I grew up motherless. That is not to say my mother was dead.
‘Conspicuous by her absence' was the phrase I heard my
father use as I listened at keyholes in hope of answers.
Theirs was a lengthy marriage. The fact that she chose to
take no part in it didn't detract from his sense that she
was his wife. Yes, he had frequent lady friends, perfumed,
interchangeable. None replaced her. My mother remained the
love of his life – except, that is, for racing cars,
an open stretch of road and, of course, the lure of speed.
I couldn't help but feel I must have done something
terrible to cause her to go, but my father frequently
assured, "You were hardly capable of anything more ghastly
than crying too loudly. Or too often. No, it was me your
mother left." But he failed to provide an adequate
explanation of his crime, claiming to have bought her the
best money could buy, even allowing her to pursue her career
– against his better judgement. What was I to think?
"Think of the boy!" I shrank into my seat at the sound of
my grandfather's bullish proclamation over the cut glass and
cruets. "I can't understand why you don't divorce her."
My father slowly applied a napkin to one corner of his
mouth. His response was measured, dry: "I wouldn't expect
you to."
"Frankly, I never understood why you had to marry her in
the first place!" Never one to waste time listening to the
other side of an argument, the older man forked food into
his mouth as if his was the last word.
"I know you'd have preferred me to throw in the towel
with some obedient little debutante, but," and here my
father turned his focus to me, exaggerating the width of his
cow–brown eyes, "your mother was exciting. And very
beautiful."
My grandfather inhaled his Claret, spluttering,
"Excitement! That's not what one looks for in a wife!"
"‘Til death us do part was the promise I made. And I
haven't managed to kill myself yet –"
"Despite your confounded tomfoolery! Look here, in my day
a man would have taken a woman like her –"
My father coughed a loud protest. "Not in front of –"
"Do you dare censor me? One can only hope," my
grandfather's eyes singled me out, flashing terror into my
soul, "young James here will learn from your mistakes!"
"Son." I found my hair being ruffled, my father's voice
assuring, "Don't listen to anyone who tells you it's a
mistake to marry for love."
"Oh, come on! What utter rot!" The table shook as my
grandfather's glass crash–landed, the stem snapping
under the weight of his forearm, adamant that it was my
father, and not he, who was responsible for the wreckage Mrs
Strachan fussed over.
Is it possible to miss someone of whom one has no memory?
No, I missed the idea of her. Like the Rome I learned of in
Ancient History lessons, a mother was an idea in the minds
of men. Sometimes differing substantially from the reality.