I Love You Read online

  “Which is why you kept it in pride of place on the coffee table, completely unhidden and not thrown away.”

  “It was a source of comfort,” she explained desperately. “A reminder that, even if I had spurned his advances, I still had a friend. I was not alone.”

  “What about me? You had me.”

  “No I didn’t!” she shrieked. “You were halfway across the world and could have been dead. I’m sorry, but I have needs. I need company. I need people around. I need to know that I’m not alone, and he did that for me. He was there for me.”

  “Now please, can we go back to normal?” she begged me. I was not convinced, however, and merely grunted. It was late at night but I did not want to be in this house any longer than I had to so I left, with no intention of coming back.

  Chapter 9: March 22nd, 1943

  “I love you.”

  “Hmm,” I said, and nothing more.

  It was a week after I had stormed out, and I had come back. I still did not really want to be here but I had nowhere else to go. Despite her betrayal, she still looked after me and cared for me, so I suppose our shared home was as good as place as any to stay.

  Yet I did not trust her. Not yet, anyway. Our life had become mere routine, a monotony of one thing after another, the same thing day after day to keep me from thinking through the emptiness in my soul.

  She had said that phrase a lot lately. She had taken to telling me she loved me at least three times a day at the most random of occasions. It did not mean anything, though. That word had been shared with another man, even if he had just been a ‘friend’. It meant that all meaning had been taken from it. When once ‘I love you’ would have solved everything, would have reminded me of our happy times together and what we shared between us, now it only reminded me that she may have used that phrase with this mysterious Tony. Such thoughts made the word meaningless, dirty, painful. Perhaps she thought she was helping when she said it, but she wasn’t.

  “You never did tell me what you meant,” I mused.

  “Meant? About what?” she asked.

  “Love. What do you even mean when you say it?”

  She looked puzzled, hurt.

  “Patrick, you know what I mean,” she snapped back at me.

  “No, but I don’t anymore,” I said thoughtfully. “One week ago I was in the pub with Jimmy and he made an interesting point. You know Jimmy, always thinking and philosophising. Well, that day he was talking about love. He told me that the Greeks have four words for it and that our word is basically meaningless, a cover-all word for various different emotions.”

  “So, go on,” I challenged her, “how do you feel about me? Without using the word ‘love’.”

  We were in the bedroom together. If looks could kill, I would be dead right now; as it was, I simply felt the emotional heat of her glare as she thought over my question.

  “Well right now I’m annoyed at you,” she said simply, and made to leave.

  “Jimmy said if you don’t know what it means to you, then it means nothing when you say it.”

  She turned on me, eyes flaring up. “You want to know how I feel about you, Pat? You want me to tell you what ‘love’ means to me? You’re pathetic. Be a man.”

  I grabbed her. “I am being a man. Now tell me.”

  She sighed. “I cook for you. I clean for you. I look after you. I wait for you when you go away, staying ever faithful despite what you may think. I chose to make a vow three years ago to spend my life with you, and I stick by that promise. Most of the time you’re my favourite person in the world. But not right now.”

  “That is what love means to me. Now, leave me alone for a while. I need to calm down.”

  With that, she slammed the door and stormed downstairs. I heard another door slam underneath the floorboards and knew she had retreated into the back room to be alone for a while.

  It was not the best time to have provoked an argument, for I was returning to the front that afternoon. Nevertheless, I had my answer, and it was a concrete one. I now had to ponder over it and I would have many months to do so before I saw her again.

  We made our goodbyes that afternoon. She still had not fully calmed down and couldn’t bring herself to look at me properly. We still hugged, though, and we still kissed. As I left, she mustered a weak smile as she waved me goodbye, a solitary tear visible in her left eye.

  Chapter 10: May 7th, 1947

  “I love you.”

  The war was over and as I gazed into my wife’s eyes, I felt unspeakable joy flowing through my entire being. Everything was looking up. Hitler was no longer trying to bomb the living daylights out of us; Labour were in power, starting to build the mighty arms of a welfare state which would look after the sick and poor; and now, under the watchful eyes of newly trained NHS nurses, our first child, Pamela, had been born.

  The Tony thing had resolved itself. I decided to trust my wife, giving myself the exemption clause that if anything like that were to happen again, I was gone. We had talked it through later in a much calmer frame of mind. She had understood how such a letter would have looked and apologised for it, and I understood how such an accusation would have felt and apologised for myself. She promised never to do anything like that again and we moved on, happy.

  We had conceived our baby girl in the autumn of 1946. It was the first autumn we could really enjoy together, for even the year previously had been dominated by the aftermath of war and the continuing conflict in Japan. Emotionally, I had been a wreck, too. Post traumatic stress syndrome they would no doubt call it today; then, I simply understood it as absolute grief at having seen so many of my mates die in battle. I couldn’t talk for days after coming home and didn’t return to my normal self for months.

  So it was a blessing to finally be able to see, to enjoy, the autumn leaves as they fell; the cool, fresh breeze as summer’s blistering heat came to an end; the dulcet tones of a sunset by the lake. That September had been one of the best months of my life, and little Pamela was the personal embodiment of that happiness.

  She was beautiful. I had not uttered that phrase to anyone in particular: in part, it was an expression of love to my brand new baby daughter; in part, to my wife for delivering her, and for putting up with so much pain in the process. I adored them both right now and as I cradled that little bundle of joy in my arms, I experienced the most beautiful feeling I have ever had.

  I had loved my wife as my wife before this moment; now, I loved her as the mother of my child. In a way that is an even more sacred bond, more unbreakable. Whatever happened between us now, if the unthinkable ever occurred and we separated or divorced, we would still have that link, eternal so long as Pamela was alive.

  The baby was crying. The nurses told me how comfortable the womb was, the perfect environment for a nestling egg. It was traumatic, they said, to be forcefully shoved out into the cold air and made to breathe for yourself for the first time. Crying, they said, was therefore a good sign; at any rate, it was better than suffocating.

  I smiled at them, and they smiled back at me. This was their job, of course, but they clearly took great delight in doing it. Not as much delight as I had at becoming a father, however.

  Chapter 11: September 1st, 1951

  “I love you. Now off you pop, have a good day at school.”

  Pamela was four years old now and ready to begin her education. She was scared. All her life, she had been at home with mummy and daddy, learning through play and playing all day. She had enjoyed absolute freedom to do what she willed. Now, however, she was to be thrust into the outside world of strangers and friends, new people wanting to take her toys and play with them themselves. Until now, all her toys had been her own, all her playmates imaginary; she had not yet learned to share.

  Nor had she learnt to be independent. We, Gracie and I, were her parents. We had looked after her from birth. Her little mind could not fathom what it would be like to be without mummy and daddy even for one day. She did not want
to fathom it.

  “Daddy, do I have to go?” she complained at the school gates. Her expression was one of sadness and fear. It is never easy for a parent to abandon a child in such a situation, but I had to remain rational. This was for the best. If she didn’t get an education, she would never succeed in life. Besides, if she didn’t get an education, mummy and daddy would get hauled off to court.

  She was too young to understand such concepts, so I kept it simple. “Yes, my sweetie, you do,” I said lovingly. “I’m sorry about that, but you’ll have lots and lots of fun here today. You’ll make new friends and play new games and maybe even learn something special today. Do you want to tell daddy something special when you come home tonight? It’ll make me feel very special.”

  I smiled, and she smiled back. Now that this was a special mission for daddy, she was excited. She would do anything for daddy.

  “Yes! Yes I do!” she yelled happily.

  “Your teacher tells me you’ll be learning about the two times table today. Now, daddy’s not very clever, so I need you to go in there and learn it for me, and then you can teach me all about it tonight. We can make a game of it. Does that sound fun?”

  “Yes,” she smiled, and almost dribbled with happiness.

  The bell rang for her to go in.

  “It’s time for you to go in, sweetheart,” I said. “I’m going to have to go now, but I’ll see you this afternoon.”

  It seemed she hadn’t quite realised that her special mission would mean leaving daddy at the gate. Her jaw dropped in shock and she clutched onto my shirt sleeve as if begging me to stay.

  “Don’t go, daddy,” she impored me. “Please.”

  I smiled sadly at her and gave her one last hug before I really had to go. Her teacher, a Mrs. Robinson, approached me and took her off me, ready for class to begin.

  She cried as she was taken from me. As a father it was difficult to watch, so I averted my eyes to stop her from seeing me cry as I walked away. I knew it would be difficult at first for her, but I also knew that when she came home that night, she would be waxing lyrical about how brilliant and fun her day had been, and how much she was looking forward to going back again tomorrow.

  With that hope in my heart, I left her in the safe hands of her teacher and went to go about my daily business.

  Chapter 12: October 13th, 1956

  “I love you.”

  My daughter’s life had just been saved, and my wife had never been so beautiful. Nor had Pamela. My nine year old daughter was soaked from head to toe being cradled in her mother’s arms, shivering, sobbing.

  We had been walking by a canal when we had spotted some ducks. One had been a rather special creature whom we had christened ‘bouffant duck’, for he- or she- was blessed with a unique array of feathers on its head which rather resembled the popular hairstyle. Pamela had been excited, of course. She had recently been taking swimming lessons so took it upon herself to dive into the water and reach out to bouffant duck.

  Except she’d only had two lessons and had never swum without her armbands before. She managed to get two feet away from the side before realising she had come unstuck and cried out for help, desperate and terrified as she splashed around in the confusing channel.

  She had been walking behind us, so the first we knew of her impetuous decision was when we heard the splash and, shortly afterwards, the screams for help of our little girl.

  I span round and my heart stopped. It is a traumatic thing for a father to see his daughter in such a perilous situation. It was not only my heart that stopped, however, for my whole body had seized up involuntarily, like a deer before car headlights. My whole will was screaming at me to jump in and save her but my legs refused.

  Gracie was not so cowardly. From my statuesque position, I saw her quickly and quietly disrobe and dive straight into the water, heroine for our panicking child.

  She climbed out just as quickly as she had leapt in. Pamela emerged first from the water, followed by my wife. Both looked as terrified as each other: Pamela for her own sake, and Gracie for her daughter’s.

  Shame welled up inside me. I should have been the one to do that, I thought. I should have been Pamela’s hero, not some frozen coward standing by the side of the water. Yet joy reared its beautiful head, too, for disaster had been averted and a situation which could have been so terrible had turned into one of the most joyous occasions of my life.

  Seeing the two most important girls in my life standing before me, having done battle with death and won, I loved them both more than I had ever done before.

  Chapter 13: July 17th, 1963

  “I love you, Pam.”

  “Well I hate you!” she exclaimed. “why won’t you let me go?”

  “Because you’re sixteen years old,” I said angrily. “and because I said so. That’s final.”

  “Oh no it isn’t, dad,” she roared. “I am going. Even if you stop me this year, next year, or the year after, one day I’ll be an adult and you won’t be able to stop me.”

  “One day you’ll be an adult and you’ll be mature,” I countered. “And you’ll have put all this nonsense out of your head.”

  “It’s not nonsense,” she replied. “It’s my generation. It’s modern life. There’s a whole world out there, Dad, and it’s changing. There’s a revolution in the air and I want to be part of it.”

  “By wearing daft clothes, sleeping with everyone around you and smoking illegal drugs? Not while you’re under my roof you won’t.”

  “It’s not like that, Dad,” she blustered. “It’s a different philosophy. It’s a new, more spirutual way of living. You just don’t understand,” she sighed.

  “So make me,” I challenged her. “Make me understand your point of view, and maybe I’ll reconsider.”

  She shoved a book in my face and turned her back. “If you really want to understand, read this. It’s where I learnt all about it.”

  I looked at the book she had given me. It was called The Flower Revolution by a man named Doctor Altberger of the London School of Economics.

  “What’s this about?” I queried.

  “He’s a sociologist,” she explained. “Spent his whole life studying society and societies, and he’s come to the conclusion that society, as it is, is wrong. This book is his manifesto for a new world.”

  “The ‘Age of Aquarius’,” I sneered.

  “Oh, go away, Dad,” said Pamela, exhausted. She had been defeated, but only by the brute strength of parental authority. In her head she still thought she was right. Two of her friends had taken up the hippy lifestyle she so desired and she felt left out. They were in London right now, brazenly walking about wearing deliberately subversive clothes and muttering incomprehensible statements about ‘the man’. I couldn’t see anything in it, to be honest. Just a bunch of rich kids complaining that they couldn’t break the rules. But she felt what any teenager feels: why can’t I do it if they can?

  She slammed her bedroom door on me and that was that: I had won the battle for now but lost a little bit of her respect for me. Still, that’s what being a parent is about: enforcing the rules, doing what’s best for your child even when they can’t see it. It hurt, though, that she had said those words to me. She hates me. I didn’t think she meant it. If she did, I would have been distraught.

  I looked at the book she had given me with amusement. “The Flower Revolution”. Who but a naïve teenager- as they called them these days- could take such a book seriously? Nevertheless I resolved to read it for her sake, even though I didn’t expect to find much worthy content in its pages.

  No doubt this would be another of Pamela’s passing fads, forgotten within a month.

  How wrong I was.

  Chapter 14: May 14th, 1967

  “I love you,” announced the speaker at the head of the crowd, “and you should love me, too. We should all love each other. We live in an enlightened age. The age of Aquarius. The age of free love.”

  Twenty year ol
d Pamela had matured in the sixties, and she had matured into a hippy- despite my wishes. Gracie and I were standing with her in the middle of a crowd in Hyde Park in London. Surrounding us were groups of young people sitting in circles passing round marijuana and appearing completely disengaged from the world around them. In the centre of the crowd was a speaker, the sociologist from the London School of Economics who had written that book Pamela showed me four years previously. I had read it and, truth be told, it wasn’t as bad a book as I had been expecting. It had been predictable, though: its central thesis was that society was based on the wrong values and needed to be changed, recreated, into one based on ‘free love’, whatever that meant.

  “It is time to do away with the stuffy old traditions of the past,” he continued. “Traditions with no rational basis. We must think anew, recreate society as it should be.”

  “Your elders have given you faulty examples. They have taught you that life is a conveyor belt: you hop on at birth and follow the educational system until it chucks you out at sixteen. You then find a girl or boy and marry, find a job and work for forty years, then retire and die quietly. That is the life given to you by the world around you. But I say: no more!”

  My generation fought and died to give you that life, I thought bitterly. Still, this was today’s generation. They had been born after the horrors of war and could not be expected to imagine what it had been like. In a way, I was glad that we had created a country for them where conventions could be challenged and it could be moved forward in a positive direction.

  “I say the flower revolution is a blessing. It is a step in the right direction. No more living in boxes. No longer are we confined to the monogamous relationships of the past. Love is made to be free, so let us liberate it!”

  It certainly seemed that the youths here were heeding his message. A positive orgy was assembling around us, with one girl kissing one boy and then another five minutes later. There was no problem for them, of course. They all believed in this stuff. They were sitting there happily, giggling away as they experimented with drugs and sex like they were nothing.

  I looked on them with older eyes. Perhaps I thought like a man who had grown up in the thirties and knew what it was to suffer, to be poor, but I did not like this new movement one bit. The ‘hippies’ just seemed lazy and ungrateful, unaware of the sacrifices made so they could enjoy the freedom they now lampooned so. They openly disrespected the law we had fought to defend. It felt like nothing less than an insult.