Twenty-Seven
Sir John studiously avoids me for the rest of the day. At one point, while I’m raiding the kitchen for Mrs Jenkins’ scones, I hear his tentative tread on the stairs before the sound of a veritable scamper as he retreats upstairs. Presumably, he’s terrified that I might try to force a family reunion on him in the fashion of a soapy Channel 5 reality TV show.
At breakfast the next day, the sizzling temptation of sausages lures Sir John from his hideout, but he does his very best to use this morning’s Times as a shield. He shelters behind it to the point that he’s almost camping while Mrs Jenkins potters around with the breakfast things.
“Have you had breakfast yourself yet, Mrs Jenkins?” I ask as she lays down a stack of pancakes and a few sides of bacon next to the heaped platter of sausages.
I see The Times quiver in irritation.
“Oh, I’m not a morning eater, to be honest, love.”
“What about if I make you a coffee, and you grab a seat for a minute?” I ask.
More rustling.
“What for?” asks Mrs Jenkins suspiciously.
“Well, you made a lovely brekkie for us, so I thought it might be nice.”
“I’m quite happy to have a coffee afterwards in the kitchen, thank you,” said Mrs Jenkins firmly, heading over to the coffeemaker.
The rest of her kitchen bustling has a mildly hostile edge, and I’m relieved when she’s finished and heads into the utility room to sort through Sir John’s laundry.
The Times drawbridge briefly lowers to allow a brief “I told you so” glance from Sir John before sweeping up again.
I mutter and help myself to pancakes, ignoring a few indignant bangs and clatterings from Mrs Jenkins next door.
Eventually, the newspaper lowers once more. Sir John whispers conspiratorially, “I’ve decided. We’ll attempt it.”
“What?” I ask, concerned at what possible hair-brained scheme we might be about to attempt.
“The letter!” he hisses impatiently, glancing in the direction of the utility room in case Mrs Jenkins has her KGB ear pressed against the door.
“That’s brilliant, Sir John!” I say excitedly.
“Keep your voice down,” he warns grumpily, “An attempt. That’s all. I’m not saying I’ll post it. But we could attempt it.”
When Mrs Jenkins is safely upstairs making Sir John’s bed, I grab us a pen and a piece of paper. We spend some time staring at them both for a while.
“They’re not going to move themselves, Sir John,” I say.
“I know that,” he says irritably, “You’re the writer. What should I say?”
“Imagine Ophelia is here now. What would you want to say to her?”
Sir John coughs. “For a letter out of the blue, perhaps it would be better not to go straight into some of these things. This first letter perhaps could be on another topic…”
“Honesty, Sir John, take my word for it. That’s the North Star for this.” I inwardly wince at my own hypocrisy but press on: “Take my word for it. Maybe not from personal experience, but it’s not enough anyway. But I’m absolutely certain: What this needs is authenticity, not politeness or small talk.”
He gives me an appraising glance and frowns for a minute, “I’ll dictate. You scribe.”
I obediently pick up the pen, and Sir John begins, “Ophelia darling, Hoping this letter finds you well. After very careful consideration, I want to share something with you that may well be challenging and difficult. I do so in the hope it will aid your understanding of a painful time for all of us.” He trails off, glancing at my expression.
“Why are you frowning?” he barks.
“It’s getting there, but it’s a bit businesslike. Yesterday, when you spoke about Laura, you were so open. I think that’s what Ophelia needs to hear.”
His frown deepens.
I try again, “Start with your daughter. What does she mean to you? You love her?”
“Well, she’s my daughter. Of course, I love her,” Sir John whispers, dropping his volume in case Mrs Jenkins upstairs hears such a shocking revelation.
“Well, let’s start with that.”
“It’s not my style,” Sir John replies.
“I’m not suggesting little hearts on the letterhead. But now’s not the time to hold back.”
It takes several drafts and a lot more coffee, which I speedily make with a nervous eye out for Mrs Jenkins’ return. Eventually we wrestle the letter into a form resembling less a terse police statement and more an honest and loving account in Sir John’s own words.
Ophelia darling,
This is a painful letter to write, so please bear with me. I write now as I reflect on how difficult our relationship has been. I want to take a final chance to mend some bridges, and I hope you might, too.
There is a secret I have kept for far too long, and I bitterly regret the distance it has caused. I am sorry that it may shock you and even hurt you, yet I am sharing it now because I see no other way back for our relationship.
I know for a long time you’ve blamed me for betraying your mamma. Please believe me now when I tell you how much I loved her and that I would never have wished to hurt her or you. Our marriage indeed became complicated, and circumstances and prejudice meant your mother never had an opportunity to be true to herself. The truth is that over time, your mother’s friendship with Jenny developed into something else. So, it is indeed true that Jenny had a role in the troubles of our marriage, but it was not in the way that you think.
We tried our best to work things out, and Mamma loved you so very, very much. She wanted to keep our home together for you as far as possible. We both did.
But then we lost her, and I couldn’t bear any of this to change your memories of her. And why should it? She was a wonderful mother. Do you remember how she never read your bedtime stories from books? She always made them up. They were always so bizarre and fantastic and would have you roaring with laughter. You may wonder how she came up with them so spontaneously. The truth is that I’d often see her with a little pen and notebook, chewing the end of the pen and scribbling down ideas to keep you entertained on future evenings. She loved amazing and entertaining you with her tales.
And then we lost her. It was easier never to discuss what happened. First, you were too young to understand, and then even when you were older and started to pick up on the gossip about Jenny and me, it never felt right.
I’m sorry I wasn’t brave enough to broach this then, and I’m ashamed that when our relationship started to deteriorate, I allowed it to. I hope this isn’t too late to reach out.
Your dad
Sir John looks up, his face strained. “I still don’t know. Is this the right thing to do?”
“Other than seeing her face-to-face…”
“Impossible,” he says firmly.
“Then yes, if the other option is silence. She will never know the truth. You owe this to the two of you… the three of you, really.”
He holds the letter one more time, his hands shaking slightly. Then he nods, picks up the pen, and starts to copy out the draft to send in his own hand.
***
Dear Alex,
This is a really awkward one. I’m your usual twenty-eight-year-old bloke. Except I haven’t had a girlfriend for ages. I haven’t dated for ages. And I think I might have fallen for another guy, a mate from my five-aside. I can’t stop thinking about him. I don’t think he feels the way I do. But this feeling is making me miserable. Should I tell him?
Help!
Ethan
Hi Ethan,
First of all, there’s no ‘usual bloke’ like there’s no ‘usual woman’. I believe we’re a mix of incredibly unique stuff and things every single one of us on this planet has in common.
I think yours was a brave letter to write, so thanks for sharing. Before we come onto your footballing mate, one thing that stands out to me is that nowhere in your letter do you use the word ‘gay’. I wondered why. Some people are still not sure where they are on that pesky spectrum people talk about. Other people don’t reckon they need labels because, after all, they’re not a discounted tin of soup on a supermarket shelf. I wonder why not for you? The first step might well be taking a bit more time to think about how you feel about things and how you feel about guys and girls. You don’t need to have a definitive answer, but it can be helpful to go through the questions.
When it comes to speaking to this guy, it’s hard to advise without knowing him or you. But I reckon a bit of caution is needed first. In an ideal world filled with birdsong and Man United permanently at the top of the table, anyone would just be flattered to be paid the compliment of being liked by someone else. We’re not there yet (did you see Man United’s performance last week? Dismal). And these things can backfire a bit or make a friendship a hell of a lot more complex. Given where you are in your journey of self-discovery (apologies, by the way, if that makes me sound like a hippy with joss sticks), there’s also a risk that his reaction might complicate those final bits of the journey for you. You’ll have a lot going on, and you’ll feel pretty raw already without adding that to the mix. So why don’t you take time first to decide more about yourself and what you’re into, and talk it through with a friend you trust (ideally not a hot one who you fancy) and then after you’ve worked through that, maybe share it with your mate from football? See what they say – you may be able to pick up signals from there. Anyway, good luck mate.
Alex