Father's stories

These may be facts,

• My father was the youngest of 17 children; Seven real ones, and ten half ones. His father married twice. He was born in Hackney.
• He was evacuated during the war, and sexually abused by the farmer he was lodged with. He was three.
• His mother and father were killed in the blitz. He was four.
• Polish soldiers stationed nearby, adopted him. They were sad. They missed their families, far away in Nazi occupied Europe, not knowing whether they were dead or alive. They were kind.
• Afterwards, his sister brought him back to the city: "If we're going to die, we're going to die together", is what he said she said.
• His sister and brothers would never tell him how his mother and father died; or, they would tell different stories. In a tube station; in a lift shaft; in a collapsed burning building; in a bus. He never knew, really, which story to trust. Bewildered and hurt. I found out they were killed at Bank station, together - 11 January 1941. At least that's what the official record states. But how, why, the circumstances? Don't know.
• His brothers were East End gangsters. He was the naive young brother. He was their child runner. They also made him steal from shops - the tailor - the jeweler - to order.
• His father's will split the money "equally" amongst all children. Except for my father who received less - the amount wasn't exactly divisible by seven. He received exactly one penny less. He returned again and again to this inequity.
• His nickname was dopey - "homage" to the seven dwarfs.
• He travelled to the V&A museum, in south London, as a young boy, and sat amongst the exhibits, to escape the east end.
• He lived at "Manor house for working boys" for a time.
• Then, he was drafted, and spent two years in occupied Germany. His first great escape.
• He emmigrated to South Africa, in his early twenties. His second great escape.

I saw him a few days before he died.

He was talking to me, and then suddenly he accused me of stealing his model ship, and breaking it. I thought and thought back to my childhood, and couldn't remember. I said that. He looked at me with the smug look of someone who knows my inner soul - and that it was a dark deceitful soul - and said: "Ok". I suppose what event he attached this view to was immaterial; whether the story was true or not was neither here nor there; it was arbitrary. What was important, was this was his relationship over me.

I know you, he thought... and perhaps he did.

But it was his brother who broke the toy boat, when they were children, when they had been evacuated during the war. The brother he lost - because he also disappeared; just as my father did to South Africa; just like he did with me; just like I did with him. The brother who was there during the abuse. Stanley, became a famous jeweler, left London, and never spoke to the family again. My father confused me with his brother - his brother who cut himself off from the family, like me and him did to each other. All the other brothers remained tight knit. Echoes.

My father had many strokes, caused by chronic alcholism. He was delirious, everyone said. Maybe - but I was hearing truths.

He rambled onto me for hours, talking to his brother. I protested a few times; and then let him talk his demons out. It must have felt safe to talk to his brother. His lost brother, who knew the secret. But, I think he was talking to me too. At least, that's the story I tell myself. I needed to hear the things he said, and I can't quite admit that he never wanted to tell me these things. So, he spoke, and I listened.

He told me lots of things. This is when he told me about the abuse. I don't believe he told anyone before. Not in 69 years. A big piece of the puzzle missing, found. It had to be told, I believe. He knew he was going to die. He did. And he had to let this secret free, finally.