Finding a way through

Guy and I came home from holiday at the weekend. We had spent a week in Sicily with Alex, 13, and then a few days in London before driving up to the Suffolk coast for a further week. Jack, 17, had been to Turkey with a friend and his family whilst we were in Italy, but came to Suffolk. We had asked William, 19, if he wanted to join us this year, but he’d declined. He remained at his house in Blackheath, and for the first year in four, he didn’t come to the house or do anything which would cause problems when we got home. For the past three years we have asked our cleaning lady, Maria, to house-sit, after coming home to chaos the year William was doing GCSEs, when he was supposed to be staying with a friend’s family, but broke into the house and lived there instead for a prolonged weed- fest, abandoning the place the day we returned.

Last year he was supposed to be coming to Italy with us, after returning home from rehab, but ‘lost’ his passport the day before we were due to travel, (we now think he had sold it), so we arranged for him to stay with his grandmother instead. He stayed with her for a couple of days and then came back to London to live in the house with Maria, even though we had told him he should not be there without us.

We saw Will on Sunday, and the meeting did not go well. I hadn’t seen Will since we got back from Sicily. I had been ill on holiday, after foolishly deciding to eat some fish. We were staying by the sea and the freshly-caught fish all looked so wonderful but I haven’t eaten meat or fish for five or six years, and the effect made me feel very ill. I was still suffering once back in London. We had arranged to meet Will for a drink locally before we set off for Suffolk, but I was feeling unwell and Guy was working so it didn’t happen.

Will had rung me while we were in Suffolk. I was having a bad day, and clearly he was too. We were renting the same house that we’ve been taking for the past nine years, with the exception of last year when the letting was transferred to an agent, who booked the entire summer out before we could put in our request again. Standing in the hallway on our first day back there again, Guy looked unhappy and began talking about the memories that the place held for him: noisy family holidays when all three boys would be with us, including grandparents and friends at different times over the years. It seemed odd to him, he said, that it was so quiet there now. No William, and Jack had asked to stay in London a few days more, so that he could catch up with friends.

Guy was clearly in an agitated state before we had left for Suffolk. Sicily had been a great success, but tiring in the searing heat. He had work to do before we left again for Suffolk, and the day we left London we heard that a friend of ours had died during the night. She had been ill for over a year, with bowel cancer, and it had been a cruel disease which she had fought hard to overcome.

Guy looked at me, in silence first, then said

‘Yeah, life’s a bitch and then you die don’t you?’

I could feel a heavier energy enter the kitchen where we were both standing, and silently feared that he would start to become depressed with the news. I can feel how sensitive he is, this death adding to his take on life that he’s been dealt a heavy blow from which he is still reeling. I have relied on him to prop me up so often over the years, mainly around my ongoing grief from having lost my parents as a child. Now it seems it’s my turn: we have changed places.

Guy has always loved going to the house in Suffolk, which is on Iken Cliff, not far from Orford, overlooking the beach and the mud flats which extend to the Snape Maltings. The house used to be a pub, dating from the seventeenth century, set in over an acre of land, once at the heart of a thriving agricultural community which vanished long ago. I was dismayed this year to find that Guy still seemed sad and disturbed, instead of calm and smiling, which is the usual effect of being up there. Even the view of Iken Church in the distance only seemed to have a temporary glow for him.

One of the things that happens when Guy is becoming low is that he seems to want to control everything, including me. If I have an idea for something, his first response is ‘no’ plus some reason why it’s a bad idea. This is wearing and hurtful to me, and I began to notice it more and more whilst we were away. He had to be in charge, what he said needed to be rigidly adhered to. I can see why he does this, it’s a response to feeling out of control with life itself, and who can blame him. His eldest son being the way he is, and witnessing his mother and sister tying their colours firmly to William’s mast, Guy must feel as if his world no longer makes sense. Added to that a wife who is going out into the world trying to make changes, and you have a recipe for unrest in his heart.

Fine, I could see that, but was unsure how I was going to stop myself being wounded by his behaviour towards all of us, and began to feel that I didn’t know how to keep going in that climate, especially as I was verging on exhaustion myself. I became aware that I was trying to keep tears at bay, which is unlike me. I’d told Guy something of how I was feeling that morning on holiday as we sat outside having breakfast, Lily running around us one minute, and off exploring woodland and bushes the next. Guy had taken the criticism badly and refused to acknowledge what I was saying.

‘Oh, good, just blame me for everything if that makes you feel better. It’s my fault, that’s right’.

Things had become worse from there, and I began to be thoroughly irritated with everything. Then William rang me, telling me he just wanted to say hello. (Oh, okay, yes I’m alright, we’re in Suffolk, how are you?) He rang back again five minutes later, to say that he was panicking about money and needed help.

‘I’m only a teenager, I don’t have a clue about money. My old landlord owes me hundreds of pounds which I could use to pay my rent this month, but he won’t answer my calls. Do you have a mobile number for him? Yeah, that’s why I rung before to get that. I really need help.’

I began to say, unhelpfully, that I thought he had the rent, he had told us some weeks ago, at one of our weekly meeting with him, that he had housing benefit back in place even though he was no longer signing on, which had sounded odd to me. Now it would seem that was another lie. He’d also recently told us that he had a weekend job, and we were unsure whether that was right or not. The truth was that his grandmother had given him a lump sum of money, and he was living on that, not working nor signing on.

I said that he needed to get a full-time job so he could begin to support himself.

‘You don’t get it do you, you tell me how awful I am, what a useless son I am to you, and how crap I am, and you don’t understand it’s not that easy just to get a job. I’ve had one and I fucked it up, like I do with everything.’

‘Well, maybe it wasn’t the right thing for you. You can try something else….’

Will began yelling more loudly now, shouting over me as I was trying to talk. It seemed simple to me: if you need money for rent and aren’t working then you get a job, apparently not that simple for him.

More shouting down the phone, more panic in his voice. We’ve been here before, he’s feeling bad and wants to dump it on someone.

‘William, I’m going to have to go, I’ll call you back later’ I said, sighing heavily, and pulled down the flap on my phone to end the call.

I was in the house by myself, it was a warm day and Guy had taken the boys to play tennis. We were hardly speaking, both of us angry and upset. Putting my phone down on the desk in the dining room, I walked out into the garden, through the conservatory with its cache of spiders, and sat down heavily on the sun-lounger I’d placed there minutes before. The house has a beautiful cottage garden, overlooking the beach, with tall blousy flowers at this time of year, which bees and butterflies love, and looking around me now I wondered how things had become like this. Now Guy and I were fighting, more fragmentation, how easy it was to become disconnected with each other and to begin to look for other solutions other than becoming connected again. Maybe I would be better off on my own, I began thinking, at least then I wouldn’t have to deal with other people’s moods, it wasn’t fair. I felt like I was drowning

My phone, which I’d left in the house, began to ring again – twice.

Will.

I couldn’t speak to him, he clearly needed someone to yell at. Five minutes later, still trying to find a regular breathing rhythm again, I walked back into the house, picked up my phone and punched in his number. Will immediately apologised, and I quickly explained to him that I was having a bad day, and it wasn’t a good time for me or his father at the moment. Then something extraordinary began to happen, Will began explaining to me in fast, breathless sentences, what it must have been like for his father these past few years, how the strain of having to deal with his eldest son’s behaviour, coupled with the huge personal changes that I had made in my life must have been, at times, intolerable to Guy.

I started to smile, as I listened, and began to enjoy, and to be helped by what he was saying. His slant on what it must be like to be Guy was fascinating, and made a lot of sense. There was no blame there, but an analysis that seemed to come from a place in our son which is clearly highly -developed but to which we rarely have access. It is such a puzzle. But he did help me that day. I spoke to him until the credit silently ran out on my phone, and I suddenly found I was speaking only to myself. Staring into the impassive phone blankly, wondering how that had happened, | then rang him back on the house phone, but he didn’t pick up. By the time Guy returned with the boys, I was feeling nourished by my conversation with William, aware of the irony of this and surprised to find myself in a place of compassion for Guy, having been able to transform anger into tranquillity in my heart, which I could then extend to everyone else. Miracles.

The next morning I talked to Guy about what it was like for him regarding William. He said that as a father it is terrible to watch your eldest son become like he was. He talked about how lovely William was when he was little and how painful the memories were of being in Suffolk years ago, recalling William as a little boy running around in his football strip.

‘I keep going over in my mind what happened. Was it to do with his height do you think? He used to call himself a freak, that’s a terrible word to use about yourself. As a father I feel I’ve failed, it must be my fault, something I did or didn’t do. I know my family believe that. My mother has always been disapproving of me, and such a social climber. I was miserable at prep school, but she loved the place. I was never intellectual enough for my father either, a disappointment. Both of them were critical of our parenting, saying I was too strict, maybe they were right, except that I always think about Jack and Alex, and what great young men they are both turning out to be. That really helps me. I know I can’t be that bad a father, or they would be off the rails too, and so far there is no sign.’

On our drive back from holiday, as we were approaching London, Guy asked me if I thought we should try and see William the next day. His concern is that if we don’t arrange to see him, that he will begin to come to the house again. I had told Guy something of how lucid and helpful William had been on the phone, being careful how I worded this. Guy had nodded, and to my relief had not become angry. Frowning, he said that that was part of the tragedy: that he was highly intelligent – much more so than either of us – and yet his talents were being wasted.

We met William the next day, outside a wine bar in Blackheath. He was unshaven, and the haircut he had mentioned at every one of our weekly meetings (I’ve got an appointment to have my hair cut, how do you think I should have it?’) didn’t seem to have happened. I was feeling irritated and tired. Guy was still trying to control everything and I was virtually at screaming point, but trying to hang on. Glancing up at William’s eyes I registered a familiar greyness I always associate with cannabis.

Sitting down with Will, whilst Guy went to the bar to buy drinks, I remembered fondly our conversation from the week before, but didn’t mention it.

‘So, you okay?’ Will said to me, smiling.

We spoke for a few minutes, I asking how things were going, but what he was saying was almost exactly what he had said the week before, and the week before that. A trial for a weekend job now, when he’d said he had one already, thoughts about going abroad to work, but nothing concrete to report. Feeling spiteful, and angry, I said

‘God, Will, sounds like we’re in a time-warp here, you’ve been saying exactly the same things for weeks. What are you exactly doing with your time?’

What was the point of that? an internal voice began.

God knows, but I’m sick of the lies, and the pretence, came the reply.

Things went badly from there. I began asking questions in order to get at the truth, (me: ‘well, are you working or not?’ him: ‘What do you think is the truth then? Do you think I am or not? I’ve fucked up everything, you blame everything on skunk but I’m not smoking, so explain that one. You expect me to do a full-time job, but when would I see my friends if I did that?’ Madness.)

Will became more angry and then left, saying that he got nothing out of meeting us so what was the point? I agreed with him. Oh God, how was I going to cope with all of this? Guy being angry and difficult, now Will who was obviously still lying to us, saying he had a job, saying he’d applied to go abroad to work in September, saying he had housing benefit in place to pay this month’s rent. I didn’t believe any of it.

As we walked away I turned to Guy and said that we needed to know what was the situation between Will and his grandmother. We knew that she had given him some money to live on, I’d been saying that it was between the two of them what happened, but I felt I needed to know how much had been given. Will’s mood was reminiscent of every other time that he had money and then he would be rude to us, not caring what the outcome was. If he needs were met, short-term, he was careless with us. I presumed that was the case now.

Guy was phoning his mother as I was still kicking off my shoes in the hallway. He was told that she had paid this month’s rent for him, which was curious since Guy and our other two boys had spent the previous day with her, and she hadn’t mentioned William, which is usually a sign that she has spoken to or seen her grandson, and almost always hands out cash. As Guy says, she uses her handbag as an answer to everything. She had recently given him £500 in cash and paid his rent.

We went to our friend’s funeral on Tuesday. Something moved Guy, and he began to make changes in his thinking, which I’m delighted by. I was unsure how much more depression and anger I could take. I’d been fighting back tears, feeling fragile and worn out since we’d come home. Jane, at 55, was only seven years older than us – the message for Guy was clear. He took my hand after the service, and said that he had decided to let go of all the pain around William, it was too hard he said and the pressure of it all could end up killing both of us.

‘I think it’s time we both had some fun’ he said, looking into my eyes. What I saw there was a light that I haven’t seen for a long time. ‘I’ve had enough of the heartache: it’s only going to shorten both our lives, and that’s not fair on us or our other boys. I’m letting go now. I’ve made a decision. I’ve tried to help Will, and I can’t. I’m going to let him and my mother get on with it. I’m letting it all go.’

Oh, wow, what a gift for me and our other boys too. Thanks Jane.

Due to go back to work the next day, Guy took the rest of the week off, and has been more relaxed than I’ve seen him in years. So have I. We’ve had a great week. Moving on, together.