Broken Blossoms

Last Saturday night there was a party in the house at the end of our garden. By the sound of the music and the laughter a very good time was had by all.

A couple of the guests wended their way home down our street. I was lying in bed reading a book and I heard their drunken songs and laughter. This immediately took my mind back many many years to when I was a child, I suppose I would have been around seven at the time.

My Father, as a young man, was quite a drinker and would frequent pubs very often with one of his  brothers  and his friends. However, after he married my Mother he calmed down. He had a wife to support, he had to keep a roof over their heads and then children came along.

So he quietened down and rarely drank except at parties where he preferred to sit in a corner chatting with just one person. The only exception was when he attended his firm’s annual dinner. This was always held in early December and the venue was always the same, the Café Royal in London.

Also it was always on a Friday evening so that hangovers would not interfere with work the following day. My mother always dreaded these occasions, she knew he would get the worse for wear. She could not keep a check on him as it was company policy that this was a male only occasion.

Well, this particular year off he went as usual. He always caught the last train home from Liverpool Street Station.

That night he did not come home. No sign of him. Now you must remember that this was many years ago. We had no telephone in the house, none of our neighbours had telephones and the nearest kiosk was quite a long distance away. My Mother had gone to bed assuming that he would roll in later.

When she awoke the next morning to find that he was not there, I will never forget it. She was about to explode, a mixture of fear, suspicion, anger. She paced about like a Tigress. She did not know whether to run to the phone box and dial the police, whether to try ringing the Café Royal (she must have realised it would be closed) whether to search the streets. Nothing seemed to be the right thing.  So she played the waiting game.

What had happened and what she did not know was that he had caught the last train home but was so intoxicated he fell asleep and travelled straight through to the end of the line, not far actually from where I live today. The guard at the terminus found him asleep in a carriage and woke him up. Dad was mortified. There was no train back until about 6 a.m. on the Saturday morning. He tried to get what sleep he could curled up on a station bench but he got very little, it was too cold and too uncomfortable.

The early morning trained arrived from London and the guard made sure that he got on it. The train was comfortable and unfortunately  - very warm. Yes, he nodded off again and when he awoke he was back in London!

He went to the men’s room and glanced at his dishevelled appearance, the stubble on his chin. There was nothing for it but to get to a barber when they opened. So he had a cup of tea and a sandwich in the cafeteria and then went in search of a barber who gave him a shave and helped him smarten himself up again.

Then it was back to the station and the train home. However, he knew what mood my Mother would be in. He must placate her at all costs. So he called at the Florist and bought the biggest bouquet of flowers that you have ever seen.

Meanwhile, back at home, I was sitting at the kitchen table with my paper and paints whilst Mother paced up and down like a caged animal muttering to herself all the time. I think she was just about to run to the kiosk and report him missing to the police when we heard his key turn in the lock. By now it was mid-morning.

He came sheepishly down the hallway holding the bouquet in front of him. Mum was standing legs astride, hands on hips, sparks almost flying from her eyes. He handed her the flowers.

She grabbed them. Then it was like some mad ballet. She hit him repeatedly over the head and shoulders with the beautiful bouquet between screamed sentences, standing on tiptoe all the time to reach him.

“So you bloody think flowers will make everything alright! - WHACK, “Who have you been with?” - WHACK, “Do you know what I have been through?” - WHACK, “I thought you were dead” - WHACK, “You can stick your bloody flowers” - WHACK, “What have you got to say for yourself?” - WHACK, “Don’t just bloody stand there” - WHACK “Say something” - WHACK.

On and on it went. My Dad made never a move. He stood impassive,  totally expressionless, hands by his side whilst he was assailed with the blooms, showered in petals and leaves. He did not even try to make a comment. She went on and on until she was red in the face. She went on and on until she was spent. Not another word could she think of to say. The attack stopped. At their feet lay heaps of petals and leaves.

Dad calmly looked at her and then said “Would you like me to get you a vase for those dear?” and his face broke into a big grin.

Mum look down at what she was holding. Alas, no flowers, no leaves, only a huge bunch of broken and battered stalks! She looked from the stalks to him.  She looked from him to the stalks and then she laughed, they both laughed and then she cried. She cried with relief that he was safely home and she cried because she loved flowers and now they were lost to her.

They fell into each other’s arms and all anger vanished. Later that day he did buy her another bouquet. I think that was when I  had my first little understanding that marriage was not always a bed of roses (no pun intended) and that it had its ups and downs.

Strange how hearing just one sound can bring memories flooding back so very sharp and clear.

Dad never missed the train home again and I have never forgotten the day of the broken blossoms.

I still miss them both.

 
Tags: aol blogs , memories, bouquet, London

Tags: blogplugs