The Healing of Broken Souls

Chapter 13

In the night, I awoke in a cold sweat with the damp bed sheet twisted around my legs. I sat up in the dark and reached with a shaking hand for the bottle of water I kept by my bed. I gulped, spilling most of it down my chest. Gradually, my nerves calmed, and I stopped trembling. My father's emotive story had unleashed the memory I'd tried to suppress for most of my life. The nightmare scenario of my mother's final minutes.

It was my seventh birthday. My parents had held a small party for a few of my friends but they'd all been collected and the house was now quiet. I remember sitting at the dining room table playing with my new toy cars while Mum and Dad were nibbling at the party leftovers. They'd been busy all afternoon, organizing games and doling out sandwiches and cake. This was the first chance they'd had to sit down and relax.

I had no idea what they were talking about, but it must have developed into an argument because, without warning, my father suddenly leapt up and attacked my mother. I watched in stunned surprise as he wrenched her out of her chair, grabbed her in a bear hug and began squeezing the life out of her. She fought back, arms flailing, but he flung her to the floor. I jumped off my chair and ran around the table to witness him punching her repeatedly as she lay on the floor. I tried to snatch at his arm to make him stop but he was too strong. Then he shoved me away, sending me sprawling on the floor. 'Michael, get off me!' he yelled. 'Go to your room!' I was shocked but did as I was told. I threw myself on my bed and sobbed my heart out.

After what seemed like hours, my bedroom was lit by flashing blue lights and I heard loud voices downstairs. Doors slammed and then feet pounded on the stairs. My father came into my room and sat on the bed. He started saying things about heaven and angels that I didn't fully understand. All I knew was that I was terrified of him. Of what I had seen him do to my mother. Of what he might do to me. After that terrible afternoon, we had rarely spoken.

#

Sleep eluded me for the rest of the night but I waited until I heard my father moving about before I joined him in the kitchen. I noticed that his eyes, just like mine, were red-rimmed and underscored with dark shadows. But I couldn't make myself feel sorry for him. My nightmare had only hardened my determination to make him confess.

"We'll go back to the dunes," I told him. "We've as much chance of seeing a hemipode there as anywhere else, and at least you won't have to do any walking."

"Fair enough. You're the expert," he conceded. "I'll make us a flask of tea while you get ready."

There were several parking areas alongside the dunes. Some led to popular bathing beaches, so we ignored those. I drove until I noticed a patch of palmetto, another of the habitats favoured by hemipodes. I manoeuvered the Landy as close as I could. We set up the hide a few yards away and made ourselves comfortable. 

As usual, we sat in silence until the early feeding frenzy was over. The only birds of any note that appeared were a shrike and a pair of larks. Eventually, I put down my binoculars and poured us both a mug of tea from the flask.

"So, what happened when your father got the doctor's bill?" I prodded, anxious to know the next part of the story. "And once you knew what Mum's illness was, what did you do about it?" 

My father sipped his tea and frowned before answering.

"You know, Michael, now I think about it, I never heard anything about the doctor's bill. We didn't have a telephone in the flat. I always used a call box, so he couldn't contact me easily, and that bill faded into insignificance compared to what was about to happen.

As to what we did about Clara's illness, the neurologist tried different drugs, but none of them had much effect. The truth is, we could both see that she was gradually getting worse, and there was nothing we could do to prevent it.

We carried on the best we could, but towards the end of 1967, the owner of the launderette gave Clara a month's notice to leave. She was too weak to cope with the work and the business was going downhill fast. That meant we were going to lose our home and ..."

"Couldn't you have offered to pay the owner rent from your allowance?" I interrupted.

"The flat was the biggest benefit of the job, Michael. Clara's wage was tiny, but a flat near the center of Oxford was worth a lot. The owner couldn't have found anyone to take the job without the flat as part of the deal so he would never have rented it separately. You must remember that Oxford was teeming with students, and they pushed the rents sky high."

"Didn't they have cheaper council housing back then?"

"Yes, of course, and the first thing I did was to go to the local council to ask for a house. We didn't need to be right in the center of Oxford. We could live in the suburbs and I'd be able to catch a bus to the university. But, when I spoke to one of the housing officers and filled in the forms, she took one look and told me I had little chance of getting a council property of any kind. There was a long waiting list and priority was given to families and married couples.

When I went home and told Clara, I pleaded with her to marry me, but she flatly refused. Clara said she couldn't allow me to be legally responsible for her and obliged to look after her for the rest of her life. I told her I loved her and wanted nothing more than to look after her, but she wouldn't be swayed. She said the council would have to put her in a hostel and that I should find a room in a student house."

"But you did stay together, otherwise I wouldn't be here! So you must have found a way."

"Yes, Michael, I found a way. The next day I went to a solicitor and changed my name by deed poll. You see, Michael ... Lewis was Clara's surname, not mine."