Sometimes when we’re going through old tapes (and I mean old old, right at the back of the shop, caked in rock hard dust old) we’ll find odd stuff stuffed into the sleeves. Barry found this letter the other day and it’s been playing on my mind. Not sure why I’m sharing it, maybe it’s because the guy was clearly lonely and perhaps he’d like someone else to hear his story. But there’s something weird about it and I need to know if I’m the only one that thinks so. I’ve typed it out as best as I could, it was actually handwritten with proper ink if you can believe that! Let me know what you think.
I feel… confused.
I don’t think I’m a nutter. But I guess most people who are mad don’t know they’re mad.
I have dreams. Not every night but a lot. They’re never the same, always a little different. There’s me, Jenny, my 2 year old and then there’s this teenage boy there too. In the dream I know him and he’s sometimes holding Jenny, or playing with her. She knows him too, in fact she adores him. She’s not an unfriendly child but it does take a bit of time for her to warm up, sometimes she won’t even pay her nan a blind bit of notice. But she loves this boy to bits… in my dream.
They aren’t… weird. Actually they’re really normal, boring to be honest. No fantasies about being James Bond or stuff like that, I’d even take one of those nightmares where you’re naked at school, it’d be less stressful. Just stuff like sitting about watching telly or in Tescos doing the big shop. Really simple everyday stuff. There’s nothing weird about him, he seems like your everyday sulky teenager, slovenly, all moody like.
Sometimes I’m yelling at him; one that sticks out to me is when he’s come home at silly o’clock in the morning striking of booze and smoke and I’m just losing my mind at him right here in the living room. But that’s what gets to me, the idea that he’s coming HOME. My home, with me, Jenny and my wife Barbara in our old house before it burned down.
Before we lost her.
They say grief does funny things to you. Maybe losing two wives in as many decades probably cracked me somewhere along the line.
But I can’t shake the feeling. I can’t shake the certainty that, THAT boy is my son… A son I don’t have.
It’s not like I could ask someone “‘ere do you remember me having a teenage son once?”. Best I’d get is someone looking at me like I had two heads, whatever the truth of the matter was. But I’ve got no family and we weren’t really tight with the community back at the old place, I don’t recall why but I just remember that no-one much liked us for some reason or another. Barb’s mum, she wouldn’t be any help either, Barb wasn’t on speaking terms with her the whole time we were together. It’s only after the funeral that we met and I kept in touch, for Jenny’s sake. It’s a bit sad when you think about it innit? Maybe a decade and a half with barely any memories to speak of and no-one to share them with.
I’ve got one photo that I found in the rubble after the fire; amazing it survived actually. Fire Inspector said our gas lines were shoddy and the house couldn’t have been more thoroughly destroyed even if it had been planned, his words. But this one picture survived. It’s of the local boys Under 15s Football club; I should’ve sent you a copy of it with this actually, never mind. Anyway, I used to help them out as a coach, played a bit when I was younger, I’m no Roy Keane but I was good enough to get a few lower league starts. In the picture, I’m lined up with all the other coaches and the boys are all kneeling with their trophy. I forget what it was they won… That bothers me a bit as well. You’d think with a life like mine some achievement like that would stick out?
I’m getting off track. I can recall the faces of most of the boys, most of the names as well. Jimmy Kneaves down front for example, he played midfield, only left footer on the team, but he really had something, wouldn’t be surprised if he went professional actually! But I’ve got my hands on one boy’s shoulders, the face is burned away but the feeling I get from seeing it. Maybe he’s just one lad I bonded with, but then why can’t I remember his name? Why do I STILL feel like he’s more important than the others? He’s not down front so he isn’t the Captain, that’s Danny Smith. He wasn’t top scorer, that was Bobby Thomas. I still remember Danny’s face when he got his first hat trick, I remember chatting with him after the game when he was sad his dad hadn’t been there to see it. I can remember something about each and every one of them. So why can’t I remember a thing about this boy that is clearly important to me?
I appreciate everything the head doctor has done for me, don’t get me wrong. I was sceptical, a man’s supposed to be strong and keep a stiff upper lip and all that palava. But at least now I can get stuff done. I can work, I can look after my little girl and I don’t think about Barb or our home every waking second. But you told me to share anything that is bothering me and this is bothering me. Do you think it’s the pills they’ve got me on? Like I’ve heard that some medications can cause memory gaps but I’m not forgetting things day to day, I know where I put my keys down when I get in, I remember to take the rubbish out on Tuesday night and I’m never late picking Jenny up from the childminder so I dunno what to think.
Honestly I’m a bit freaked out.
I hope you read this. Because this is just like what you went through… isn’t it?
J.D