Turn Us Again Read Online Free PDF

his head and his rich baritone flows out.
    Down in the meadow in a little bitty pool
    Swam three little fishies and a mama fishie too
    â€˜Swim’ said the mama fishie, ‘Swim if you can’
    And they swam and they swam all over the dam
    Boopboopdit-tem dat-tem what-tem Chu!
    Boopboopdit-tem dat-tem what-tem Chu!
    And they swam and they swam all over the dam .
    His head bops around as he sings, he closes his eyes, and I am lost in the strangest sensations from my past.
    â€œThen Mummy lost the ring you’d given her, and we searched all along the beach. We never found it, and it was an invaluable ring that was originally your mother’s. Irreplaceable.”
    Again, a frisson of fear as I recalled the white, strained face of my mother, desperate to find the ring. But my father hadn’t said anything at all, just never mind. Have I wronged this old man sitting opposite me? Surely it is outrageous to abandon the parents who have given you life, returning to the fold only when they are dying? The ultimate in selfishness.
    â€œFather, I cannot justify why I haven’t been in touch. I am a rotten son.”
    â€œI quite understand.”
    What does he mean he quite understands? What is there to understand? My behaviour is selfish and unforgivable. I don’t understand what he is understanding.
    After our meal my father takes me out to see the garden. It is as I thought — there is a decent-sized plot around the back, private, with tall brick walls on each side and a profusion of flowers. I express my admiration, and my father takes me around the entire circumference, explaining the name and history of each flower on the way. This is an interminable process, and I am bored, but I make the appropriate noises. All this takes a lot of energy, and I am starting to feel exhausted. After what seems like hours in the garden, we re-enter the house, and my father makes another cup of tea and brings out a tin of chocolate biscuits.
    â€œCan I smoke here?”
    â€œOf course. After our tea I am going to bed. I’m U.E.”
    U.E. — utterly exhausted. A favourite expression of my father’s. Of course he is exhausted too. The way that our energy drains away in the company of other people is another shared trait.
    I cannot sleep, despite the fact that I have been travelling all night. I twist and turn, trying to justify my behaviour. I cannot believe myself, wonder how I’ve lived with myself. Every aspect of his lonely life and small pleasures — the bacon and eggs, the chocolate biscuits, the garden — smites me. How did I become so selfish?
    I determine to bring up the death of my mother at dinnertime, to see if it can shed any light on the reasons for the annulment of our relationship. Yet even while these castigating thoughts berate me, I calculate the amount of time that I can reasonably stay in bed and how soon I might retire there again after dinner. How many hours of this incessant draining of energy, caused by the presence of my poor father? I am U.E. I must go off on a little trip by myself.
    The bracing effects of my rest have evaporated by dinnertime. After talking all afternoon, only venturing outside once for a short walk, I am once again drooping with desperate fatigue. My father does not allow me to help with the dinner. He says he has prepared everything over the past week. He takes ages in the kitchen while I ponder my role. It is a strange beginning for a son who’d assumed he’d be looking after his sick father.
    The dinner ritual is strangely familiar. Pre-dinner drinks and cigarettes. Then roast beef, mashed potatoes, peas, Yorkshire pudding, followed by meringues and cream. A meal my mother might have made.
    â€œDo you miss Mum?”
    â€œThat’s a stupid question. I’m all by myself.”
    I glance at my father. He is exhausted too and might not be able to contain his irritation for much longer.
    â€œI think I will go right up to bed