The Healing of Broken Souls

Chapter 6

The news that my parents weren't married came as quite a surprise and I immediately jumped to the obvious conclusion.

"One of you was already married to someone else?"

"No ... that wasn't the reason, but I'll get to that later. Please let me tell it as it happened, otherwise, you may not understand why things turned out the way they did."

I gave in and nodded my agreement. I decided to let him ramble as much as he wanted. I had plenty of time. 

#

"I met Clara, your mother, in a launderette in Oxford. It was October 1965. I was 19 and had just started a degree in Jurisprudence at Magdalen College."

"Whoa!" I interrupted. "Jurisprudence is law, isn't it? You did a law degree?"

"I never completed my degree, Michael. My life took a different turn, as you'll find out if you just stay quiet and hear me out."

Admonished, I did as I was told. I relaxed in my chair and listened.

"As I was saying, I'd gone up to Oxford to study Jurisprudence. I'd found a room in a shared student house near the college, but getting washing done was a problem with four of us in the house. There was a launderette on the same road so I decided to make use of it. It was one of those self-service places but you could drop your stuff off and they'd do it for you. 

The first time I went, I met Clara, who ran the place, and I was bowled over. It wasn't just that she was young and pretty, it was the way she handled the customers and organised everything. She was a bundle of energy and worked like a Trojan, but at the same time, she was always cheerful and made time to chat with everyone, including me. I'd had what you might call a privileged upbringing, Michael. I was a pretentious snob. But Clara changed my opinions about people. For the first time, I realized that you could do a humble, low-paid job and still be worthy of respect.

I did an awful lot of laundry over the next few weeks, and I started using the self-service machines just so I could sit and watch Clara, and sometimes even talk to her. The more I saw of her, the more besotted I became, and I eventually plucked up enough courage to ask her for a date.

We went out regularly for the next year, not only to pubs and discotheques because, believe it or not, Michael, your old man had all the moves in those days, but to museums and art galleries as well. Clara only had the late evenings and Sundays free. She worked long hours, but every Sunday we'd do something cultural. She hadn't had much of an education, but she was a real bookworm and studied history and art in her own time. It was a wonderful time for me. I was enjoying my course at the university, and enjoying the time I spent with Clara. It wasn't long before I told her I loved her and, to my delight, Clara said she felt the same way about me. I moved out of the shared house and went to live with her in her small flat above the launderette.

We were so happy, Michael. I can't tell you what it's like to be head over heels in love if you've never experienced it, and ...."

My father's voice trailed off and I saw that he'd taken out a tissue and was wiping tears from his eyes. For a moment I thought he was sobbing, but then realized he was fighting for breath.

"Shall I fetch your oxygen from the Landy?" I offered.

"Yes please," he gasped. "I always get upset when I think about your mother."

He was obviously too emotional to carry on with the story and neither of us felt like hanging around the dunes until dusk. I tried to ignore a tiny voice in my head that kept whispering that his tears were the result of a guilty conscience, but it wouldn't go away.  I suggested we go home, have something to eat, and get an early night. We'd start again at the crack of dawn the next morning. 

#

Back at the finca, I set up my portable barbeque out of the breeze on a terrace overlooking one of the small pools that punctuated the stream at irregular intervals. None were big enough to swim more than a couple of strokes, but they served as my cold water jacuzzis in the long hot summers. As I stoked and fanned the coals, my father clambered down to the water's edge. The glade was already shaded so I knew he'd be able to see to the rocky bottom of the pool.

"Your stream looks perfect for trout," he called up. "Have you ever caught any?"

"I prefer my fish frozen and in a packet," I told him. "I've seen the odd fish, but I don't know what they are. Someone once told me she'd seen a perch in there."

He made his way back up to join me, panting with the small exertion.

"I saw a shoal of minnows and where there's little fish there's usually bigger fish that eat them, and so on."

"If you keep going down that road I'll be too scared to take a dip, so I'm going to pretend I didn't hear it."

My father laughed and so did I. It was the first moment I'd felt something less than animosity towards him.

I left him to turn the chicken drumsticks I'd laid on the barbeque while I put a salad together and then we ate unhurriedly, watching tiny bats flit among the trees on the far bank. Then we both noticed a flash of luminous blue and heard a small splash. My father put his hand on my forearm.

"Michael, that was a kingfisher," he murmured. "Don't move. It might come back."

We sat, stock still and silent, as the kingfisher made dive after dive into the pond right in front of us until it was too dark to see. Even in the gloom of the evening, I could tell my father's eyes were sparkling with joy.

"This is a truly magical place you've found here, Michael," he smiled.