A slightly dark tale of modern life.
‘Just ‘cos I’m here, don’t think I want to be.’
Jimmy Haroldson stood in the doorway to the house, defiantly. At twelve, he had grown up quickly of late. And as he looked at the smile disappear from his father’s face, a sense of gratification crossed his mind.
Peter Haroldson had been so looking forward to Jimmy coming. It would be the first time he had him to stay since he and his wife broke up. It was to be a time of reconciliation, well aware how Jimmy had been affected by the break-up. However, any hope that Jimmy would make it easy for him had already evaporated.
‘I understand how you feel, son. But let’s try.’
‘I don’t wanna try,’ said Jimmy, ‘I hate you.’
Peter struggled for words that would help, but was aware words would fail him. ‘I’m sorry you feel that way. But maybe you’ll understand.’
‘Never. All I know is you dumped mom, and she cries herself to sleep every night.’
Philippa Simons gunned the engine as she turned the corner. An attractive woman of thirty, her life had been renewed of late. She had been Peter’s secretary, and in the normal line of promotion, she had advanced to his mistress, and now to his new live-in girlfriend. Her immediate thought when she heard Jimmy would be coming to stay was to go and stay with friends for a couple of days. But Peter had been adamant. ‘No. He’s got to understand you’re with me.’
‘But Peter,’ she had said, ‘he’ll blame me for breaking his parents up.’
‘Oh no,’ said Peter, ‘that is all my fault. Believe me.’
The house filled her windscreen as she straightened the wheel, and even as she parked, she was convinced it was a bad idea. But regardless, she got out of the car and entered the house.
‘I’m home,’ she said as she walked in, with mock joviality. She found Peter and Jimmy in the kitchen, Jimmy eating beans on toast, Peter watching. ‘Hello,’ she said, ‘nice to see you again, Jimmy.’
Jimmy filled his mouth with beans. Looked up. Threatened a mock puke.
‘That wasn’t very nice,’ said Peter.
Jimmy chewed momentarily. Said: ‘Neither is she.’
‘But you’ve got to try to get on with people.’
‘Mom says she ain’t people. She’s a tart.’
Philippa felt like slapping the little runt. But instead, said: ‘I’m sure we can get to like each other, Jimmy. Once we get to know each other.’
Peter immediately realised it was a wrong move. Hence, as Jimmy finished his beans, he said: ‘How about going for a drive. You can see where we live now.’
As Peter stood up and walked out, Jimmy hunched his shoulders nonchalantly and followed.
‘Things move on, you see, Jimmy.’ Peter drove along the road, determined to get through to his son.
‘But I didn’t want things to move on,’ said Jimmy.
‘I know, son, but we don’t always get what we want.’
‘Mom sure didn’t.’
‘I know.’
‘But your tart did.’
‘That’s not fair, Jimmy. It’s not as clear cut as that.’
‘It seems so to me. Mom says it’s your fault, anyway, ‘cos you couldn’t keep your thingy zipped up.’
Peter flushed. What was that bitch playing at, telling the lad things like that.
‘I’m sorry you feel that way, but nothing’s gonna change now. ‘
‘But dad, you said things move on. So she can’t stay for long. ‘
‘You know what I mean.’
A thought came into Jimmy’s head. ‘But dad, things can change really quickly.’
‘How’s that?’
At which point, Jimmy’s hand shot in front of his father, grabbed the wheel, and gave it a mighty tug.
Philippa Simons was driving alone for the second time that day. However, this time she drove with more urgency. The phone call had come ten minutes ago and already she was nearing the hospital.
Finally arrived, she rushed through the door and found herself face to face with a blooded, but otherwise unhurt Peter and Jimmy Haroldson.
‘What the hell happened?’ she said, shocked.
Peter took a sly look at Jimmy and said: ‘I don’t know. As I told the police, I just lost control.’
At least, thought Jimmy, he’s no grass.
Philippa looked down at the boy. ‘So you still hate your father now? You know, after saving your life before the car exploded?’
Jimmy Haroldson smarted as she repeated the events the police had told him about. And before his very eyes came a vision of the car on fire, his leg stuck and unable to move, and his father … damn him.
‘It was nothing,’ said Peter for him. ‘Let’s get home and try to be a family again.’
It was a difficult night for Jimmy. He wasn’t stupid, and regardless how he felt for his father, he had to admit he liked his life and didn’t really want to be dead. Hence, it was with mixed emotions that by nightfall the three of them were finally talking civilly. At one point, even a laugh erupted from his mouth.
Finally, Peter Haroldson looked at the time and said: ‘I think it’s time for bed.’
Begrudgingly, Jimmy agreed, and as he walked out the door, he managed a reasonably cheery ‘goodnight dad,’ although his referral to Auntie Philippa still had the consistency of a rasp.
Finally in bed, he began to reappraise his life. Maybe, he thought, things might not be so bad. Okay, mom was still very upset, but he could help her with that. And he had to admit, a little love still existed for his father under all that hate.
Finally resolved to make a go of it, Jimmy Haroldson decided to let his dad know right then how he felt. Getting out of bed, he walked down the landing and was about to go into his father’s bedroom when he heard the noise.
Just what went on in his head at that moment, he was unsure. Maybe he never realised what living with Philippa would entail. Maybe he thought they were just friends. But as the noise of love-making filtered to his ears, he knew he could stand it no more.
Peter Haroldson was in the hospital for the second time in twenty four hours. And also, for the second time, he found himself lying to the police.
‘No officer,’ he said, ‘I didn’t see his face. All I saw was the knife. And after that, everything went blank.’
Jimmy could only agree. And as he had said: ‘I think I do love you, dad. And maybe the two of us could still be a family.’
© Anthony North, August 2002
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The Metropolitan Police Authority have advised that all-girl gangs have now become a problem in the UK. Further, boy gangs are also now using girls as ‘honeytraps’ to lure victims into secluded places to be beaten and robbed.
Women, it seems, are born to shop. Researchers at the University of California have tested the theory by sending a number of men and women around a market. The women scored higher at finding, and remembering, the stalls.
The naivety of the British public seems to know no bounds. Two thirds, it seems, would be prepared to pay to throw their rubbish away rather than continue to pay ridiculously high council tax.
A few thousand climate change protesters have begun their campaign at Heathrow, tentatively moving out of their camp. In most instances, the protest is peaceful, but the inevitable trouble makers will do what they do and will clash with the police.
There’s been another scare over China’s exports. In the UK toys by their million are being withdrawn because they contain toxic materials. The latest in a long line of inferior quality goods, blame is being placed squarely on Chinese practices.
There is no more evidence that the UK government continues to lose the plot than the idea that African-Caribbean boys should have role models such as teachers, lawyers, and even politicians such as Paul Boateng.
British pubs are beginning to stink. So says brewers Mitchells & Butlers, who are working on introducing new fragrances into their public houses.
We’re all a load of liars. So says a recent survey of 2,000 people by Royal and Sun Alliance. Indeed, two thirds of people admit to lying, with the other third … well, they’re most likely lying anyway.
If you want to know what’s wrong with modern culture, you couldn’t have done better than watching ‘You Can’t fire Me, I’m Famous’ on BBC1, 31 July 2007. Watching Piers Morgan interview Jade Goody was quite nauseating.
