Mary's Son
Such a year this has been. Has it really only been a year? No, not quite. The calendar that hung on the wall above the kitchen telephone declared today's date as September 28th, 1957. Mary died end of last October. That's right, trees were bare and it was raining. Such a time it's been since then. Soldiering on hasn't been easy, anything but, in fact. Raising teenagers is never easy, never knowing what to expect. Sometimes it was typical teenaged rebellion, sometimes it was anger and guilt over their mother's death, gone almost a year now, but it was with his eldest son, Paul, that Jim McCartney was having the most difficulty with these days.
The senior McCartney had never been keen on using corporal punishment on his sons even though his dear departed wife Mary had often been heard to say that her boys were 'raised by hand.' But now, since Mary's death, Jim found himself in the difficult role of both mother and father, nurturer and disciplinarian to his and Mary's boys, Paul, only just fifteen and thirteen year old Michael.
Paul wasn't handling this change in his father's role very well either. He often tested his Dad's patience to the limit and this time he'd pushed too far and found himself on the receiving end of his Dad's worst moment.
Tired with always having to be the more responsible one, just because he was the older of the two, Paul balked at yet another of his father's restrictions and expectations of him while spoiled and pampered Michael seemingly could do no wrong and always got away with bloody murder! This time, Paul blurted out a profanity and called his father a name he knew wasn't true, but it was too late to call the words back.
Affronted by such uncharacteristic insolence, Jim McCartney slapped his eldest son across the face, something he'd never done before. Jim had reacted more out of stunned outrage at his son's extraordinary behavior, and Jim was shocked by his own impulsive reaction, which was reflected in his son's tear-filled eyes as he faced his Dad, hand to his burning cheek.
Paul regretted the words the moment they'd left his mouth and had been stunned himself that he had dared to speak so nastily to anyone, let alone to his own Dad; he knew instantly that his mother would never have tolerated his shameful show of disrespect, but it was too late for sorry. And in typical teenaged hysteria, Paul had stormed out of the house, leapt onto his bicycle and peddled determinedly away from the awful scene that had just transpired.
Speechless, Jim watched for long moments as his son's darkened silhouette, peddling furiously on a wobbling bicycle, disappeared up the road past the streetlight on the corner and was gone from view. Finally, closing the door quietly, he decided that rather than go after the boy now, they both needed time to cool off and get their tempers back in check. And for what had to be the millionth time since his dear Mary's passing, he wished with all his heart that she was still here to handle this.
How he disliked having to take on the full burden of raising these boys on his own, but there was nothing else for it, he sighed to himself. Mary was gone and he was all his boys had left. He knew the boys missed their Mum something awful. Especially Michael, the younger of the two, and so close to his Mum. And yes, he probably had been more lax in Michael's discipline. He just seemed to still be missing his Mummy so much. But Paul, with all his boyhood independence, constantly testing the limits of his father's control was still just a lad missing his Mum as much as his younger brother did. And with a child's sense of injustice, neither of them able to understand why she had to go away. Paul being the bit of a child that he still was, and unable to deal with such an adult loss in the manner that adults must do, misguidedly took it out on those closest to him.
Mary would have understood that. Mary would have known how to handle their son's fear of being abandoned. Mary's son, Jim thought, so stubborn, and so like Mary herself. She was a right strong one, his Mary. Always knowing what to say to comfort them, what to do for them. Somehow always knowing what was needed most and just when it was needed.
She'd have made a good diplomat, he mused. Always ready with the right words to calm and soothe the rows that sprung up between the boys. And if words alone didn't do it, she had a tone that could chill bones, he chuckled to himself. No, Mary was no saint, but she was a right strong one. This was what he missed most about his wifeher strength, her comfort. What Jim wouldn't give to have just a little of that comfort for himself right now.
It's not fair, he thought as he picked up his pipe from it's rack on top of the piano. He rubbed the bowl of the cherry wood pipe between his thumb and index finger, remembering their last Christmas when Mary had given it to him; remembering the look on her face when he held up the small box wrapped in bright paper with pictures of children dancing after a Jolly St. Nicolas.
They had agreed, he thought, not to spend their meager holiday money on frivolous gifts for each other. Deciding instead that Christmas was a holiday for children and with as fast as their own two boys were growing, there might not be too many Christmases left to indulge their young ones with visions of sugar plums and happy stories of a jolly man laden with armloads of brightly wrapped packages.
Jim remembered holding the small box for long moments before being cajoled into peeking inside at it's contents. It had been a conspiracy, he realized, when he'd opened the box and Michael had immediately handed him the smaller package in similar wrappings, smelling of the rich aroma of his favorite blend. "It's from both of us, Dad!" Paul had beamingly declared.
He was more than surprised at Mary's choice of gift, as much as she'd protested the smell of "that nasty thing" whenever he'd had occasion to light up the old well used corncob pipe long since passed down to him from his own dear Dad. They all must have decided that it was high time Dad had a pipe of his own, after all, not appreciating the long ago memories that lighting up that old pipe had invoked for him!
He looked down at the pristine bowl, the sleek straight line of it's shining surface. The black ceramic mouthpiece was slightly chewed, but other than that small imperfection, he'd never drawn even one smoky draught from it, declaring it too nice for 'everydays' and he'd save it for 'specials', when a really good pipe was called for, which seemed to please his boys immensely. But not too many 'specials' since that Christmas, Jim sighed, and none at all after Mary had gotten sick. And now here too, nearly forgotten, the still unopened 'baccy pouch' sat beside the small pipe racka fine layer of dust on top, he now noticed.
Another reminder of how very much he missed his wife. Mary had been a meticulous housekeeper and he felt a pang of guilt when he spied the spoiled piano top. He'd put the cleaning rag to it tomorrow, he thought.
Mary would never tolerate such slovenliness.
He walked back to the front door and peered out the small window into the darkness, worry etched across his brow for his son, wondering what he'd say to him when he came home. Turning away, Jim sighed heavily and walked in to Mary's small kitchen with the thought of what to prepare his boys for their dinner.
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Tears blurred Paul's vision and angry hurt blurred his common sense as he peddled madly down the lane, not even aware that it had started to rain until he realized that his shirt was plastered to the front of his chest and he wasn't wearing a jacket.
After about a half hour of mindless peddling he found himself outside of Mimi Lennon's house on Menlove Avenue. Soaking wet and shivering with cold and raw emotion, he pulled the doorbell.
Frozen fingers shoved deep under his armpits, he waited anxious minutes for the porch light to switch on. A few more moments, and the door inside the covered porch opened. Mimi's teenaged nephew, John, was at the screened door, squinting at him through the thick lenses of the glasses he was wearing.
"C..can I come in, John?" Paul stammered, his teeth clenched to keep them from chattering with cold. John could see the younger boy was shivering, soaked to the skin without even a jacket, hair plastered to his head.
"Mimi's home...go 'round the back garden and I'll bring you a towel. She's leaving in a few minutes, and I'll let you in." John said quietly, looking over his shoulder to make sure his Auntie was nowhere in sight.
Paul nodded gratefully and pushed his bike along the narrow pathway leading to Aunt Mimi's back garden.
He hadn't intentionally set off for John's when he'd left home tonight and knew he'd be taking a chance just showing up on Aunt Mimi's doorstep as he had. He was just lucky that it was John who'd answered the door this time and not Mimi herself.
Paul knew John's Aunt Mimi disapproved of her nephew's association with 'low boys' such as himself and some of John's other friends. But John was a good mate and while he tolerated his Auntie's prejudices, he generally ignored her restrictions. Paul had had Mimi's door closed in his face more than once before and knew all too well of her 'airs', something over which he and John had frequently had a giggle.
Paul huddled under the narrow awning that hung over the back porch, a small rip in the worn canvas dripped freezing water down the back of his shirt. He pressed in closer to the side of the house as the awning offered small refuge from the pouring rain, but it was the wind gusts that chilled him to the bone.
His teeth chattered uncontrollably now as he clenched his arms tightly across his rain soaked chest to try to stop the shivering that shook his entire body. Feeling sorry for himself, his thoughts echoed with memories of his mother's stern words of admonishment, to be followed by the warm hugs that inevitably would follow...both something he was missing terribly right now.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, John came to the back porch door. He struggled impatiently with the three locks, then the door finally swung open. John ushered his nearly frozen friend inside. Paul moved stiffly past him, clutching the fluffy towel that John shoved at him.
" Ya daft git, what're you doing here, all soaking wet?" John questioned, moving away from the dripping form as if he might become contaminated.
"I...I had a f..fight with my D..Dad" Paul stuttered through clenched teeth. Grateful for the small warmth the bath towel offered, he started rubbing it vigorously across his face and chest, avoiding direct eye contact with his friend. His voice became an embarrassed whisper. "I just took off and...I didn't know w..where else to go"
"Well, come 'ead then...let's get you some dry clothes" John led Paul through the kitchen and up the back stairs to his own room.
John watched as Paul struggled out of his wet jeans and shirt and pulled on the dry pants and T-shirt that John handed him. Paul sat down on the edge of John's bed as he pulled on a pair of John's wool socks and gratefully accepted the second towel John handed him to finish drying his hair.
Paul sat quietly for a long moment before looking up at his friend through overlong bangs, finger-combing the hair out of his eyes. He sighed heavily and offered a shy smile.
John shook his head with a rueful grin and put a hand on Paul's shoulder, unspoken comfort in his touch. "How 'bout a cuppa to chase the chill, eh ?" John offered.
"Oh, ta!, I'm half frozen!" Paul said gratefully, gathering his wet clothes. John led Paul back downstairs and put the kettle on the stove. He then took the pile of wet clothes and towels from Paul and threw them in the laundry hamper by the back door.
"What's this 'bout a fight with your old man?" John asked cautiously, noticing the left side of his young friend's face...the fading outline of a red handprint still visible. Paul squirmed under John's close scrutiny and touched the side of his face, embarrassed when he realized John was staring at the mark that he could still feel there.
"He hit me." Paul said, his voice barely above a whisper. "He's never done that before." Paul stopped as he realized tears were once again forming. "I just grabbed me bike and took off." Angry at himself now for his childish display, he turned away from John, hoping the older boy hadn't seen his tears.
Just then the tea kettle whistled for attention. Glad for the diversion, John moved hastily to the stove to pour the boiling water into two steaming cups. He found himself wondering what he could offer his young friend in terms of advice or words of wisdom and lit up with a grand inspiration.
"I've got just the medicine for this kind of illhang on, back in a sec!" John smiled wickedly, leaving Paul in the kitchen wondering what John could be up to. He returned in a few minutes carrying a bottle of what appeared to be malt whisky! Cracking the bottle cap, he sniffed the potent aroma of Clan Sinclair's finest Scotch Whisky and with a huge grin, topped off each of their cups of tea with a generous slosh. Paul's eyes were wide as he watched the proceedings, as he would never admit that he'd never even stolen a single sip of his own Dad's fine malt. With cups lifted in a cheerful toast, they both sipped their drinks, John laughing at Paul's grimace once he tasted the potable contents.
John watched Paul's hands nervously toy with the spoon in the sugar bowl as he searched for words to comfort his younger friend. But he soon realized that as the hot mug warmed Paul's hands and the whisky warmed Paul's insides, it probably wasn't words that Paul needed from him. The two of them sat for a long time in companionable silence at Mimi's kitchen table, and John could sense Paul calming down and regaining control of his faculties as his 'medicine' did it's work. By the time they'd finished the last swallows of their over sweetened drinks, Paul's earlier distress had nearly faded completely. He looked up at John with gratitude and a slightly glazed look in his eyes. His demeanor was now displaying something akin to humility, which was reflected in his slight smile.
Paul heaved a heavy, resigned sigh. "Thanks for the cuppa, John. It really helped. And thanks for loan of the duds! Not the smartest thing, was it, riding out into the rain like that?" Paul said, fingering the collar of the T-shirt he was wearing. "Mum would've skinned my hide. I can only imagine what Dad'll do when I get home." John watched as Paul's fingers briefly touched at the mark now barely visible on the side of his face.
"Mimi's not going to be gone long. Do you want me to see if Nigel's home? You know he'll let you stay over if you don't want to go back there." John finally suggested.
"No, it's okay John. I'd probably just better go. Dad'll be worried, and I think I've given enough grief for one day."
"Serves him right to worry, don't it?" John's tone defiant. "He shouldn't have bashed you, you know. It's just wrong!"
Paul smiled ruefully, grateful for his friends' misplaced sense of loyalty. But he knew he had to own up to his own bad behavior.
"No, it was me. I was a right bastard." Paul said quietly. He looked up suddenly into John's face, asking for understanding. "I said some awful things." He admitted sadly, his voice trailing. "I didn't mean what I said. I don't even know why I said 'em. Everything's just so different...now."
"Well, he still shouldn't have hit you, should he?" John said harshly, still not quite ready to let go of the indignity he was feeling on Paul's behalf. "Mimi tried that on me once. She said I hurt her hand!" John smiled at the memory.
Paul smiled too. He knew his own poor Dad would be worried if he didn't show up at home soon. It was going to be hard enough explaining to his Dad how he came to have the slight tint of alcohol on his breath, let alone how he happened to be wearing someone else's clothes when he got home, especially since now he was going to have to ask John for the loan of a jacket too.
But Paul knew that the least of his concerns was what he'd be wearing, he knew he had a lot to make amends for with his Dad and he knew he'd have to start with an apology. If for no other reason than that it was the right thing to do... it was the least of what his mother, Mary, would expect of him. ~~
