One Step Too Far

Chapter 1

Waiting for Rain

Sitting in my chair, surrounded by this garden with its leaves, its flowers and their fragrance, I look back over decades and recall memories that have been my companions throughout this journey of joy and turmoil.

It’s early August; warm and dry here in England. We are looking up for rain. I put my hand out. Has it arrived? My hand is still dry.

The breeze picks up. ‘Please, not too brisk,’ I say, in case the clouds disperse.

Out in the garden, the flowers are looking up for that moisture with anxious faces. The leaves, covered in a veil of dust, and the trees, under several layers of dust, patiently wait to quench their thirst.

The grass whispers a little as you walk on it: I need it too. The path that leads to the house also wishes to shed its layer of dust, to show off the colours of the paving stones, as do the flowerpots that flank the pathway, so that they can shine again.

As the clouds gather and run into each other, there is a faint rumble, followed by a noisier one, and we all look up in hope: the flowers, the leaves, the flowerpots, the pathway and I; all of us.

The trees shake and a flock of birds, rattling their wings, fly out. It seems as if they are carrying the raindrops on their wings.

I feel a drop on my head, which has been guarded by a thick shock of hair most of my adult life. I touch my head hopefully to confirm that it is a drop of rain and yes, it is.

The rain picks up; the sky is split apart with lightning that displays frightening patterns, and is followed by thunder. The birds scatter, hurrying to safety in the trees.

You can see the water bubbles splashing against the drive. Watching from a distance, it seems that they are laughing and playing.

Gutters overflow and the pipes give up draining away the ferocious, wonderful rainwater.

This play act lasts no more than twenty minutes, maybe thirty, and then it stops. The clouds take their leave and the sky clears to a shining blue after its bath. The rain has left its mark, leaving the scent of moist dust in the air.

Chapter 2

Early Childhood

It has been close to a year since I came home carrying physical and emotional bruises from that self inflicted turmoil which didn’t spare others either.

During this year I have tried to travel into the past reflecting on what brought me to my present state of despair. I have trained myself to remember the happy times too, as they were many. I am still virtually confined to this chair. This is where my memories arrive like lifelong companions to comfort me, frequently in vain.

This particular morning, as I doze in my chair, some thoughts play in the distant corner of my mind, whirling like clouds in the sky: so many memories of days gone past.

This happens frequently, but I can’t recollect those thoughts; it seems that forgetting them would be easier, and then I wouldn’t have to go through the pain those events have caused. At the same time, I want to understand and accept what life has managed to gather for me and how it has brought me to this point. Maybe that might be a start, to help me cope with them.

As the clouds disperse, the shining blue sky, in its stillness, helps me to gather those thoughts and they start walking gently along the path of my memory.

We lived in a lovely house on a tree-lined road, flanked by wild flowers. I have returned to this house. Along with my memories, that house will always live in every corner of my heart. It has beautiful verandas with wooden carved pillars, marble floors, and stained-glass windows.

I look for people that I shared my childhood with.  Alas! They are nowhere to be found. They are long gone, and took their shadows with them.

I was the only child of my parents. I say this with sadness, but I didn’t know any different. I liked my own company and gathered around me all that interested me: music, books, and toys that could be transformed into various objects. I had everything except another person to share them all with.

Father was usually busy at work, and mother seemed to be always occupied with books. She wrote short stories and often read them to me.

She would arrange, however, for us to have our evening meal together. Sometimes we talked about our day, but mostly we ate in silence.  In a way, the three of us led our lives individually. I enjoyed mine – or did I?

We left little time for visitors – I nearly wrote ‘intruders’. I wonder whether I missed not having those ‘intruders’ in my life. I think I did.

Little did I know that this curtain of isolation was about to be torn apart, and that I would get to know someone who would bring great changes into my life: This was Jill, who arrived bringing joy in one hand and tears in the other.

I am struggling to remember. When was it that I first met her?

I know!

She came with her mother to our house; something about taking us to school, mums taking turns. My mother was pleased, as she particularly enjoyed writing in the mornings.

We were dropped off together at the school gate and walked the rest of the way to our class, and along the way we chatted. It was those early conversations that laid the foundations for future events. And they certainly were events.

My mind settles and I begin to recall those days. Our early childhood gently taps at my memory’s door and I begin to recall one particular conversation we had on our walk to school. I say conversation, but it was she who talked and I who listened. This is how I remember it.

‘Why are some people poor?’  Jill asked.

I seldom had an answer, but I listened.

‘Can we not share our money with them?’

‘Yes,’ I reluctantly agreed. I didn’t always understand her statements, let alone have an answer. Thinking back, she expressed her convictions at that early age, and that is what she later pursued.

‘I read somewhere,’ she said, ‘that our government gives us free water.’

I hadn’t actually given it much thought.

‘Can they not give people food or houses?’ she added.

We were just eight or nine years old. My thoughts were based on comic books, TV programmes, sport, and constructing objects with Lego pieces and pipes.

I rarely got a chance to talk about my interests, and yes, it was annoying, but her ideas were thought provoking, even at that early stage of my life. As time passed we both found our answers but they came, I am afraid, at a cost.

On one of those short walks she asked me whether I had heard of the word charity.

‘Like giving something to someone?’ I replied

‘It’s more like caring.’

She asked me if I would go along with her to see our teacher, as she had an idea to talk about.

‘Sure, I will,’ I agreed, without knowing what the idea was.

Our teacher used to dress beautifully, and always had time for us. The day we went to see her she had a cold and was blowing her nose into small pieces of paper pulled out of a box. That was the first time I ever saw tissues. We used hankies back then.

We both sat down in her office. I recall my nine-year-old companion reading out notes she had prepared.

‘It’s like this,’ she said, looking at the teacher and keeping her pencil on point one. ‘There are some children in our school who don’t bring any lunch with them.’

I had heard the same but couldn’t figure out where she was going with it.

‘Yes, I think you may be right,’ said our teacher, blowing her nose into another piece of paper.

‘I can bring some extra sandwiches,’ Jill paused and looked at the teacher, just to make sure she was listening (she acquired such skills so early) adding, ‘and share them.’

The teacher smiled but didn’t say anything, giving Jill time to unfold her ideas.

‘If everybody did that,’ Jill carried on, looking at the teacher for approval, ‘we could all eat together.’

There was a brief silence. I had little to contribute, but I liked the idea of eating together.

‘It’s such a good thought,’ acknowledged the teacher. ‘Would everyone like to do that, you think?’

‘We can try asking them,’ Jill suggested. She needed support and turned to me. ‘What do you think?’ she asked, waking me up.

‘I think it’s a wonderful idea, eating together.’ It was the best response that I could come up with, having no idea how we would make it happen.

‘Last week we had a party in our house,’ Jill continued.

I wasn’t invited, I thought to myself.

‘My mum wrote to everyone to bring something to eat,’ she continued. ‘Everybody did, and we had a great time, and everyone sang.’

I felt envious, since we hardly ever had parties in our house. I was not certain, however, how bringing extra sandwiches would help.

‘You mean we could write to the children’s mums to send extra lunch?’ our teacher suggested.

I don’t recall the entire process, or whether mums were contacted, but I vividly remember that we then all gathered in the assembly hall and ate lunch together. Our teacher had organised lunch boxes for what turned out to be the relatively small number of children who didn’t bring lunch with them. I later learnt from my mother that the teacher had contacted the local council to raise funds.

On reflection, I don’t think I had given much thought to the fact that some parents couldn’t afford to send lunches for their children. I suppose neither had the teachers, till the issue was raised by my young companion, who had observed it and was motivated to do something about it.

We have free school meals now, and in some areas those are the only cooked meals children have access to. Fifty years ago, when there were no free meals, it was admirable that Jill, at that young age, thought to initiate the project.

And yes! There was music and singing, just as there had been in her house.

Reclining in my chair decades later, I can see us all eating and singing together in that assembly hall. That transformation, from some of us eating lunch in all odd corners of the school, to everyone eating together with music playing, became a regular event to look forward to.

You see, none of this happened in our house, so I stopped pretending that I didn’t miss it, and enjoyed it. It was like a party every day! Who wouldn’t love that?

Chapter 3

Party in the Garden

As time passed, I stopped quarrelling with my fate. I trained my thoughts to banish misfortunes from my mind, or at least to put them aside and not let them overshadow the wonderful days, months, and years that were also sent my way. Frequently, my physical disability and overall sadness tries to pull me back into the dark clouds of despair.

My mornings now are spent writing down the events that ruthlessly led to my present state of despair.

I have been writing all morning. It’s nearly lunchtime and I want to pause and give myself a break from recalling those thoughts. Yes, some were pleasurable, but brought along with them tinges of unhappiness too.

I am forever trying to pull back the curtains of despair and reveal the glimpses of sunshine that brought some joy into my life. I can’t do it by myself, and find it comforting to sit back and recall those earlier days Jill and I spent together, which tends to apply such a soothing layer of comfort on my wounded thoughts that I forget my present state of helplessness, physical and emotional, that came together hand in hand.

I also enjoy sharing those events, and writing has become a close companion, which takes me away to happy times of the distant past. I also tend to reflect on the present, which has also brought comfort, in small doses.

The people that I share my life with now have been my support, my  shadows, travelling with me on this arduous journey over decades. You will get to know them as you travel with me  while I recall the events that led to my present state of misfortune. Yes, there have been periods of joy and laughter, that did disperse the clouds of sadness. I consistently endeavour to remember them.

Sally came to live with us to look after Eve, our daughter, unaware that she too, will be engulfed by the effects of our turmoils. Tom is her son. I share my life with them, unable to contribute much.

The days seem the same, the only variation being the fun the children bring on their return from school. We have a hurried breakfast, as they all get ready to go. I ensure  that I was up early and tried to get ready without help. It is  a testing task, but with my walking gradually improving, I manage to do much more for myself.

The house would get quiet after they leave. My thoughts  gather and wrap me up in a cloak of what seems to be sadness to start with, but I have got better at replacing those sorrows with memories of happier times.

Writing about past events brings pain and pleasure at the same time. Late morning I take a break from writing and get myself some lunch. I usually get a sandwich and delay doing the gentle exercises I am supposed to do. I don’t  like that part of the day. I know  they are necessary, but when did necessary activities bring pleasure?

After a snooze I struggle to go into the garden without any one’s help. I used to get upset when I needed help, but then I got used to getting upset.

It is spring and it’s lovely out in the garden. There are early  flowers of faint yellow and white colours and the trees a shade of light green. It seemed that they had all woken up from a long winter sleep, welcoming spring and showing off their magnificent colours.

I so look forward to this time of the day when the children return from school. The cloak of silence surrounding me all day  virtually flies off as the children  rush to me.

There are stories of gossip, tale telling, and the sharing of some incredible facts from the pages of history. Then come the paintings and colourings that would be stuck all over the fridge door.

Tom  always plays the big brother. ‘Don’t shout! Uncle Peter is tired.’ 

Eve would hug me. ‘What are we having for tea?’ she would ask. ‘Let me go and help. Come on Tom!’ Tom seldom offers to help.

I make sure that I wheel myself to the kitchen. Tea is such a lovely time of the day.

The children disappear after tea to do their homework till supper. I have started helping Sally in the kitchen by laying the table and just generally being a nuisance.

The children help clear up afterwards, and we play games before they settle down for the night. I try to avoid watching television with them, as it  gets very noisy.

Once the children have gone to bed, Sally and I  spend some time reading and frequently talking about mutually interesting topics, drawn from music and literature. Sometimes I feel that we avoided reflecting on our personal lives.

As much as Sally is a part of my life more now than ever before, the inner voice of my heart and mind  still contaminates  that pleasure, taunting that had she not known us, she would have avoided this plight.

Sally has completed her law degree now, and is  practising as a junior partner in a law firm. Tom has moved to senior school and Eve is about to catch up with him. They travel to school together on the bus and Sally has arranged her hours to ensure that she is home when they returned. And of course there is the new baby: not new any more, and not a baby either. She goes to a local nursery and, aged four, next birthday she would be ready for school. Sally picks her up from nursery after work.

Tom and Eve travel to school together, just as Jill and I had done. Was history about to repeat itself?

My moist eyes plead ‘Please let it not be.’

During my struggle to disperse those clouds of despair, I travel effortlessly to my earlier days spent with Jill. This became an enjoyable respite, an escape from reality.

Most days when I am on my own in the house, I capture my thoughts from the past and put them on paper. This brings pleasure and sadness at the same time, and soothes my wounded heart to accept realities.

I travel into the past and open windows to look into events spent  with Jill and gently knock at doors that we opened to embark upon adventures, adventures that brought pleasures to others, at a cost to ourselves.

One morning, when Sally and children had left, I wheeled myself out and sat in the garden. My thoughts travelled into the past and I saw children running around. There it was, a choice between pleasure and pain and one that was no longer in my control. The scene playing in front of me is one when we had a party in our garden. This is how it came about.

On our school walk one sunny spring morning, Jill talked about a birthday party.

I interrupted her abruptly. ‘Party! You’re lucky, we never have parties.’ I can still feel that disappointment in my voice.

‘You have a big garden, why don’t you have one?’ She looked at me, waiting for the answer.

‘I wouldn’t know how to go about it.’ I was so hoping she would offer to help, as the idea of a party in our garden was simply wonderful.

‘You make a list of people you’d like to come and . . .’

I listened with all the intent that I could muster. We made lists for food and games, balloons and music. I am smiling as I recall that first party we had in our garden. Let me think. Yes! List: people to invite, chairs, cakes, biscuits, drinks, music, and games.

‘Who shall we invite?’ I asked.

‘Friends from school.’ She paused and added, ‘There might be some children who don’t go to parties.’

‘I’ll talk to my parents,’ I said, realising that such an event had not happened in our house before.

That evening at dinner I hesitantly whispered, ‘Can we have a party in our garden?’

Much to my surprise and delight, no questions were asked.

‘Hum!’ Father murmured.

I could see mother smiling.

Some one has to make a decision, I thought, sensing that they were not objecting.

‘In two weeks’ time, in the garden,’ I announced. ‘We have made a list.’ I don’t know whether that was wise a declaration or not.

‘Who is we?" Mother seemed intrigued, not annoyed.

That evening was special. I don’t recall what we ate but I do remember that that was the first dinner we’d had that lasted for some time, as we talked and made plans.

‘Let me get a piece of paper.’ Father went to his study and brought back a writing pad.

I wipe a moist eye as I recall that happy childhood moment.

‘Now,’ said Father, ‘what do we need?’ Looking at me he paused, waiting to write things down. This was encouraging, as he was involving me in making arrangements.

‘A list of friends,’ I suggested.

‘Right! Do you know who you are inviting?’

Once again he was not leading and still asking me. As I paused to think, mother came to the rescue. ‘Who do you know well in your class?’

This was an easy question, but limited to one person, and you know who that was. Keeping in mind Jill’s suggestion about children who didn’t go to parties, I thought I would ask the whole class. ‘Would it be too much to ask the whole class?’ Now it was my turn to involve my parents.

‘How many children do you have in your class?’

The decision was back to me. ‘Not sure,’ I murmured, but I couldn’t leave the decision hanging for much longer, as we had touched only the first item on the list. ‘About twenty.’ I looked at Father for his view.

‘Twenty,’ he repeated, writing on the list. It was a lovely arrangement, and we all seemed to be enjoying it.

‘What next?’ Mother looked at me. I was still in charge, which was beginning to worry me a bit.

‘Ice cream!’ It just came out without much thought.

‘All right,’ Father smiled. ‘I love ice cream too.’

We had never shared our likes before.

We got down to making various arrangements. I remember Father had hard paper that he used, choosing a different colour for each list.  Folding chairs, which reminded us of the seaside. Tables with multicoloured paper cloths, paper plates and matching cups.

‘Shall we have plastic cutlery or eat with our fingers?’ Father asked.

‘What do you think?’ Mother looked at me again. It was back to me.

‘Fingers,’ I said with excitement. I remembered cake dropping off a plate somewhere, as I’d tried to eat it with a fork.

‘Is it a good time to think of food?’ Father asked. ‘And balloons.’

I wasn’t listening. I remember balloons, because the idea was not to inflate them before the party, but to give one each to guests as they arrived to inflate themselves.

We decided that we were going to have cakes and biscuits and crisps, and of course some toffee: I loved toffee and I still do.

We asked everyone in our class. I say we, but it was my friend Jill who designed a small card and gave one to everybody.

COME TO MY HOUSE

WE ARE HAVING A PARTY

To this day, I remember that card. It was in the shape of a cat with a big smile drawn in pencil. It took us ages to draw, but it was such good fun.

It was a beautiful day when we had the party. The garden was bathed in sunshine. All the flowers had turned their faces towards the entrance gate, as if welcoming the visitors.

The tables were covered with multicoloured paper cloths. The large oval plates were full of cakes, biscuits, and toffee, of course. There were paper cups, half full with drinks, and a neatly laid pile of plates, which did not stay neat for long.

We had decorated the trees with ribbons and paper chains, which my parents and I had made. Oh yes, they remained involved!

We left the balloons in a basket for every one to help themselves to.

What about the ice cream? I ask myself. For a moment, I can’t recall and then it comes to me.

Father had arranged a portable freezer that was plugged in on the veranda. It was a deep yellow colour; how surprising, the  small details that you can remember years later.

Yes, she came early. My girl. I mean, my friend.

‘Looks beautiful,’ she said, and gave me a hug, looking at the garden.

What I remember is the fun we had blowing up the balloons. Some children couldn’t keep a hold on them as they blew them, and they would escape from them, making a funny squeaky noise. The children ran after them, making even more noise. Actually, it was more of laughter than noise.

‘Games first or ice cream?’ Father asked, wearing a clown’s outfit.

‘ICE CREAM!’ came the loud reply.

There was a mad rush but no pushing, and soon there was an orderly queue. Well, reasonably orderly: how do you expect children to behave and wait their turn when it comes to getting your share of ice cream?

Father had it all worked out. He would pull the cone out of the box and hand it to mother, who put the scoop on the cone and handed it over to me, and there you have it!  I was the first person to get it.

I can still see children with cones in their hands, some ice cream on the tips of their noses, which they were trying to scoop off with the tips of their tongues. What a lovely sight.

There were one or two accidents when ice cream and cones parted company, but Father came to rescue with some extras.

I remember three games. Those games were repeated several parties later. Yes, we did have more parties!

We placed a towel in the middle of the garden and had two teams at equal distance from the towel, on opposite sides. Do you see?

On the sound of Father’s whistle, one child from each team would run and try to pick the towel up without getting touched by the opposite member. Well!  I say touched, but it was more of a grab with people rolling on the grass, not letting go of their piece of the towel. I cannot remember the object of the game but at the end, the towel was no longer its original shape.

The second game was my favourite: the drawing game.

Father had a list of objects. There were three teams in three corners of the garden at a similar distance from him.  It would have been easier if had I said in the shape of a triangle.

Father would ask one child from each team to go to him, and he would tell them the same object to draw. They then had to rush back to their team and draw the object, and the person who had guessed it had to run back for the second object, and so on, till the team who guessed all ten objects was declared the winner.

I have always found that game hard and boring to explain, but playing it was fun. Some of the objects have stayed in my memory to this day: four peeled bananas (how do you draw peeled bananas?), one empty and one full glass,(that didn’t sound difficult, and (listen to this!) snoring giraffe. I remember that one, as the person who drew it put a cone of ice cream in his mouth, and from then on we always included it in our game.

We then did a quiz. It was something to do with maths: you had to multiply before adding:

12+4x3=19 (No! The answer is 24)

So, if two gloves scored ten because of five fingers on each, followed by a man carrying six plates on his head with two balloons attached to his finger, the sum would be represented thus:

10+6x2=22

My head spins even today when I recall all that. I remember every one shouting answers: ’32!’ ‘18!’ My answer was 120. I only remember that because that was the door number of our house.

We’d never had a party before, so this is why that one has stayed so deep in my memory and my heart.

We had cakes and drinks. I still tend to lick or scrape the paper the cake sits on.

The guests helped clear up, and put the plates and cups in bags.

I look at the garden now. It is immaculate: you could see every individual grass blade, beautifully pruned flowers, no rubbish in sight, but there was more life and laughter in it on that party day, and I prefer that over the quietness of today. Everyone left holding on to their balloons, and you could hear one or two of them bursting as the guests walked down the street.

I am surprised I can recall that much.

I loved that girl. She brought sunshine into my life at such an early age, but there was so much more to come: days filled with laughter, and nights drenched in her perfume.

Chapter 4

Walking in Marrakesh

Over time, the routine in our house changed. After dinner, we would move to Father’s study and stopped going to our own rooms. We still did our own things, but with occasional and sometimes frequent interruptions:

‘Would you like some coffee?’

‘What are you writing?’

‘Can I have some help with this question?’

‘Would you like to hear what I have written?’ This was Father, who had started writing stories.

One evening, I interrupted Father. ‘What are you writing?’

He smiled, looked at Mother and said, ‘I am writing about when I first met your mother.’

I totally abandoned my maths homework, which was really bugging me, as maths had somehow never interested me.

‘You can remember!’ I was so intrigued.

‘It was when you followed me down the street with the book,’ Mother said, looking up from her writing. There was a lovely smile on her face as she recalled that day.

‘Actually I first saw you when you were quarrelling with the librarian,’ Father recalled.

‘I wasn’t quarrelling,’ Mother frowned, ‘she was being so difficult.’

‘What was it about?’ I was getting interested and involved.

‘Be patient,’ Father looked at me. ‘I don’t want to give you the story in bits. Let me finish writing it and I will read it to you over—’

‘When will you finish it?’ Now I was getting really impatient, interrupting.

But I had to wait, and I actually started looking forward to it.

The story was finally complete, and Father announced that over the weekend, after a special dinner, he would read it out to us.

I don’t remember dinner that well, but I think it was Father’s aubergine dish, followed by cheesecake. What I do remember is that we dressed up, and Father took pictures, which are displayed in his study.

Mother and I settled into our armchairs and he started reading the story.

‘A story! Yours and mine.

‘I was reading in the library, not too far from the librarian’s desk, when I heard this protesting in not too quiet a voice.

I have to take all three books, they are a sequel and it will be an incomplete set with only the first two.

I am sorry, but you are only allowed two books on one ticket. The librarian was sticking to the rules.

I live some distance away, and it takes an hour to get here. I cannot come back for another month. The pleading didn’t work, and although the librarian didn’t say anything, her body language, with shrugging shoulders, said it all.

‘The lady took two books and left. I didn’t hear a thank you or a bye.

‘I wonder what came over me as I got to the desk and fibbed. I have read the first two, and I would like to take the third.

‘By that time, the librarian was somewhat weary and handed the book over to me. I left in a hurry and caught up with this lady halfway down the street.

Excuse me, I said. I wasn’t sure whether I should have been doing this. I couldn’t help overhearing you wanting the third book of that sequel.

Oh, that! I think she was being unnecessarily difficult. She still seemed cross.

It’s just that . . . I mumbled, fearing that she might not like my kind gesture. Well, I thought it was kind. Actually I wanted only one book, so I got this one. If you would like to have it?

‘She smiled and I was relieved.

That’s so good of you. She took the book. How would I return it?

‘I cannot remember details, but we agreed to meet at the library in three weeks, at the same time.

‘No contact numbers were exchanged, and in fact at the end of the road, I took the opposite turning to hers, although it was the wrong direction for me, just to avoid unnecessary, embarrassing conversation. After all, it was only a book I had got for her; no big deal.’

‘Actually, I did wonder,’ Mother interrupted, ‘why you turned into a dead-end street.’

Father continued, ‘I wasn’t really bothered if I couldn’t return the book on time, and there was no other reason at that time to