Willow lived next door. Her Dad took care of her throughout the week and the mother came home weekends. They didn’t want to bring up their child in London so moved, and as the mother earned a significant amount they decided she should remain working in London and commute the two hour distance at weekends. It worked for a while. But the mother grew resentful at Willow’s inclination to go to her father for reassurance, guidance and comfort. Willow knew things the mother hadn’t taught her and the father looked on with enormous pride. They argued. They disagreed on things that surprised one another. It stayed like this for a while. I moved house. Then the mother drove away again but this time with Willow. There was confusion over the address she’d left. He began to cover himself in tattoos. Shaved off his hair. Drank heavily and said every man needed a hobby. No longer had any contact at all with Willow and the confusion turned to spite. He came to the pub I worked at one afternoon and drank a chaser with every pint and wept resentfully, told me the mother once said all children from working-class homes should be taken away and given to the middle-classes and wondered at all the things Willow had been doing up until now. He said he’d lately considered suicide and we argued. He knew the exact place. Had thought about it a great deal. Then he left. From the door I watched him walk down the road. The sun was out and it was a nice day. I never saw him again. |