A couple of days later after a non-stop journey, we arrived exhausted in London. Our new residence was a big red brick detached house that we thought was our new home. It was surrounded by a high stone-wall with iron gates at the front that helped create a feeling of imprisonment. At first we were suspicious of this strange place, but over a little time we settled into what was at first, "happy families." We also believed we would be back in the summer with our grandparents, and that more than anything else kept us strumming along.

We didn't see much of any other children, nor did any come to visit, we were hidden to our neighbors, and most of the time to our parents as well.

Maise soon grew indifferent and intolerant to our presence. A cigarette always seemed to be dangling from her lips and an alcoholic drink never too far from her mouth. Michael and I didn't care too much for we were children and we amused each other in our world.

Anyway, Dad would always be home in the evenings. Before long-though, even dad couldn't handle the ever-increasing arguments between the two of them and a new united front from my Mother's sister, Dillie.

Dillie was a kind of married celibate spinster. It was shown in the clothes that she wore like a battle dress, which made her look like the nanny from hell!, and when she spoke, you listened. Her anger was thinly disguised with icy politeness voiced over with a clipped posh accent that sounded threatening, and made you hear her every word even if you were not so sure what she said.

She tried to play with Michael and me, but tensely and without affection. I grew to avoid her and I didn't know why. Instinct told me to keep away, and it looked like she was fanning the flames of division between my parents. Often, after she would visit, my parents arguments would reach new levels. Maise would provoke Dad, deriding him for being "only a labourer." There was no shortage of verbal ammunition from both sides in their war of words. As time passed Dad came home later and later, sometimes not at all, and when he did he was drunk most of the time.

One evening, we were having a family meal in a restaurant, and one that would turn out to be our last supper. They were arguing again, which was now normal, and the restaurant was near closing as we were getting ready to leave. As we stepped into an elevator, their argument got worse. I was holding onto Michael when suddenly Mother started pummeling Father with her fists. Dad reacted by pinning one of her arms behind her back. She let out a loud and piercing scream. It was more acting than pain but it got the desired effect. It scared the hell out of me. I started to kick Dad's leg. He let her go and he grabbed me up in his arms, but I just kept punching him with tiny fists into his face, screaming at him to leave my mummy alone. He held my hands and with tears in his eyes whispered hoarsely, "I'm sorry Barry, I'm so sorry." Ignoring Mum who was on the ground, I was staring dad down.

Michael was just looking at her. He was alone and frightened with no one to comfort him. We all walked home that evening carrying a couple of bags of shopping, heavy hearts and a few more scars.

After that day our father was rarely home in the evenings and he was gone so early in the mornings that we were confused whether he lived there at all. Even on weekends, and that only meant a few hours on Sunday, he was rarely there. We occupied the same couple of square miles for almost twelve weeks and yet lived around a few square metres measured in hours. Only fragmented memories remain with me of being with both my mother and father after our last supper. Blurred images of a fun park with Michael and me on a carousel. Dad waving and flashing his beautiful smile, buying us chocolate and cleaning the mess I made all over my shirt. Mum and Dad had become strangers to each other as well as to us, just held together by their fears and wishful thinking.

What kept Michael and me going through this roller coaster was the dream, even though it was a fading one, that one day we would soon be back with our grandparents in that place we called home. My parents dream, and one that I had no great desire to be a part of, was to was to open an old folks' home to earn a living and for us to be a family. My father had by now raised the deposit to buy the rented house that we lived in. Despite his drinking, he had saved quite a nest egg over five years, and kept money aside for his account at a local bank every friday without fail - until one day he decided to check the balance. His only receipts were Maise's words, which turned out to be none at all. She had used most of the money to support secrets and lies, while squandering the rest on drink and drugs. Old Dad drank all the sorrier because of it. Eyes were caught in the headlights of self-pity with the well running dry for them both.

My father, was then twenty-six years old to Maise's forty one, and both started to blur the lines between reality and a warped point of view. A state of mind they began to feel at ease with. As my mother got older it became who she was, moving in and out of these worlds with ease. For now, the only thing my parents had in common was their concern of how others saw them, an emotion of epidemic proportions. My mother longed to tell anyone that was left listening that she was a somebody with a glamorous and rich future, but it was hard to be heard by a world that was too busy and did not care.

My father, all too aware of his aging parents' future inability to take care of Michael and me, knew that what he was about to do next would kill them if they ever found out.

He had thrown in the towel in his mid twenties. Ahead of him, a path of beer bottles paved his road and handouts that would become his food; alley ways, doss houses and parkways became his bed. My grandparents would never know the truth of his life and they believed for the rest of theirs that we were in England living happily with their favourite son, our dad.

In the real world, at least for us, events were now moving quickly in an entirely different direction.

Dillie was soon around playing her well-rehearsed role of family leader. With her now was her sister and our aunt, Kathleen. She had come from Ireland on Dillie's request to help Mum and Dad sort out their marital woes. Dillie had offered them a temporary solution to their permanent problems, and that was the good news; the bad news was that we were the problem. Kathleen was to send us to the care of nuns in Ireland for a holiday, close to where she lived so she could keep an eye on us and visit often. The emotions of my parents were at an all-time low, and trust between them non-existent. With that we had no real past here and no future. We were just orphans with parents. Our family affair had lasted less than three months.

All Michael and I were told was that we were going on yet another trip with our new Aunt Kathleen who assured us we would definitely be back with our Granny and Granddad by the summer. That fateful day on a Monday morning, Dad had gone to work and never said goodbye, packing a lunchbox for a job he didn't have. Mom was up early and quite cheerful.

When Michael and I ran downstairs to breakfast we were greeted with packed suitcases and a nervous Aunt Kathleen. Dillie was nowhere to be found. Maise did not look too distracted even as Kathleen, Michael, and I poured into the taxi. She reminded us yet again that we were going for a short holiday to Ireland and that we had a busy day ahead. Before closing the taxi door, she told us to behave and to be good for Aunt Kathleen. As the taxi rounded the corner, I could see her giving a cheery wave. She never looked as happy. This holiday turned out to be a fairly long one for I would not see my parents again until I was nineteen years old.

Next >>>