Gilbert's Birthday. Part four: 10th by Emma Harding

“You look really pretty, Mummy.”

    Mummy gives me a big squeeze. “Well, thank you darling,” she says. “I wanted to look nice for your birthday.” She leans back and smiles at me. “How does it feel to be ten?”

    I think about this for a bit. To be honest I don’t really feel any different to how I felt yesterday but I know that I am, somehow. “I feel very grown-up, I think.”

    Mummy laughs. “My little man,” she says. “It’s good to know I have you to look after me.”

    “Just while Daddy’s away,” I say. She stops laughing and looks at me for a long time.

    “Yes, dear,” she says after a bit. “Just while Daddy’s away.”
 
    “Tell me what he’s doing again.”

    “Oh Gilly, I’ve told you so many times.” She turns away from me.

    “But Mummy, it’s my birthday and I want to hear about Daddy.”

    Without looking at me, she says, “Ok then, just this one time and no more ok?”

    “Ok,” I say, bringing my knees up under my chin. I love this story. Mummy starts, as always, by telling me about how Daddy went off to fight in the war when I was four. I don’t remember much about him apart from his shiny black shoes and how he smelt of barley sugar. Because Daddy was so brave, Mummy says, he was recruited by the British Government to be a spy. Right now, he’s on a secret mission far away. No one except the Prime Minister knows where he is. One day though he’ll come home and everything will be different.

    “Different how, Mummy?” I ask, as I always do.

    She sighs. “We’ll live in a big house with an outhouse that doesn’t leak when it rains. I’ll have a different dress for every day of the week and you’ll have new shoes. We’ll have a roast chicken every Sunday and fresh eggs every morning …”

    “What’s roast chicken like, Mummy?” I say, but she’s still talking, her voice getting louder and faster.
   
    “… We’ll live somewhere where the neighbours aren’t all nosey buggers with nothing better to do than gossip. Somewhere where we’ll get a bit of respect. Somewhere decent. Somewhere where I wouldn’t have to …” She stops.

    “Where you wouldn’t have to what, Mummy?” She looks at me as if she’d forgotten I was there.

    “Nothing, darling. Come on now, or you’ll be late for school.”

    “Awww.” I say. I hate school. “Why do I have to go to school on my birthday? It’s not fair.”

    Mummy looks tired. “You’re right Gilly, it’s not fair. Nothing in this life is fair. The sooner you learn that the better off you’ll be. Now get yourself to school.”

****

Loud voices are coming from the kitchen when I come home. Perhaps it’s a party for me. I push open the kitchen door, excitement rising inside me like bubbles in a bottle of pop, but it’s only Mummy and Uncle Bob. I’d forgotten it was a Wednesday. Uncle Bob’s always here on a Wednesday.

    “Alright there, Gilly lad?” he says, ruffling my hair with his big rough hands. Mummy watches us, frowning. She’s wearing her housecoat now and her hair is down. She doesn’t look as pretty as she did this morning.

    “It’s my birthday today,” I tell him.

    “Is it now?” he says. “Well ain’t that somethin’? Happy birthday lad.” He looks at Mummy.

    “You’d better go now, Bob,” she says and turns away, reaching up to put the money tin on the highest shelf in the cupboard. From there, she takes out a bottle of yellowish-brown liquid and pours some into a glass.

    “Whatever you say, Aud,” Uncle Bob says, letting himself out of the back door. “You’re the boss. See you next week, Gilly.” As he crosses the yard he waves his hand at me, then pulls his cap hard onto his head, pulls his shoulders up and disappears through the gate.

    “Can I have some?” I ask, pointing at Mummy’s drink.

    She laughs. “No dear, it’s just for grown-ups. You wouldn’t like the taste.” She looks at her glass, swirling the liquid around. “Besides it’s too precious to waste - you have no idea what I had to do to get this.”

    She sounds sad. She’s about to say more but then there’s a tap-ta-ta-tap on the door and Mrs Williams from down the road steps into the kitchen.

    “Happy birthday, Gilly,” she says smiling like the cat in the Alice in Wonderland story. She hands me a small brown paper parcel, “something for your collection.” She picks up the kettle. “How about a nice cup of tea, Audrey?” she says.

    Mummy drops into a chair as if she was a ragdoll. Mrs Williams looks at me. “Why don’t you go and play in the other room, dear?” she says.

    I take my present into the front parlour. I hope it’s what I think it is. Yes! A racing car. Brilliant! In good condition too. I settle down on the rug - let’s see how fast you can go.

    Then I hear Mummy shouting. “No! I can’t tell him, Vy, he’d hate me. It’d screw him up for life.” Then she says, “I know, I know. But I’ve been lying for so long - how can I tell him now?” Then she yells even louder. “You interfering old bat! How dare you? What dirty minds you and all your cronies have. Like I’d ever do anything so, so demeaning!” There’s the sound of the door slamming shut and then it all goes quiet. I go into the kitchen. Mummy’s at the kitchen table, her head on her arms.

    “Mummy?” I say.

    “Go away, Gilly,” she says, her voice muffled.

    “But, Mummy.”

    “Now, Gilly!”

    Why is she shouting at me? I run from the room and pound up the stairs to my bedroom. Bloody Mummy. She’s always cross. I try to be good but she gets mad anyway.

    Later, she comes into my room with a glass of warm milk and some toast and dripping on a tray. She’s all dressed up again. “I’m sorry, Gilly,” she says. “I’m just worn out.” She’s got another glass of that golden drink. She kneels beside me. “What a rotten birthday you’ve had,” she says, brushing my hair out of my eyes. “Why don’t you put your pyjamas on, get into bed and I’ll read you a story.”
As I change, she picks up my milk and tips some of her drink into mine. “A grown-up drink for a grown-up little man,” she says, handing it to me.

    I take a sip. It tastes mostly of milk but there’s something else which catches on the back of my throat and makes me cough. It’s nice.

    “Tomorrow,” she says quietly as I snuggle into bed, “I’m going to tell you the truth about something. Something I should have told you a long time ago.”

    “OK, Mummy,” I say, sleepily. There’s a warm glow in my tummy. Nothing can hurt me. Mummy and I will look after each other and Daddy will be home soon.

Gilbert's Birthday. Part three: 30th by Suzanne Hudson

You hope that after seven years inside, people might forget, but not around here. I was barely out when the taunting started.  People staring in the street, fingers pointing, whispers and jeers. Mothers holding their children to them, as I passed, as though I might harm them just by looking at them. Shopkeepers ignoring me, until I stopped going in and had to drive two miles just to get bread and milk.

    The people at AA understood.  Barry had been through it and Dervla. They said keep your head down, keep sober, time is a great healer and people will see that you’ve changed. Bernie has always served me at the chip shop though. I don’t usually go in on a Friday night, but it’s my 30th birthday today and even though no one knows or cares, I want to mark the occasion somehow. Just as Bernie is about to take my order, the local kingpin Jez and three of his cronies stumble in, beer cans in their hands, push me to one side and begin shouting their orders at Bernie. His chubby face breaks into a grin, but he’s no pushover.

    “Hang on a minute lads,” he says amicably. “I think Gilbert here was next.”

    Jez turns to look at me with pure hate. “That scumbag?”

    “Come on now, Jezzie boy. Look, let me just get Gilbert served and then we’ll sort you boys out with some fodder.” A queue is now beginning to form behind me and the people in it watch the goings on with unease.

    Please, I think. Please just let him get me my food so I can get out of here.

    “So you’d rather serve a drink driving child murderer than me and my buddies?” Jez shouts, grabbing Bernie’s neck across the counter, so that the blubbery skin under Bernie’s chin balloons out over his shirt collar, like a huge blister about to burst. I deserve it, but not Bernie, the only guy around here who tolerates me.

    I launch myself at Jez and as he lets go of Bernie, his punch hits me hard on my right cheek and I feel myself crashing into some of the customers at tables, sending their fish and chips flying. No one comes to my rescue. There is a shocked silence, then a muted cheer and some cackling from the young girls in the queue. Jez’s mates hold him back as I pick myself up off the floor and stumble out of The Fat Frier.

    I slope home like a wounded dog, reeking of vinegar, keeping to the shadows. I wish Jez and his pals had dragged me outside and finished off the job properly, dumping my body around the back of the shops with the bins.

    Triple locked inside my shabby little flat, I begin to make a plan.

*** *** ***

    I drive for an hour to reach the forest. I want to be far away from all of them. I don’t want any of them to find me. They would love it. They would still be mocking me, even in death. The thick rope sits curled in the Spar carrier bag on the passenger seat, a magic serpent that will take me away from all of this forever.

    I pull up at an isolated parking area with two empty cars. Dog walkers no doubt, gone for hours.   As I lock up and walk into the thick forest I catch myself mentally getting my bearings so that I can find my way back to the car, and then realise with a jolt that there is no need, because I won’t be coming back.

    I tried to make a fresh start, got a job in a warehouse in Sackville Road on the outskirts of town, where the mainly Pakistani workforce didn’t know my history. Eight years sober, I kept myself to myself, taking one day at a time, like they’d told me at AA. Those guys at the weekly meetings had saved me. Without them I would have been back on the drink, probably back in prison. But I still see her face all the time, her smile turning to a look of horror just before I hit her. And I still see her little body bouncing off my bonnet. She will never leave me and I can’t stand it a minute longer.

    As I follow a path through the forest I hear voices nearby. There is a turn in the path and up ahead I can see a clearing, with some wooden climbing equipment. A young boy, about two or three years old, is kicking a football to his mother, who keeps missing it and has to run to retrieve it.

    I keep my head down, trying not act normally, like a guy out for a stroll. As I walk through the play area the little boy runs up, holding his ball out towards me. I freeze. His mother comes over, trying to grab his hand.

    “Peter!” she laughs, and then turns to me. “I’m sorry, I hope he’s not pestering you. It’s just he misses kicking a ball around, since his Dad…”

    “It’s fine,” I find myself saying, recognising the pain behind her eyes and realising this stranger is the first person who has looked at me without hate or pity for as long as I can remember.

    The boy puts down his ball and kicks it to me. The ball lies at my feet and the boy looks up at me, expectantly waiting. The woman looks at me too, smiling in gratitude already. For a moment, I see myself in their eyes, a kind stranger, willing to make a little lad happy. I put down my carrier bag and I kick the ball back to the boy.

Gilbert's Birthday. Part two: 51st by Inez Cook

Lizzie and her husband step out of the church and I just manage to hide from view by crouching behind a hedge. She looks just like her mum did on our wedding day.  She giggles as friends and family throw confetti and her husband leads her by the hand to their car. He brushes some stray confetti out of her hair and I sense that she hasn’t done badly at all. Before I can suppress it, a smile creeps onto my face.  Their car moves off and my hand grips the Polaroid in my pocket. At least I got one photo – one memory to keep. That’s more than I deserve.  

    Family and friends make their way out of the churchyard. Joanna turns around and I can’t tell whether she’s looking at me or the church doors. I remain still and try to read her expression but she turns again and hurries to join the others. She was never one to linger. Once her mind was set about the car accident, she made sure I lost everything and everyone. Who could blame her, the way I behaved in the aftermath? My thoughts are broken by a sharp tap on my shoulder.

     “Peter!” I hug my stepson and carry on holding him, remembering the little boy who used to run into my arms.  

    “I saw you coming into the church. Late as usual,” he jokes, fully aware I wasn’t allowed to come.  I splutter and laugh. I haven’t seen his face for so long.

    “How is your mum? Does Lizzie know I’m here?” It all tumbles out of me at once.

    “No. Mum says today is the happiest day we’ve had for a long time. Best keep it that way.” 

    I nod. “Who gave Lizzie away?”

    “Me. She asked me to. Want some? It’s your favourite.” He grins, pulling out a hip flask, knowing I’ll be tempted. “Dutch courage. She asked me to do the father of the bride speech too.”  

    I search his eyes as he takes a swig but I know where I stand. The warmth has left his voice. I try to change the subject.  

    “Do you remember what you and I were doing exactly this time last year?” 

    “Yep. Watching the latest Bond film.  For your 50th.” He pauses to look me in the eye. “And two weeks after that you smashed us both into a tree. Remember that?  How dare you show up today. Did you want to explain yourself? Be forgiven and everything go back to normal?”  

    “I was hoping nobody would see me today,” I lie. In reality I held out an impossible hope that my family would still feel some love for me. Peter shakes his head in disgust.  

    “As always, you turn up when you’re not wanted, and when someone needs you, you’re nowhere to be seen. If you can’t be the hero, you run away. This isn’t one of your stupid spy novels. It was my life.  When I needed you most, you ran away.”

    I see tears in his eyes and think back to the last time I saw his face. It was bloodied and bruised. He was slumped out cold in the passenger seat. I stumbled out of the driver’s seat and into the night, gripping my car keys in one hand and my bottle in another. It was easy to hide in the dark as I watched the paramedics take him away. I tossed the bottle into some bushes and ran. I was scared of being caught. Even more terrifying, however, was the thought of having to face any of those authorities again. I’ve been running ever since.   

    “You know, Peter, meeting you and your mum was the best thing to ever happen to me.” In those heady days of new love I believed I could lay the past to rest and make something good in my life last. I did, for a while. “When I hit that tree, the old me resurfaced. The same old fears, the same old messing things up. It was all I could manage to run.”  

   He looks at me in silence and I see in his face that there is no love, just pity. He turns and walks away, pausing to shout back, “Happy birthday, Gil.”  

    My fist clenches. I swallow back my anger and thrust my hand into my pocket, clasping my passport and flight tickets. Through the hedge, I watch my stepson for the last time as he leaves the churchyard and approaches his car. He takes his time getting into the driver’s seat, lifting in his left leg and then using his hands to lift in his right leg. I see that where his right ankle and foot should be, there is a prosthesis covered by his sock and polished shoe. 

Gilbert's Birthday. Part one: 80th by Annabel Howarth

Knock, knock, knock. “Gilbert......Gilbert, it’s Annie. Are you there?” 

   I am there - lying in bed, eyes tightly shut, hoping that Annie will give up and go away for a while. It’s my birthday - one of those milestone ones, which someone always wants to mark, but not me. I need time to prepare, to face the day. I can sense Annie is still there. I picture her head leaning against the door, listening. So I stay still, holding my breath, my heart pounding in my head. She is whispering, probably to Molly. I can hear them shuffle away. I can breathe. 

   Today I am 80. I tried to hide it, but there’s no hiding anything at The Elms Residential Home. I don’t mind being 80. I just don’t want the questions from others, and the memories creeping in, reminding me of my regrets. You can’t hide from your memories though, and by letting anyone in, even a little, you can’t avoid the questions either. 

   I am happy, here, at The Elms. We are lucky that most of us have our faculties about us, and I am enjoying a life I once thought impossible, for me. I’ve been here about 18 months. Recently I realised that the main source of my happiness is Annie. She is beautiful, funny, intelligent and we share a passion for music. 

   Annie arrived here about a week after me. She had recently lost her husband and didn’t want to be alone. I told her I was in the same situation, having lost my wife Joanna. She assumed I meant Joanna had recently died too. I didn’t correct her, so in some ways, you could say our friendship was built on a lie. It didn’t feel that way to me though. I felt I was mourning the loss of Joanna, as though it had just happened, and it was easier to let the belief form that, that was how I ended up here, rather than have to explain where I’d been for the past 27 years. 

   When Annie realised it was going to be my 80th birthday, she wouldn’t let go of the fact my family wouldn’t be coming to see me. She never had children of her own, but her nephews and nieces all dote on her. She is often going somewhere for a weekend with one or other of them or their children, whereas I have nowhere else to go. 

   Yesterday Annie quizzed me again as she studied the photos on my desk. The one in the dark wooden frame is my favourite photo of my mother, as I remember her from childhood, before it all went wrong. The photo in the ornate silver frame is of Joanna, me and my step-son, Peter, on our wedding day. We all look so happy then. The other framed photo is my favourite one of my daughter Lizzie, aged about 6, twirling round, her skirt flying and she smiling with her big indigo eyes looking straight at the camera. A small unframed photo leans against it. It is of Lizzie on her wedding day, with her husband whose name I don’t even know. It’s an action shot I took with a polaroid camera. She is coming towards the back of the church, staring past me. Did she even know I was there? I do feel a certain amount of guilt about that. She didn’t invite me, and asked her mother to tell me not to come, but I did anyway. I came in and stood at the back of the church, feeling entitled to be at my own daughter’s wedding, but looking back, I wonder now if I had that right. 

   Annie sees the best in me, and can’t understand why I’m here all alone, knowing that I have a daughter, a step-son, and possibly grandchildren I know nothing about. 

   I say, “You don’t know the things I’ve done.” 

   She laughs and says, “What could you possibly have done that’s so bad, Gilbert. You are the most gentlemanly man I’ve ever known.” 

   I smile back and say, “My demons are tired now, Annie. Can we leave them alone?” 

   She says, “OK. Let’s leave the past in the past.” 

  But I fear that today she will look at me with those pitying eyes and I can’t face them. 

  Knock, knock, knock. It’s Annie again. 

   “Gilbert?” 

   “Just a minute, Annie.” I put on my dressing gown and slippers and unlock the door. 

   “Happy Birthday, Gilbert,” she beams. She hands me a bottle of my favourite single malt with a bow on it, and a wrapped gift that could be a book, no doubt a spy novel, as she knows I like them. She doesn’t look pitying. She looks excited. “I have a day full of surprises in store for you,” she says. 

   I smile and kiss her on her cheek. She blushes. I feel a glow in my tummy and think, “This day is not going to be so bad after all.”