-2-

1996

A simple photograph of John and I hugging in Hyde Park; we are close and smiling as a stranger takes a picture of a couple in love sharing their joy in the sunshine. I think we might have had a liquid lunch before this was taken, and judging by John’s wide grin he may have had seconds, but there is a real emotional energy in the shot, a couple resolutely together, moving forwards as one. I can’t help but smile as I look at us both in our youthful happiness.

Maria:

            The occasion is unimportant here, as is the venue, although I do love spending time surrounded by the greenery of nature, even if it is situated in the heart of a busy city. A burst of sunshine helps but it is the wide open spaces and colour that really do it for me. I chose the picture for its simplicity and for the time: an early portrait of our relationship, two young (God, we look young) people enjoying themselves and each other as they peel away the layers of artifice to reveal the person beneath.

            I’d become used to John now, or at least more used, as he could be the simplest or the most obtuse of people. It was nothing terrible or sinister, he was no Jekyll and Hyde character, it was just that there were two very definite sides to him. Perhaps he could say the same about me. I’m not self-aware enough to be sure of that, and there are other people I know who have more faces than a die, yet with John the contrast between his funny, happy social side and withdrawn, silent, expressionless aspect were pronounced.

            After our wild New Year liaison and subsequent days of drunken debauchery, we arrived at the post-holiday period realising that with work and our separate lives to accommodate we would have to make a choice about what to do going forwards. To that end we started dating in an attempt to get to know each other properly, a process that is so much easier when you’ve already got the whole sex thing out of the way.

 Chinese and Indian meals, pizza places and steak houses, were the venues for our mutual interviews, although I don’t think that either of us truly doubted that the other one had got the job, so to speak. They were good times in good company back in the days when tomorrow didn’t matter.

            I learned why John’s accent was impenetrable and adaptable, an Irish father and English mother who spent a lot of time in Wales and Scotland. John was born and brought up in Jesmond, an area on the outskirts of Newcastle, though he remembers little of that time and what he does he chooses not to talk about. A much travelled family has caused a cornucopia of twangs and brogues all housed within a well-spoken low voice. The worrying, or perhaps intriguing, aspect of all this is his chameleon-like ability to adapt his accent to someone else’s in a conversation. There are people in pubs across the city who would swear he is a Scouser/Geordie/Brum or Scot. The one accent he doesn’t get is the London one, despite having spent most of his life here. Something inside me suggests he is just doing that to be contrary.

            My family lives close. I’m London born and bred, and they are the focal point of my life, so it was natural that I should bring John to meet them despite his protestations. John however was reticent to talk about his family although I know his father died when he was young and his mother some years before we met. There are no brothers or sisters and, as far as extended family is concerned, I have no idea and he doesn’t care.

            The meeting with my family was an odd event; not disastrous or traumatic, just not what I expected. An Easter Sunday meal, roast with all of the trimmings, seemed a low-key and fairly easy introduction; it also allowed him to meet Susan, my younger sister, who was in town from Southampton where she then worked. This was also part of my cunning plan to take the pressure off John because Susan was guaranteed to bring a sack-load of drama, imagined or otherwise, to the table. I knew she would grab the conversation by the throat and shake out her life story or choke it to death. Either way the focus was off John.

            Susan brought so much more than expected, as did John, and dear Mum and Dad were little more than spectators to the show. Mum was, as always, looking on the bright side of things in a way that only the British can truly carry off.

            ‘The Yorkshires were good; I was worried they wouldn’t come off but they were just right,’ she said with the smile of a woman relieved to have located the wafer thin silver lining.

            ‘The Yorkshire’s were lovely, as was the whole meal, but I think it’s about all that was right. What’s wrong with Susan?’ I asked.

            ‘You heard that she’s having a bad time in Southampton, bless her, and all that with the wine and the occasion just got to her I think,’ Mum said with more sympathy than I could muster.

            ‘She’s pissed as a fart. She’s shouted, cried and fallen off her chair and we haven’t even had dessert yet. So no, I don’t bless her, I’m trying to stop myself slapping her silly,’ I said sharply.

            ‘Oh yes, dessert. I’ve got a lovely apple pie,’ said Mum with her best selective hearing. ‘I’ll put some custard on. Does John like custard?’

            ‘I’ve no idea but I doubt that is uppermost in his mind right now after that performance. I’ll be surprised if he’s still there when we go back into the living room.’ I sighed.

            ‘Is he leaving?’ Mum said with wilful misunderstanding.

            ‘No, I’m not saying he is leaving. It’s just that I wouldn’t be surprised if he did.’

            ‘Oh good, I’ll get on with that custard. Oh, and see if John or your father want some more wine, there’s another bottle in the fridge. There was more but I think Susan may have had some.’

            ‘You don’t say, Mum. And there was me thinking she’d had an allergic reaction to the Brussel sprouts.’ I was angry but I couldn’t help laughing at the absurdity of the situation.

            Susan had been fired from her job as a medical sales rep due to a period of terrible time-keeping that was itself a result of too much drinking caused by the end of her relationship with Trevor. An estate agent, with all of the charm of a snake, Trevor had been Susan’s other half for the best part of three years and regardless of my opinion of him they seemed happy together. It now turns out that he was showing more than he should have been around his properties, with the master bedroom as a demonstration area. It is fair to say that anyone investing in one of his properties might want to get the upholstery checked and dry cleaned.

            Having returned home for the holidays in search of a shoulder to cry on, Susan had decided that the tea and sympathy on offer was not quite enough and so she’d started on the wine around eleven o’clock in the morning. She was nicely marinated by the time John and I arrived. Mum was in denial mode but not so Dad.

            ‘Your sister is three sheets to the wind, so for God’s sake don’t mention Trevor,’ he whispered into my ear as we hugged inside the front door on arrival.

            ‘Susan’s drunk?’ I whispered loudly. Dad took a step back and gestured with his head towards the living room. I glanced in and saw her at the table pouring another glass as Dad maintained the pleasantries.

            ‘You must be John?’

            ‘I guess I must,’ John quipped to my anxious-looking father.

            ‘Perhaps you could invite him in?’ I prompted.

            ‘Yes, yes of course. Come in, John and take a seat.’ Now we were moving but I could sense the tension as we headed into the living room. ‘Can I get you both a glass of wine? Or lager if you’d prefer, I know I do.’

            ‘Wine is fine thanks,’ John said, picking up on the awkwardness. Seeing Susan at the table he thought it might help to initiate an introduction. ‘Hello, I’m John.’

            ‘Good for you,’ Susan said without looking at him.

            ‘Now Susan, don’t be rude,’ Mum said as she came into the room with the first two plates of food. As usual there was just enough on each plate to feed the average person for about two weeks and ‘there’s more if you want some’ in case you were a professional glutton.

            ‘Well excuse me, where are my manners?’ Susan said with a hefty dose of sarcasm. ‘Hello, John, I’m Susan. How absolutely marvellous to meet you.’

            ‘Well, that’s…please, John sit and take your food will you?’ Mum stuttered.

            ‘Thanks very much that looks lovely,’ said John as he sat down and took a large swig of wine. I sat down quickly next to him and caught his eye with a small grin. He acknowledged with a raise of the eyebrow but out of the corner of my eye I could see Susan sitting up and taking notice as Dad joined us at the table.

            ‘Looks like we are being left to starve dad but don’t worry because Jim looks like he’s being well fed,’ Susan said sharply.

            ‘That’s enough, Susan, be nice.’ Dad said with an edge in his voice.

            ‘It’s John actually and you are welcome to take my plate if you’re really hungry,’ said John with a smile that seemed to totally confuse Susan.

            ‘What?’

            ‘Here you go Susan.’ Mum returned with the remaining plates in a balancing act that suggested she’d had a career in the circus she’d neglected to mention. I had to smile and faced with such a feast even Susan was silenced.

            I’d expected twenty questions from my parents and a good few in return from John but instead we ate in silence except for exclamations of delight and appreciation as Mum’s roast beef hit the spot in style. I was feeling that the worst was over and concocting a plan to put Susan to bed after dinner when I was disturbed by a small whimpering sound from the other side of the table. Susan was weeping into the last of her broccoli and mashed potato.

            ‘Why did he have to be such a shit?’ she asked no one in particular.

            ‘You have to put Trevor in the past, Suse. It’s the only way forward.’ I said.

            ‘It’s easy for you to say with your perfect man, Jack, there and your job and …and…IT’S NOT FAIR!’ she screamed.

            ‘It’s still John and I’m far from perfect. You’re hurting now but. Maria’s right, you have to look forward. I know it’s a cliché but time really is a great healer,’ John said with another disarming smile. Susan was again confused but stopped crying (and shouting) and there was a glimmer of a smile.

            ‘You’re a nice man Jo…’ With that she was gone as her elbow missed the table and she toppled from her chair. I rushed with John to pick her up as Mum played dumb.

            ‘So is that everyone finished then? There’s more if you want some, John.’

            ‘I really couldn’t eat another thing, but thanks it was lovely.’ John said trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it all as we put Susan back on her chair.

            ‘I’ll help you clear the table, Mum,’ I said as I plotted my temporary escape to the kitchen and a conversation about Susan’s life, love and apple pie and custard. It was some day.

John:

            1996 and chief goth (Maria’s words not mine) Nick Cave released Murder Ballads and sent Maria into delirium. I’m playing Henry Lee firstly because she can never resist singing along, eyes closed, head swaying from side to side, fully immersed in the dark poetry; secondly I became fascinated by the relationship between Cave & PJ Harvey who sings on the song. Once again I may have found a cryptic link with later days but, I have neither the cheekbones nor the heroin habit to carry it off and this is a celebration of a happy, happy time.

            I like the photograph. It’s in Hyde Park I think, yet I hate my own picture. Maria is smiling, beautiful and oh so young while I have the grin of a village idiot and the on-camera discomfort of someone who’s just been caught stealing. I’d like to think it’s just that I can’t believe my luck at being with the girl next to me. There’s certainly a lot of truth in that, yet you can’t avoid the truth that it’s probably just the fact that I take a terrible photograph. I’ll stick to looking at Maria and remembering the wonderful honeymoon period of our relationship.

            This was in the first year and we were taking a closer look at each other to see if there might be a mask that would slip or a skeleton waiting to tumble out of the closet. Luckily for us Maria didn’t have a mask; she’s a very genuine person, and I am as shallow as I first appear with no room for a secondary ‘more interesting’ persona, I sometimes wish I did. It was a time for dating without the anxiety that can sometimes accompany the process, mainly because we were at ease with one another and genuinely happy to be embarking on a shared journey of discovery.

            At this stage I was still in my own flat, a strange little place that was arranged over two floors when there was barely space for one, yet somehow a set of stairs had been accommodated, a small flight admittedly, but stairs all the same. It was a reasonably old place with bowed yellow walls and windows that creaked with every gust of wind as though they were about to give in. What it lacked in mod-cons (the kitchen and bathroom were functional at best), it made up for with a generous living room and a warm, homely atmosphere. I liked living there and felt secure in my surroundings as much as anywhere.

            Perhaps this homeliness was obvious to Maria too, or maybe I just manipulated events in my favour, but we tended to spend our shared days and nights in my flat, a factor which also allowed me to cook, thus keeping us both happy. Maria can cook, and she does so very well, but it is very much an occasional hobby made rarer still if someone else is prepared to step up to the hot plate. I enjoy it and, so long as you like a thousand and one dishes based around a basic Bolognese recipe or a curry, it worked well.

            Regardless of Maria’s desire to cook, or otherwise, I doubt she would have had time as she was already too busy smuggling items of hers into my flat. I’d given her a spare key early on yet I still don’t know when she found the time to get her stuff in; clothes I expected but one evening after work I found a nest of tables, two lamps and a rug. As for cushions, well we had many, many, many cushions. ‘You can’t have too many cushions,’ Maria claimed. The fact is that yes you can, and yes we did!

            Nights in with a few bottles of wine and a film became the norm, after a period of restaurant dates and more formal evenings, and in the easy casual atmosphere the conversation kept returning to my family; not in a probing fashion, but with straight questions asked with genuine interest. I batted them away at first with weak humour and deflection, hoping to change the subject, and often succeeding as Maria had no desire to push further. Later I tried to shut down the inquiry or ignore the question.

            Truth is, as I tried to explain with little success, that I really have no interest or desire to discuss my family or my upbringing; let sleeping dogs lie and leave dead horses unflogged. Regardless of what angle I looked at it, this particular nag was long dead and had nothing to offer beyond an acrid stench of decomposition. More than that, I could see no gain in exposing my past to the public gaze. If the past is indeed a foreign country, I had emigrated many years before and I held a new passport.

            My Father was a GP with an unrelenting work ethic which he claimed came from his Catholic upbringing in Northern Ireland, as did his constant movement from place to place, a man in search of acceptance. He was well into his forties when I was born and it meant we were almost two generations apart at a time when life had changed beyond recognition in the space of one generation. He lived through the Second World War, a sectarian divide that grew wider with passing time, and the daily struggle that was Antrim; he talked about escaping his occupied country with both sadness and anger.

            Constant moves from city to city ensued as he came to understand that an Irish accent coupled with a religious credo was not a recommendation for medicine anywhere in the UK. As I moved from a school in Jesmond to another set of strangers in Bangor, Wales and then on to Glasgow, I grew to resent the man. I didn’t realise that the constant movement caused him at least as much heartache as it did me, not then. It was only when I was fourteen that I realised the heart pain was also physical and fatal; the man, always on the move, always working and mostly seen leaving the front door hurriedly, was suddenly still and definitely not returning.

            The shock to both Mother and I was palpable, an earthquake in our lives that never stopped delivering aftershocks. I adopted a couldn’t care less approach to life that probably accounts for my lifelong lack of ambition. After all, why kill yourself to live? Mother, always a quiet presence in Dad’s shadow, realised she had no appetite to step out into the light and so retreated further into the dark corners of her life and her mind. I learned, by watching a true virtuoso, both how to drink and how really not to. With the passing years, the latter was more the case and it was enough to make me actually do some work at school - anything to help me get away.

            I had a knack for maths, not some ‘Beautiful Mind’ genius, but a definite ability, and I used this and just enough English Literature nous to get a place at college. I took my place at the North East London Polytechnic, studying economics not because the course was good, but because it was London and it was far away; my father was a good teacher when it came to running. Here I could regroup and grow as a person, a different person, and, if need be, hide in the crowds and the impersonal nature of the metropolis. Unlike my Father, I did find somewhere to live, somewhere to be comfortable in my own skin.

            Life isn’t neat and tidy. It’s not fair and it’s impossible to turn back the clock. I know that now and, if I’d known it then I don’t know what I’d have done, but my choices were borne of selfish desperation. I couldn’t get out of that door quickly enough and I didn’t look back. If I had done I would have seen a disconsolate woman losing the second of the two men in her life in the space of ten years, a woman whose life had been her son and the bottle being left alone with an unforgiving poison. I’ve been told she was already desperately unwell but had I been there would she have been dead within two years? I don’t like to think about it, or to talk about it, as that would make me think.

            So, our personal explorations were not without some impediment but I did at least leave the door to my background ajar by way of a potted history. I didn’t have too much news regarding the wider family for the simple reason that I didn’t know. A result of a life travelling is that you can become untraceable in many respects and, if you make no effort yourself, invisible. I could have roused myself to seek out my cousins, aunts and uncles if I really wanted to, but the truth was that these people were strangers and, even if they had known me as a boy, I was a different person now.

            A feature of my reinvention was the identity that work gave me, although I didn’t know at the time that this might not be a wholly positive thing. I fell into Local Government almost by accident, I think it was Tom, who I knew through other friends at the time, that pointed me in the direction of a vacancy in Newham Housing; he’d considered it himself but got a better offer.

            I didn’t see a role as part of the bureaucracy of the housing situation as something I would be good at. More than that I thought it sounded incredibly tedious and saw no long-term future, and very little short-term, in it. But, on the advice of my then girlfriend Tina, I went for the job as ‘interview practice’. That was Tina to a tee; a voice of reason and practicality, I often wonder if her middle name was pragmatic, as opposed to cheat? It seems harsh but it is not without reason and I’m being more than kind to say that Tina was a wonderful life coach and a terrible girlfriend.

            The interview was a painless affair, partly due to my complete lack of enthusiasm for the whole process, and partly because I got on very well with one of the three interviewers, Rachel. She’d been pressganged onto the interview panel at the last minute and was as keen on the whole process as I was. Regardless of this she laughed at my joke (‘I worked as a gardener for a summer but it wasn’t a vocational decision’) which wasn’t that funny anyway but it made me feel more confident and pushed me to speculate on what might be my vocation: figures.

            Rachel could see that Housing would be an unlikely fit and, as she told me later, she voted with the others to decline my application. However, where she worked, in accounts, there was also a vacancy and she thought I might just provide an answer if management agreed to give me a trial. They did and I succeeded sufficiently to be offered a full-time contract. I was lucky that this was in the early nineties because in later years there was no way I would be offered a post without the role being advertised for applications; and who is to say that I’d get through that process?

            The local government work environment was, and is, a strange one due to the longevity of people’s jobs and the old/new work practices which seemed to rub against each other uncomfortably. Many of the older staff were in senior positions due to having outlasted everyone else and, not always but often, they had no intention of promoting any hot shots closer to them at the top of the ladder - much better a plodder or yes man/woman.

            All of this meant that you would sit in offices with some quite wonderful, bright, men and women in junior positions doing the heavy lifting for a group of dullards whose only interest was self-preservation. The specialty of these grey-faced managers was delegation and, down where I started, it was as well to accept that your work, reports, budgetary statements and more would pass up the chain unchanged except for the signature at the bottom. It was dispiriting to see people receive bonuses for your hard work but, as Rachel taught me, ‘bide your time; this can’t go on forever’.

            The plus side was that I could continue to live in London and develop as a person in an environment of my own choosing. The money, though not brilliant, was certainly a help and it wasn’t long until I had my own flat. The people were good company, on the whole. After work drinks were the norm, hungover mornings far from a rarity. Rachel, ten years my senior, proved to be an able teacher in the world of accounting and, as we had a brief liaison, quite a few other things. I really liked her as a person, and as a girlfriend, but she made it clear that any ‘out of hours’ fun was purely casual; when I pushed for something more that ended although we remained friends for many years until she left in 1999.

            I must admit that I never saw her as an ‘English as a second language’ teacher in Spain, or as any kind of teacher, but it was a signal for the way things were both changing and staying the same within the department. There are only so many times you can be passed over for advancement before you wonder what the point is. When Stuart, a man with all the talent and personality of landfill, was pushed up to ‘Team Leader’, effectively leap-frogging Rachel to become her immediate boss, the writing was on the wall and she applied for ‘literally anything that is not this’.

            The early years were better and the organisation suited me well. A job, unless you get to play lead guitar in a ground-breaking rock band (and is that a job?) is there to provide money and pay the bills. So long as I could live, drink, pay my bills and get to a gig or three I was happy, there was no way I was going to allow work to dictate my life; at least that was the theory.

            Maria’s family came as a surprise, a welcome one for the most part, although our first meeting was not the easiest. I’d like to think that I get on well with Susan now, when we meet at various seasonal holiday meals, but it seemed unlikely after that first meeting.

            ‘It’s only a meal. It’ll be over in a flash.’ Maria said brightly.

            ‘I know, it’s probably stupid to be nervous, but I am. It’s your parents. What if they hate me and tell me to leave?’ I said.

            ‘Tell you to leave? Who do you think they are? They aren’t characters in a Dickens novel. They’re regular people who are asking you round for a roast dinner. I doubt Dad will ask you what your intentions are.’ Maria laughed, enjoying my discomfort. ‘Anyway, Susan will be there and, believe me, she’ll take most of the attention and do most of the talking.’

            ‘So there’s another person who might hate me? Jesus!’ I said too loudly.

            ‘Stop worrying. I mean why would they possibly hate you? I like you, you have friends, I don’t know of any mortal enemies so I’m assuming you don’t generally repulse people you meet.’ Maria was relaxed as she mocked my angst.

            ‘When I meet the average person I’m not usually sleeping with their daughter, that tends to colour opinion.’ I explained.

            ‘That’s true. So, as this is your first meeting, try not to mention our sex life. Maybe leave that for Christmas?’ Again, laughter.

            ‘Okay, I get the point, I’ll try and relax,’ I lied.

            I needn’t have worried about Maria’s parents; they were lovely, even if I was incapable of remembering their names. Mr and Mrs Johnson stuck but Steven and Mary just wouldn’t for some reason. However, the main reason for the change in focus was Susan. In all of my nightmare scenarios I had neglected to consider the possibility that Maria’s sister might be having a post-breakup meltdown fuelled by a barrel of wine that accompanied her mood swings of which there were many.

            By the time she fell off her chair, in a move that would have been quite comical in other circumstances, I was only just beginning to think I was winning her over from her original opinion of me which seemed to be on a par with the average woodlouse. I sent her into a spiral of anger by getting my food presented to me first and compounded matters by politely asking to be called by my correct name. I’ve no objection to the name Jack, or Jim or James, it’s just not my name.

            In retrospect, I guess the sideshow made my introduction easier, her parents liked that I reacted to it well, yet how could they know alcoholic dinners were my specialist subject? The irony was not lost on me and neither was the food which must have increased my weight by about a stone. Mary does not believe in half measures when it comes to food. How Steven stays so slim is beyond me.

            I suppose the best thing I can say is that now Maria’s family are my family, I can’t say that they see it that way but that’s not the point. I’m happy and comfortable in their company. The seal of approval, so to speak, wasn’t a defining point in our relationship but it really helped for me and neither of us would deny that it would have made life a whole lot more difficult if they had hated me.

            Onwards and upwards was the direction of travel at that time and as we became the double ‘John and Maria’, we met each other’s friends and they met each other. I find Kate the easiest person to get along with most of the time and yet the most infuriating at the same time. She always means well but she is fussy, contrary, opinionated and on occasion dismissive.  She is the only person I know who has put herself up on a pedestal and due to her attitude Bob still calls her ‘Princess Kate’ with some disdain.

            Pete laughs at her, and at Ma who he finds hilarious, but there is no disdain of Kate. Pete is quietly smitten with the girl but, as he acknowledges she is out of his league, he keeps his feelings to himself. Bob and I know, we have been known to crack the odd joke or two at his expense, but he won’t have a serious conversation about it and we are sworn to secrecy; I may have told Maria in a drunken ‘don’t tell anyone but’ kind of way though I can’t be sure and I’m hoping she isn’t either.

            Colin and Paul are the easy ones to get to know quickly. They are funny, kind and the best couple I know who aren’t a couple; I know Pete wishes he could be as platonic with Kate, at least at first, and as comfortable with her. It’s not going to happen. He is, as is Bob, on good terms with Colin and Paul, though they see relatively little of each other in the great scheme of things. It’s nice that we can plan events knowing that there are no hidden problems waiting to emerge. And then there is Ma.

            Ma is unlike anyone I’ve ever met and she elicits a unique reaction. She is not universally liked, in truth it’s not even a majority vote, yet there is something about her that attracts your attention. She has some kind of star quality (though there is no-one less likely to act like a diva) that draws you in and makes you want to listen even if you then wish you hadn’t. She’s rude, loud, stubborn and capable of breath-taking obnoxiousness, yet when she’s around I laugh almost all the time. She is sharp as a tack and, whilst often cutting, rarely cruel unless you happen to be one of Kate’s hapless boyfriends, in which case it’s open season.

            She has opinions, many, many opinions and, although there are any number I disagree with, she makes you listen and she’s worth listening to. At that time, I thought I was little more than an irritant to her, until I realised that most people were in the same boat, and then in time I saw how she reacted to people who really bothered her. Boy was there a difference. I knew she didn’t not like me; I just found it hard to find a description for her feelings. I must confess that, after I realised she liked boys AND girls, that she may have been jealous. I saw the way she looked at Maria sometimes and it seemed like more than friendship; I may be wrong but that’s how it seemed.

            Year one and all smiles from kitchen to bedroom and everything in-between. Perhaps a picture of me as a grinning imbecile is fitting?