The Art of Breathing Underwater

Chapter 12

My parents had wildly different reactions to the news of my sacking. Although, they both saw it as an indictment of how they had raised me.

"I held down my job in Mahon's until I left school," my father said, not bothering to mask his disappointment. "If mister Mahon called me in on my day off, I didn't argue. If he wanted me to do extra hours, I did them. No questions asked."

"Ask being the operative word," my mum said. "Frank never asked him to come in. He had ample opportunity to tell Aaron they needed him yesterday. He can't expect the lad to be at his beck and call twenty-four seven—the boy's not working for the emergency services. That louse has pulled that stunt before. It's the principle. I didn't raise my son to be a pushover."

"How often has that shower at work called me in on my afternoon off?"

"And how many times have I begged you not to answer the phone?"

"You prefer I was on the dole?"

"Did you hear the snide remark that ignorant sod passed about his friend—that was uncalled for."

"I'm not disputing that. Say Robbie's director insulted Aaron—would he storm off the set? No, he wouldn't. And I wouldn't expect him to, either. Your job isn't the place to be making a political stand—it's where you earn your crust."

"He'll find another one."

"What happens when his next boss does or says something the kid doesn't agree with? You can't keep wrapping them in cotton wool."

"I never liked that guy. That leery grin on him. And that wife of his, swanning around like lady muck. Looking down their noses at the rest of us. You'd swear they owned Harrods, the way they carry on, the pair of them."

"I don't know where I went wrong. I've tried to bring them up right. Instil values in them. Do they heed you?"

I faded out. I wanted to go upstairs. Lie down on top of the duvet. Draw the blinds and listen to music.

Later that evening, my dad came in, a white enamel cup filled with milky tea in hand, and sat down on the edge of my bed. A sure sign he was about to impart with some fatherly advice.

"I'm not mad at you," he said, patting me on my outstretched leg.

I flinched. An uncomfortable memory from last night flitted through my mind.

He shifted his position. "Life's difficult, son. Sometimes we have to make tough choices. Often, the easiest option is to just walk away. But the older you get, you'll realise it's not always the best one."

And then something strange happened. My father started opening up, an occurrence as rare as a blood moon. He talked about the soul-sucking year he had spent on the dole back in the '80s. How it broke his heart having to choose between getting us kids a decent present, or ensuring we had a proper Christmas dinner and central heating.

I remembered that present, a small die-cast replica of the A-Team van. Johnny and I got identical models. My eight-year-old self thought it was brilliant. I had rushed upstairs to thank my parents after finding it swaddled in red wrapping paper under the incandescent fairy lights strung around the artificial tree. My mum and dad smiled at my contentment, but with an underlying sadness that couldn't be disguised. I couldn't figure out why. Months later, I saw the ad on the back of a cereal box for the model van—it was yours for free if you collected thirty tokens. I don't know why, but I treasured that toy even more. I can barely recall any of the Christmas gifts I've received over the years. But I'll never forget that A-team van.

It was only when my dad finished up his speech did it flash with me that, in all this time, he had hardly once mentioned himself. It was all you lads and your mother, how his being on the dole affected us.

"Life is a series of challenges, son. Nobody wants to face them, but you have to. For yourself. For the people you love." He looked up at the Johnny Depp posters on my wall. "Everyone has their struggles. I read Brando's biography. Parents were alcoholics. Son's in jail. All that money. Owns his own island. But he's got his problems. Same as everybody else... So you get what I'm saying?"

"Yeah, I think I do."

In my eyes, when he rose to his feet, my dad looked taller than I remembered.

As he reached for the door handle, he paused, and stood for a moment inspecting the latest addition attached with Blu-Tack to the wall; A promotional poster for Suede's second album featuring a nude man, lying face down on a mattress by an open window.

"Is that a... with her bare backside..." My dad stepped forward for a closer inspection. His head turned slowly in my direction. "That's a bloke."

I sat up in the bed, facing the full brunt of his inquisitive gaze, wanting so badly to look away.

"Why've you... You realise that's a naked man...?" Said with uneasy trepidation. Like he was dreading what my answer might be.

Heat spread through my cheeks. "It's the cover of the new Suede album."

"Oh, I see." The relief in his tone was palpable.

The door closed over. Just me and the four walls. Alone with my thoughts. And my posters.

No refuge from the creeping guilt.

I'd cheated. My dad had opened up to me, but I continued to withhold crucial information from him. Persisted in shading parts of my life in secrecy.

Self-sacrifice?

Or was I running away?