Conversations with Myself: Chapter 4 - Problems with Relatives

Rose stood facing the kitchen stove. She whistled, the happy notes bouncing off the already tense air between her and her son.

Richard scrutinised her. His mother seemed to be at ease, a first time since the departure of her husband. By no means did that imply happiness; she whistled to ease her guilt. The night before, panic had driven her to shout at her son – how could she have dragged him down like that? Rose asked herself. None of this was his fault.

“I’ve tried to make him feel better. He won’t respond to anything. He doesn’t want you to go away!”

“Maybe a pet will keep his attention,” Patrick had said.

“You think he will choose an animal over you?” Rose had snapped, on the verge of tears. Her voice got tangled up in her emotions – she nearly choked from the mere effort of replying.

“Rose.” She could feel his eyes on her neck, but she refused to budge from the kitchen stove. Pretending to cook always helped her to cope with any possible dilemma.

“No parent cares about school anymore,” he insisted. “Staying here as a teacher will do us no good. I must join the RAF, for better or for worse. And if I stay, with no job and no money, it’ll only get worse.”

Teachers were not obliged to join the army – why then, did he insist on joining the RAF? Rose thought.

A tear trickled down her cheek. A gentle hand squeezed her shoulder as her husband sought to comfort her.

“Sell his books,” she’d said. “He won’t be needing them if you’re not here to teach him.”

“Rose.” He paused then, savouring the fullness of her name. “You know how much he loves to read. They’ll be all he’ll have, besides you.”

Silence followed.

“Then buy your own damn pet.”

How the tables turn. Now she had her own son acting snappish and unreasonable, Rose was almost driven mental on account of her constant thoughts.

Every night, a battle between selfishness and love ensued:

Her child must be sent away. The war has made this place a wreck. It's too risky.

She wanted to keep him with her.

To whom?

Patrick’s aunt. If he’s not safe there, where will he be safe?

She’ll never accept.

Rose had to try.

Whether Mrs Falcón loved her great nephew enough to provide him with transient shelter or not, Rose would never find out unless she mustered enough courage to write a letter. When the Germans came, Rose knew she would have to find a way to protect her son. Still, she had endured five months’ worth of air raids before she carried out her decision.

She had stayed up long after Richard had gone to sleep. Then, in the privacy of her own bedroom, she’d written down her plea. It took her an exceedingly long time for she had to recompose herself countless times. Rose would break down, sobbing and clutching her face as the tears rolled down her cheeks. After having rewritten the letter several times (for she could see that Mrs Falcón’s acceptance would be largely dependent on her writing skills), Rose had slept until morning. The next day, she sneaked out of the house in the afternoon sun to send it. Richard had never noticed; he’d been too busy burying himself in his books.

It had been quite a number of days since she had sent the letter. A reply could arrive at any given moment. What if Patrick’s aunt refused?

Rose’s mind was wrecked with worry. What if Richard refused? Would she have the determination to force him to go live with Mrs Falcón, even if it was for his own good?

Blurred options mulled around in her head though none of them provided a way out. Beads of sweat ran down her temples as, heartbeat quickening, she felt panic seizing control of her bodily functions, spreading agitation to the tips of her fingers. Closing her eyes, Rose monitored her breathing until it was safe to see again. Her lack of motion must have given her away, for Richard’s head was angled quizzically, displaying a cocked eyebrow and purse like lips.

“I think your bread is getting cold.” His own slice of bread remained untouched, except for small nibbles around the edges. Taken out of context, one would’ve thought a mouse had been at it.

Favourable occasions such as these did not occur too often. It was rare indeed for Richard to participate in the monologue his mother put up for his sake every day, let alone inaugurating the conversation himself. She pounced on the one-time opportunity. “How would you like to take Newton out today?” she asked in the hope that the animal might provide an excuse for going out together.

“I took him out three days ago,” he answered moodily, berating himself for speaking in the first place.

“He’s a dog. You can’t expect Newton to exercise on his own,” she said gently, taking extra care not to shake her head or roll her eyes at the poor dog’s name. Richard would only get angry if she did. Poking fun; even in a very subtle manner, at the tail-wagging hybrid would not gain her Richard’s approval.

“I’m going up to read,” he stated in a voice which left no room to manoeuvre. He stood up from the kitchen table and walked briskly and stiffly, marching out of the room in three long strides.

Rose was left motionless, jaw locked as she chewed a piece of bread that felt like excruciatingly hot bars of metal melting in her mouth. Tears highlighted her eyelashes.

How could he insult her like that? She would never get him to go. How could her only son hate her so much? Was she such a terrible mother? She shifted her outstretched feet slightly as she sank lower in her chair, her leg touching the concealed gas mask beneath the table.

Why couldn’t she just leave me alone? Richard fumed as he stamped his way upstairs. We can’t go anywhere nowadays, not with these damned air raids. Blaming his incongruent behaviour on the affairs of war made it easier for his conscience to bear. He passed his room in one giant step and made his way to the library.

The gas mask (which was still in his room from the previous night) seemed to scream out to him as he walked past. Chronological images flashed in Richard’s mind – the nightmare, the doorknob, the stairs, the gas masks, the clasped hands, his mother and him. Guilt caught up with him once more as he dwelled on his harsh exchanges with her not five minutes ago, when the preceding night she had proven that she truly loved him.

Richard came to a decision. I’ll try to make the best of it. At least, Newton will be there. I’ll use the pretext of returning the gas mask back under the kitchen table.

Grabbing it securely in both hands, Richard trundled back downstairs, trying to figure out how to make amends without hurting his pride. Bowing his head, partly in embarrassment and partly because he did not wish to see the look on her face, he stooped down and placed the gas mask gently on the floor. He stood back up and started to walk away, nearly losing his courage. Then he stopped and turned his head slightly:

“For how long should I exercise him?”

She hadn’t smiled for so long, her face hurt after all this time. But a sparkle of hope bestowed a genuine smile upon Rose’s face. For a moment, she felt as thrilled as the dog. Swallowing her bread, she met Richard’s eyes and replied, “As long as we like.”