Man Of Few Words

Chapter 11

I imagine the first couple of years of my life were massively exciting – every single experience was new, fascinating, terrifying, ecstatic... but alas, I can't remember any of it. I imagine if I could, it would play out like one long acid trip. A kind of rapid-fire succession of mind-blowing "Whoah!" moments, horrifying "Waaagh!" moments and spells of the kind of spaced-out, tranquil serenity that only someone with no responsibility, no memory of past experience, and no concept of the future is capable of.

I'm expecting the last few morphine-fueled weeks of my life to be pretty similar. I hope it's just weeks, and not months. I hope it's not years.

My earliest memory is actually a point of some contention. There are two memories from my very early childhood that I can recall quite clearly, but my mum and dad have never been able to agree on which of them actually happened first. Both are pretty traumatic, which I guess is why they lodged in my memory.

In one of these memories I'm watching a Punch & Judy show. I have no idea what is supposed to be unfolding in front of me, but I do know full well that there is a man inside that strange red box. I know that he's responsible for all this noisy, chaotic nonsense, but I just don't understand why he's doing it. I'm not scared exactly, but I'm certainly on edge... unsettled. Every time that crocodile... I know it's not a crocodile, I know the man is just snapping two blocks of wood together really loudly, seemingly just to fuck with my nerves. Every time I hear that snapping sound – and it's almost constant – I tense up.

Then Mr. Punch snatches the baby's bottle away from Mrs. Punch and turns towards us, the audience. I'm one of the smallest, so I'm sat at the front, cross-legged with my head tilted up sharply towards the.. what is it called anyway? It's not a stage. It's a... booth, I suppose. Whatever... I'm looking right at it.

Mr. Punch's unintelligible squawking intensifies and he begins spraying the contents of the baby's bottle into the audience. Almost immediately I'm hit directly in the eye, which totally freaks me out and I start crying. And I mean proper, full-on, distraught toddler crying. It's only water, and it's not that it hurts. It's just a kind of a last straw. Why is that man being so needlessly aggressive towards me? I haven't been naughty. I don't deserve it. Why does he do that? Why does he hide in a box and attack little children?

I'm too young to articulate it as such, but basically what I'm thinking is, "Why is that man such a cunt?"

My mum reckons this happened in Bournemouth, which was the holiday we went on for the summer before Harriet was born. My dad disagrees. He insists that this display of wanton puppet brutality took place at a small holiday village at Weston Bay, which is where we went on holiday the summer after Harriet was born. Whether it occurred before or after Harriet's birth is a decisive factor in determining which was my earliest memory, because the other contender involves Harriet.

I don't remember Harriet being born, which I've always thought is kinda weird, and is the main reason I tend to side with my dad in the earliest memory debate. I find it hard to believe that I could recall something that took place eight months before her birth, then remember nothing of the first few months of her life – no coming home from the hospital party, no "You're going to have a sister from now on, David," no shock and horror at suddenly having to share my parents' attention and devotion with someone else. I don't even remember my mum being pregnant.

But memory's a funny thing, and I suppose it's possible that my mum's right. Still though, for what it's worth, here's the memory that both myself and my dad believe to be my earliest:

I am so curious as to what is going on in what was, until recently, my own personal play room. I'm not upset or cross or envious – I'm told I was actually pretty excited to have my toys transferred to a new, specially designated play area in the living room (mum and dad convinced me that this was more grown-up) or, in the case of my very best toys, my bedroom (they were right there, ready to be played with the moment I woke up!).

I just want to know what's in there now.

I don't actually remember what made me so curious, but given what was actually going on, it's safe to say that my dad had been going in there a lot, that I wasn't allowed in, and that when he was in there I heard strange noises and smelled strange smells. Not actually that strange, of course. Just strange to a three year-old who wasn't familiar with the concept of redecoration.

Anyway, like I said, I'm curious. Very curious. I'm sat on the landing just staring at the door, imagining what's inside. I seem to remember imagining that it was full of bunny rabbits and balloons – wishful thinking probably.

I'm just sitting there, waiting for Daddy to come out so I can sneak a glimpse through the door. Eventually, he does just that, but he opens and shuts the door very quickly. I think I see something in there though. Something I've never seen before. Something shiny.

He sees me, smiles awkwardly and says, "Don't play up here, David. Go back downstairs to Mummy." Then he strides along the landing to the bathroom. On his way he lets out an audible fart, and I laugh loudly in delight. He doesn't look back as he goes into the bathroom and locks the door. Must've really needed to go.

I stare at the bathroom door for a few seconds, then look back at the former play room door. I take one more glance back at the bathroom, then I shuffle across the landing on my bum and push gently on the door that my dad, in his haste, has failed to shut properly behind him. It opens with a slight creak.

I stand up and take a few cautious steps inside. It's certainly very different, but I'm initially quite disappointed. Definitely no bunnies or balloons. Just a dusty wooden floor and lots of grubby old sheets. The thing I saw through the door when Daddy came out is quite interesting though. In fact, there are two of them.

Two big, round tins are sat next to the wall, alongside a big black brush with a red handle. I grasp the bristles of the brush with my hand. I like how it feels, but I'm more interested in the big, shiny tins. I try to pick one of them up, but it slips in my clumsy, toddler's grasp and tips over with a thump. I look out of the still open door onto the landing. No one's there. I look back at the tin and let out a little chuckle when I see the big, bright blue puddle expanding around it. I immediately surrender to the urge to put my finger in the puddle, and when I pull it out, there's a big, blue globule on the end. I run my finger along the wall, which is grey and rough, leaving a long blue line. This makes me smile. I look back at the puddle, hesitate slightly, look out of the door again, then take a deep breath and slap both hands down right in the middle of it. Then I creep out of the room, neglecting to shut the door behind me.

I sit down at the top of the stairs and carefully make my way down on my bum, leaning to one side and balancing myself with my elbow, so as not to waste any of my runny, blue treasure. Despite my care I am, of course, leaving a patchy blue trail of drips and streaks in my wake. From the bottom of the stairs, I head to the kitchen. Mummy is in there, working busily on dinner amidst a cloud of steam. She hears me come in and, without turning around, asks, "Were you playing with Daddy?"

"Yes," I reply. She still doesn't turn around.

Harriet is sat gurgling in her high chair, which is pulled up to the kitchen table. When she sees my bright blue hands, she can't take her eyes off them. Again using my elbows, I awkwardly clamber onto the dining chair next to her, accidentally poking myself in the cheek with two fingers in the process. Now Harriet can't take her eyes off my bright blue cheek, and she's started smiling and dribbling slightly.

I look over to my mother, who still hasn't turned around. I hesitate again, then look at the still smiling Harriet and shout, "Mummy, look!" then plant my hands on either side of Harriet's chubby, slobbery little face.

It's at this point that this memory becomes rather traumatic - for me, and for everyone else involved. Mummy does look and immediately starts screaming, as does Harriet then, having finished his poo, discovered the paint spillage and rushed downstairs to find me, as does Daddy. They're all screaming at me and I don't know why, so I start screaming too.

After a little while, Mummy and Daddy stop screaming at me, and start screaming at each other, while they clean me – now quiet and pensive – and Harriet – still screaming – up. This is even worse somehow and makes everything even more confusing.

Eventually though, everything calmed down. Dad bought some more paint and finished decorating Harriet's newbedroom without my help. Harriet recovered from the experience, althoughthroughout her childhood she remained nervous of face paints and has never, asfar as I can recall, worn make-up.