I forgive you, Dad
am not unnerved by these unfamiliar surroundings, although it is a
little difficult to see sharply through the cotton wool haze. The sun is
a bleached orb in the sky which sits directly overhead and there is a
pleasing warmth in the air. The flimsy nature of my white attire is not
disturbing and does not seem to be out of place as I stroll weightlessly
along a cleared track through the under growth. The pathway is strange
and yet I am reminded of somewhere I once knew. Was it the bluebell
carpeted woods of Kent? Tiny orchids, rather than stinging nettles or
briars, gently brush my ankles. I am unable to breathe in enough of the
floral perfume which teases my nostrils.
Where am I? How did I get here? Trees, like tall sentries, stand guard wherever I look and their emerald velvet arms, bestrewn with a tapestry of petals, form a lattice canopy overhead, through which the sunlight sprinkles. Joseph was not clothed in such splendour. I feel easy. My heart is light and I no longer swelter from yesterday's fears and anxieties. This is an inexplicable place and yet somehow I belong...
There are no boundaries. I walk alone... Or do I? Is that someone in the distance?
Each step seems to heal.
He waits for me. I know him. His shoulders no longer stoop. Tall and erect and of lean build, with a mop of Brylcreemed, steel hair, he beckons. He's somewhere between thirty five and forty; he hasn't changed. If I draw nearer, a light gleams in his generous brown eyes and love frames a caring smile on his warm lips. His features, almost ivory, are in league with his robe. An air of authority is conveyed with little assistance from the wooden staff he carries. Time is frozen in this forest. He has not grown old. His brow is unlined. His face is serene and his limbs no longer weary.
"Hallo, Valerie, I've been waiting for you!"
"Is it really you, Dad?" Something restrains me. Someone whispers in my ear that it would not be proper to rush into his arms. He eases my confusion by linking his arm through mine.
"Shall we take a stroll?"
We hover over London in the summer of 1944. There has been another air raid and the cloud begins to clear revealing the city's devastation. The V2s, or Doodle Bugs, as they are known, are responsible The sky is grey. The air is still. The blare of the All Clear siren, suddenly abates.
We spy the Spitfires as they drone into view. It is their turn to retaliate. They form, three abreast, and travelling in a southerly direction, roar towards the Channel. We stare at the flight path until the planes become dots in the sky. Our attention is then drawn to the River Thames beneath. A couple of the barges moored to the bank have cut adrift. Burnt almost to the water line, one still blazes. The water is dark and murky. In the distance, famous landmarks have managed to remain unscathed. The buildings are sombre in their varying shades of grey and brown. We float over the four main fortresses of the Tower, Big Ben and the Houses of Westminster. Then on to St. Paul's, at which point we take a sharp turn and leave the city mile.
We drive through the narrow streets in a black cab and out into Greater London. In one street, we notice a solid brick apartment building with every window shattered and yet another with its top floor gaping open.
As we turn the corner, a razor sharp breath sears my throat. All that remains standing of the buildings which once lined the street is a charred chimney, which continues to fume, and a dry stone wall displaying "Anti-Hitler" slogans. There are bodies blocking the roadway. Some are alive. Many are soaked in blood. The colour of the blood starkly contrasts with the clothes worn by the victims and with the bleakness of the buildings. It begins to drizzle steadily, which adds to the confusion, as the ground becomes slippery in parts. The wounded flee in all directions. Some are shouting and screaming.
Some are running, some limping. Others assist the wounded or transport the shrouded bodies of the dead.
Further down the street, a tall slim man dressed in a black suit and trilby hat leans his bicycle against an iron railing. A black briefcase is strapped to the parcel rack. I turn to my companion with a lump burning in my throat. "That's you, isn't it Dad?" He nods. I follow his gaze. We turn back to the young man as he peers through the railings into the school playground. We share his horror at what he sees; the mutilated bodies of children.
There must be twenty or more. They surround the entrance to what was once an underground air raid shelter. Some are still alive and whimper as their teachers, in a state of confusion, attempt to count the dead and reassure survivors. I can't turn from the slumbering face of a five year old, her golden Shirley Temple curls streaked with blood; she is still clutching a bedraggled brown teddy bear in her arms.
I am being compelled across the bitumen playground towards the grey stone school buildings which remain standing. There is complete silence. The message is well received. No voices will echo in these sober halls for some time to come.
The steam thickens again, billowing whiter. A giant screen opens on... The Lake District. The sky is cloudless. Remains of an early morning frost glaze the grass at Ambleside as we pass through the huge iron gates of an English country estate. Undulating hills in the background are shaded in greens and browns with a large blue lake nestling in the valley. I wonder if those elusive tiddlers still jump in the crystal stream. Closer to the estate, fields are sectioned off by low lying hedges and change colour according to their various crops. The grounds of the mansion are wooded with elms and oaks and the occasional silver birch.
The leaves are beginning to change colour. We continue slowly up the main drive, which is outlined with hollyhocks, lupins and snapdragons, the ones we used to call bunny rabbit mouths. The door is made of solid oak, with a large brass ball for a handle. Locked in each other's arms, on the steps, are father and child, each wearing a brown coat. The child's thick wavy hair is partly covered by an orange knitted bonnet.
"It's you and me!" I manage to blurt out.
The shadow deepens in Dad's eyes. "Yes, you were evacuated to the north of England with your mother during those worst years of the war. She was due to give birth to your sister, Janet, and Windermere was much safer than London for both of you. It was essential for me to continue with my insurance round. We were only working class, as you know, and we had to eat."
Memories that I had tried so hard in the past to suppress flooded back. A new ache nagged in my chest.
The child continues as the parent loosens his grasp. "....but daddy, I don't want you to go away. I want to go home with you."
"You know that I must go home to work. Who else will do it for me?" The child sobs as she motions towards an older girl who appears in the gateway. It appears the intruder has been stung by an insect, because her limbs are covered in blue patches which resemble bruises.
"Look at that girl's arms and legs! Someone has been whipping her! You can't leave me here. They will beat me until I am black and blue."
"No, love, the stains are only from the Blue Bag which the nurse has used to make her bee stings all better."
She had watched her mummy use Blue Bag when she washed daddy's white shirts but he was making this up just to stop her crying.
"You were right, Dad, I wasn't punished physically; but I was scarred in an equally cruel manner. I was unable to tell you what happened for a long time. I blamed you for the hurt. I was a bed wetter at the time and when I wet the bed, they kept me in the soaking sheets all morning. I was forbidden to get up and play like the other children."
"It will only be for a little while, Valerie, until Mum finds a new baby brother or sister to play with you. You will be much safer here, away from the noise of the sirens."
"I remember the sirens and how you used to stay in the house, refusing to come down to the shelter at the bottom of the garden. Preferring to finish your paper work. You worked so hard. Mum would read to us sometimes but even she stayed indoors towards the end of the war."
Tears are rolling down the little girl's cheeks. "I don't want a new brother or sister and I like it when mum reads stories to me in the shelter!"
"Come on, darling, be dad's brave girl." He takes the child's small hand in his and walks her across to an old iron garden bench under a large, spreading oak - the grand father of trees. There he sits wearily, lifts her onto his lap and attempts to prepare her for their separation. "You'll be safe here and no nasty bombs can hurt you. I promise to come back to collect you and mum when the new baby arrives. Mrs. Doble will take good care of you for a few days. Please be good for her. Come on, give me another cuddle before I go and remember it won't be for long."
"I'm not going. I'll run away! I don't like strawberries!"
Unblemished by the restrictions of rationing, homes in the Lake District continued to serve strawberries and cream for afternoon tea. It would be years before I could bear to taste a strawberry again.
I must have fallen asleep because I detect the slight cockney tinge in my father's gentle voice as he urges me to open my eyes. The sun slices through the black with the precision of a laser beam.
Dad is smiling. He's well satisfied. He's discovered his nirvana. A calm soothes my veins. "I forgive you, dad." He knows. It's true that he deserted me when I needed him most, but it was all a part of the plan. He blows me a kiss as we drift apart in the misty forest.
He waves again and I wake up.
