The tears started about five o'clock. Might have been later but wasn't earlier. I remember it was when we had all settled down to watch Saturday night telly. All the dishes had been done, washed and put away. Slippers were on, feet up. Nan was in the chair, Granddad and Tony on the settee. I was on the floor lying down. It was the only place where I could hide my face. I felt uncomfortable, unable to explain the feelings I had. So I lay down and hid and that's when it began. A slow, steady stream of tears began to tumble gently down my face. I wasn't wailing, sobbing or making any noise at all. I was as quiet as a mouse, in fact, as I didn't want to arouse any suspicion. If Nan would have seen me, she'd have asked what was wrong, and I couldn't have put it into words. So I hid. And I suffered in silence.
I had arrived about eleven in the morning. I got the bus alone and Granddad met me off the bus and walked me back to the house. I walked in through the back door into the tidy kitchenette. Nan was waiting for me, a sandwich and drink offered. I always remember her saying that she thought they would get back together in the future, as they need each other. Other than that, I don't remember anything. It was probably like any other time I have visited--a trip to the shops, looking for bird's nests in the bushes, messing with Tony. I loved going there and spent many happy hours with the three of them. You felt special.
Six o'clock and the tears are still flowing. Les Dawson, Bob Monkhouse or Wogan, somebody like that, are entertaining the three of them. But I wasn't taking it in. I was drowning in a pool of despair, losing my battle with the tears that refused to stop coming. But I stayed quit and nobody knew. My sniffles could have been the start of a cold. I wasn't doing anything suspicious, other than being unusually silent. Nan probably thought it was my way of coping and let me be. She was struggling herself I reckon; I wasn't the only one finding it hard.
It had been decided that it was better for all concerned if the kids weren't there when she moved out. So we were packed off to different places for the night. I got the best deal without doubt. I loved going to Nan's, so an extra night was a bonus. Lucky me, quid's in. Great stuff. Burger and chips, Robin's in the garden, arm-wrestling Tony. It would all be happening. The bus took about an hour and was no different than any of the other journeys I had made there, apart from when I was sick as I got off the bus. I often wondered about the driver that day, left to clean it up. But there were no indications, no signs or signals of what lay in wait. If I had known, I might have asked to stay at home.
Seven o'clock and they are still coming. How many do you keep in stock? I should have run dry by now. But I hadn't. They continued to roll down my face. I was leaning on my elbow, shielding myself from the people who loved me just feet away. My spare hand was the wiper, clearing my face to make room for the next batch. They never let up, never once taking a break, a pause or intermission. So I lay there, still, as if mesmerized by the Saturday evening offerings on telly. But I never took a word in. I missed every gag, pun or joke. It was all wasted on the little boy on the floor.
A few weeks earlier, we had carried some furniture from our house to the new house we were moving into, which was just down the road, turn right, fifth house on the block. After we dropped it off, we headed back, Dad about twenty feet ahead of Mum and me. He was alone, lost in his thoughts, the implications of what was happening in his life possibly hitting home. I remember looking at him, his shoulders unusually hunched, his head low, not like him. I was doing the right thing, walking with Mum, symbolically. And I felt a huge sadness; I wanted to cry then but managed to keep it in. Wouldn't be right would it? After all, it's got to be a hundred times worse for them. I'm only a kid; I'll get over it. He was thirty-five then, in the prime of his life, only two years younger than I am now. At that moment he had nothing.
Eight o'clock and I'm still there, same spot. In front of the telly, leaning on one elbow, looking up at the screen. And I'm still crying. And I still don't know why. I know that when I go back I will be living in a new house. And I know that my Mum and Dad still love each other but have decided to give each other some space. And I know that everything is going to be okay because they told me that it would be. But I don't know why I feel like my heart has been ripped out. I don't know why I feel worse, a thousand times worse, than I have ever felt in my life. I don't know why I can't stop crying. I've been taken over by something. I have lost control of myself and I am scared, frightened, and afraid. And I have never felt so alone so close to people who love me so much. I want somebody to stop the pain, dry the tears and tell me everything is going to be just fine. But they don't come.
You don't know about the pressure, about marrying young, about disappointment and failed promises. You aren't aware of shit sex, late hours and long days. The door that hasn't been re-hung doesn't matter, as long as you don't trip over it. Unfulfilled ambition? Flirting? Expectation? What are those? Lipstick on the collar, overdraft's, failed M.O.T's, college courses. So what? Growing apart, growing close to somebody else, or growing closer to yourself? What have they got to do with anything? The fella who joins her on holiday and you see in the nude? He's a mate from college. The night when they wake you up and she's holding her leg and he's staring into space? An argument, that's all. Soon forgotten. What argument?
Nine o'clock and I can't handle it any more. I need to get in bed and be hidden away. I mumble I'm tired and go into Tony's room. Nan comes in like she always does. "Goodnight and God bless." "Night Nan." I get the words out. I did it. I handled it well, remembered my lines. I never cracked up, screamed or wailed. And the tears were still flowing She shuts the door behind her. I'm alone. I can really let go now. Bury my face in the pillow and sob. Let loose. It all comes out, everything, every emotion; it's all there. It couldn't be worse, sadder or harder. I give it my all and it exhausts me. I'm battered, wiped out, finished. I drift off, eventually, lost in the despair of it all. Sleep is my sanctuary. The tears stop.
Nobody asked and I never explained. I carried that night on my young shoulders from that day to this. The pain was so bad, I blocked it out. If it hurts, block it out, because if you don't, you might end up back on Nan's floor. And who wants to go there? I often think of that night for that was the night my life changed. I left a lot of things on Nan's floor along with the tears--innocence, my family, my childhood. And I always think back to Dad, walking back to the house, alone. I wish I had run to him and put my arm around him. I don't want to say anything, but I just want to cuddle him.
I never cried again until five years had passed after the night on Nan's floor. I cried five year's tears that night.
Keywords: What children go through when their parents split up
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