the same time my dad phoned up, he had just got back from Thailand. He didn’t want to go, but my gran insisted. There was a rumour going around in my family that he had his drink spiked, was raped by four men and had his money stolen along with his passport. After everything I’d already seen, it didn’t shock me. I felt bad for him, even though he abandoned me to live his gay life. It made no difference to me what he was. He was my dad, and I loved him. I couldn’t say the same for my mum.
Approaching March, my gran had become very sick. Struggling to walk, she fell on the floor breaking her leg in the living room where we shared so many happy memories. Merciless cancer ate through her blood and bones like she was nothing. I watched the paramedics take her away, knowing that was the last time she would ever see that house. Someone in the family phoned my dad, telling him to get on a train. When he arrived, he visited her during the morning, then vanished during the day raising my suspicions. Any other father would spend time with his son. He never even looked at me. I knew he was going to the pub, so I decided to search his bags. There was a bottle of vodka in one of the zips. It was clear he relapsed. Before leaving the Villa in Florida, I found an empty bottle of whiskey under his bed with a picture of a steamboat on the Mississippi River. Later that night, I confronted him about the vodka bottle. The cat was out of the bag. After confronting him, he didn’t even make an effort to hide it, coming back every night drunk. His only concern in life was the bottle and his mum. He didn’t help the situation or support any of us. I was so angry for never giving a toss about me.
Visiting the hospital my gran served for years with Mick and my grandad, we walked down an endless corridor into what felt like a new postcode. Even the grim reaper would get lost in that place. Arriving on her ward, they spoke to the doctor who informed us that she didn’t have long left. My poor gran was so depressed, she rested on her right side staring at the wall without saying a word. She had every right to be pissed off. She was the one person on the planet that didn’t deserve to suffer or die. The visit was cut short. Being men, I don’t think they could deal with it. They both said goodbye to her with a kiss, but she didn’t flinch. I stopped myself from hugging or kissing her because I’d never seen her look so serious. She scared me. Those two had already walked away holding off the tears. I paused looking at her blank, emotionless face, before walking away with my head down. That image will stay with me forever. That night after more visits from her close family, she peacefully passed away. March 2001 marked the death of our queen. I will forever kick myself for not saying goodbye. I didn’t know how to feel about death, or what it felt like to never see someone again. The whole experience felt strange. After her passing, my dad gave up on life getting drunk. Mick told him to go home until the funeral; he wasn’t helping anyone but himself. The next day before returning home, he stood in the living room drunk with his black leather coat on, waiting for my uncle to take him to the train station. Stood alone in a room of silence, I looked hard at him. Nearly coming of age, it was about time I had a few words with him before departing. Positioning myself opposite the dinner table, I kept clear in case he became violent. That was the table I shared countless birthday parties and Sunday meals with my family. Quickly picturing in my head what I’d say if I were an adult, he was about to get both barrels of the shotgun. I knew damn well he wouldn’t return for the funeral. Deep down, it was probably the last time he would ever be seen again. From his previous self-harming, overdoses, and near-death experiences from a failing liver, the odds were stacked.
“You’re a bum, a loser that walked out on me, leaving me to suffer at the hands of my mum. She put me through hell because of you. You never loved me. You only cared about your selfish gay life down south. I’ll be more of a man than you will ever be. Once I join the Army, I will show you what a real man is.”
I gave him a right grilling. He just looked at the floor drunk, while his fifteen-year-old son told him off. I knew I had guts, determination, and courage to do anything with my life. I don’t know what his problem was. His sexuality didn’t bother me. It was beyond a joke how two selfish drunks could legally have a child, leaving my grandparents to pick up the pieces. After getting it off my chest, I went for a walk until they left. Stood in the ally I had been running up and down throughout my childhood, I watched them drive off.
With only days away from the funeral, the family made arrangements for the service. Resting in the caretakers, I decided to go with Mick and my grandad to see her for one last time. Not giving her a hug or a kiss in the hospital, it was only right that I quietly said my goodbyes. That was the first time I had seen a dead body. Stood by the wall, there was no way I could get any closer. I expected her to move, or worse sit up. The whole week felt like a bad dream. Without knowing the first thing about death, I said a few words in my head. They both kissed and said goodbye to her. She was wearing one of her white suits with that horrible wig she had to wear. Rosary beads bonded her hands together, neatly on her stomach. There was one thing cancer couldn’t take, and that was all the wonderful memories she created. No one would ever forget all the love she gave or the times she went out of her way to help someone. She will be etched in time forever. Guilt came over me from all the times I was naughty or made her cry. Influence from the estate rubbed off on me, creating a constant battle of good and bad. The two conflicted, each time I went backwards and forwards between the two environments. Being the lady she was, I’m sure she would forgive me if I ever had the chance to say sorry.
Arriving at the church she got married in at eighteen, a few people stood outside. Is this it? After everything she did for everyone. My dad never returned to carry his mum's coffin with my uncles. Six men carefully carried her up the stairs before two people opened the lobby doors. People ignorantly blocked the aisle. With organ music playing, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Being under five feet tall, it only dawned on me when everyone parted like the sea. There were thousands of people crammed inside. Even the aisle was full, making it almost impossible to carry the coffin to the front of the church. Walking right behind, all I could do was look up at the bright chandeliers. After five steps, reality had hit home. I broke down, sobbing in tears uncontrollably. Sat on the front row, my body juddered up and down from being unable to stop. My grandma’s sister sat behind me and rubbed my shoulders trying to calm me down, as my uncle Kevin gave a brave speech on the podium. I was a complete wreck. Later on, we had to go to the crematorium. That was the worst day ever.
Weeks after the funeral, the inevitable happened. Like dying roots on a tree, the family fell apart. Various groups splintered off into smaller ones. Things would never be the same after that. My grandad was unchained with his drinking. The one person that controlled him was gone. Mick laid on his bed all day, refusing to go to work. Being a window cleaner, he lost all his customers due to his absence. My Uncle Kevin’s wife started coming around to manage their finances. Not really caring about anything, my grandad and Mick later realised that money was going missing. Giving us spending money each week, she claimed that fifty pounds had vanished. The stupid bitch was blaming me. The accusation was unthinkable. To steal from my own family after everything they had done for me, was not once contemplated. She stood there in front of me with a smug look on her face. After she left, my uncle went to his room feeling that I betrayed him. The first thing I did was storm in his bedroom.
“You don’t believe that load of lies, do you? I’d never steal from you.”
“Well, I don’t know who’s took it.”
Just before being accused, I had been out chasing a little shit that kept throwing stones at the front window. My loyalty was unquestionable. To serve the Army as a
proud killing machine, ready to protect and die for my country was all I wanted to do. I wasn’t about to turn into a coward like my dad, or a low life like my criminal associates. Years later it turned out she had been stealing from my grandad. It came as a shock to all of us. She was generally a nice woman that got on great with my gran, even working together at one stage. She was apart of the family for a long time. Holes started to appear in her character soon after. She was a chiseler that stopped working, built up huge debts to live a lazy lifestyle at home while getting fat. She had us all fooled as she laughed all day smoking. When she reached fifty many moons later, she died from a brain tumour. I got on with her good until she accused me. My dad used to fight with my Uncle Kevin when they were kids; that’s the only explanation as to why he didn’t like me. My dad must have kicked his ass. I never liked Kevin after he assaulted me. During my troublesome teens, I became disobedient for my gran. Kevin walked into Mick's room when I was watching his TV alone. He smacked me on the side of my head, then dragged me backwards. Once on my back, he sat on my neck with his knee and his two-year-old son in his arms. My cousin started crying as he watched it. Kevin threatened me with violence coming out with all sorts of shit. Only God knows what his problem was. He couldn’t drink like my dad; two-pint champ. He was a stocky, muscular guy as well. My gran went mad when she saw the red mark on my neck as I became teary in the kitchen. And to think I saved his son’s life.