The Healing of Broken Souls

Chapter 8

An unfamiliar noise woke me in the night. I listened for a few minutes before I realized it was my father coughing painfully in his bedroom. I looked at my phone and saw it wasn't quite four o'clock, then went to see if he needed help.

"My oxygen," he wheezed. "We must have left it in the Land Rover. I don't know where you keep the key."

"Damn! I'm sorry, Dad. I forgot to bring it in."

I dashed outside in my sleeping shorts and retrieved the oxygen bottle. He jammed the mask to his face and opened the valve. Several deep breaths seemed to steady him, and his laboured breathing became more regular.

"Why didn't you wake me?" I said.

"I didn't want to disturb you," he gasped. "Anyway, it was worth it to hear you call me 'dad' again."

I bit my lip, not knowing what to say. I had unconsciously dropped my guard but was determined not to go soft on him.

"A slip of the tongue," I mumbled. "If you're feeling better we might as well get up. We'll go to the dunes again, but choose a different spot."

#

We set up the hide in a likely-looking sandy hollow between two dunes covered with beach grass and bindweed. I brought our folding chairs and a flask of tea from the Landy and we settled in to wait for the dawn. 

A huge cruise ship appeared on the horizon, heading for Valencia Port with all lights blazing. I tracked it with my binoculars.

"My friend Helen will be pleased," I remarked. " A couple of thousand potential customers are about to land on her doorstep."

"How's that?" my father asked.

"She runs the dive school, and the cruise companies have scuba lessons and dive days on their excursion itineraries.  It was Helen who gave me the oxygen bottle."

"You'll have to thank her for me, and let me know how much it cost,"

"It's okay, no charge. We made an arrangement."

"An arrangement? That sounds like she's more than just a friend."

"If only," I sighed. "She's way out of my league."

"Make it work, Michael. Grab your happiness while you can," he advised.

I felt uncomfortable discussing my love life with my father, so I quickly changed the subject.

"Speaking of happiness, you were going to tell me how your happiness nosedived after you and my mother got engaged."

"Oh, yes ... that ..." he began, with a trace of reluctance. "It happened in the spring of 1967. Clara and I had talked about getting married, but she pointed out that, before we made any definite plans, we had to tell my parents. So I phoned my mother and arranged to visit one Sunday.

My parents lived out in the sticks. We had to catch an express into London and then another train that stopped at a small station in a village close to where they lived. Clara bought a new summer dress for the occasion and had her hair done. She looked terrific. I was so proud of her, Michael.

My parent's house was a couple of miles from the station so we took a taxi.  As soon as Clara set eyes on the house, she panicked. I'd grown up with it but, for someone like Clara, it must have seemed intimidating."

"Were your parents rich?" I said in surprise, suddenly aware that I'd never met my grandparents, or even knew I had any grandparents. They were never mentioned in front of me.

"Extremely wealthy, Michael. Our family home was a mansion. My father came from a long line of merchant bankers. He was a pretentious social climber and considered himself a pillar of the community. His bank was a major contributor to the Conservative Party. I think he was angling for a knighthood, if and when they won an election."

"But we were as poor as church mice," I pointed out. 

"Money isn't everything, Michael. Anyway, I almost had to prise Clara out of the taxi she was so nervous. My mother answered the door and I introduced them. My mother was polite and complimented Clara on her dress, then led us into the drawing room where my father was waiting.

As soon as we walked in, he took one look at Clara and I saw his face fall. He looked like he'd just swallowed something extremely nasty, but he invited her to sit down. Then my mother rang for tea ..."

"You had servants?" I blurted, interrupting him.

"We had a cook and a housekeeper, but we called them staff, not servants."

"I think most people would call them exactly that!" 

"Well, whatever ... while were waiting for the tea, my father started his interrogation. He began by asking her what schools she'd attended and I could see he wasn't impressed by her answers. He eventually got around to what she did for a living. 

Clara told him how she managed a busy launderette in Oxford, and that's when I saw the warning signs. His face turned to stone and his neck began to flush scarlet. His voice took on a sly tone and I'll never forget his words that afternoon. He said  'Are you saying that you take in other people's washing, my dear?'.

Clara had to admit that she did. I tried to explain that it wasn't how it sounded, but my father silenced me with a glare. My mother just sat there, looking worried and wringing her hands. She made no attempt to intervene. She was much younger than my father and I'm sure she was afraid of him.

I could see that Clara was getting more and more distressed by his questioning and she started to slump on the sofa. My father turned to me and hissed, 'Robert, I want a private word with you.' 

He ushered me to the other side of the room. 'I insist you get rid of this girl immediately,' he whispered. 'She's nothing but a ... a ... washerwoman! You can do much better than that. Just look at her, she can't even stay awake!'

I looked and saw that Clara's eyes were half closed. She did look as if she was falling asleep. 'It's not her fault,' I objected. 'She's ill, and you're not helping!'

Then he said, 'Robert. I forbid you to carry on seeing this girl. Open your eyes, man! For God's sake, can't you see that she's black!'"