His footsteps on the stairs, not the boy (I’d got him) but my father whose ferry had not left for France because of the hurricane that had ripped through England, ripping it apart. He’d turned his Porsche around and returned to London, parked it in the garage below my sister’s flat and seen the door kicked open. I was on my knees when I saw his feet, his shoes, looked up, saw him. I was scrubbing carpets in the wreckage, graffiti on the kitchen walls, the cooker pulled out, the fridge on its knees, a window smashed, the bathroom door off its hinges, furniture sideways, the stench of sick and cigarettes and beer and sex and teenagers who’d run off into the night. He didn’t talk to me for a long while after that. He’d say on the few occasions we’d be at the same table, please tell her to pass the salt. And when it was my eighteenth birthday he stood in the hall and said I’ve come up for your sister’s birthday so I won’t bother coming up for yours. But I’d got the boy, which was what I decided I cared about. A summer passed, my A’Levels passed, he must have forgotten it’s a bad idea to give a riotous girl in need of attention the keys to anywhere because when I was free from school forever he gave me the keys to the house in France. I invited all my friends and some who weren’t my friend at all. We drank champagne in the sun and wine on mopeds and piled dirty plates in bin bags that we left out the back. We threw all the sun beds in the pool. The idiot boys who were not my friends invented a game of shaming anyone who went to bed first by hauling barrels of water up the stairs and tipping them over the sleeping person. The beds were soaked, the mattresses ruined, the floor dripped through the ceilings below. We broke everything and left without clearing up or saying sorry. He didn’t talk to me for many more years after that, and I remember that hurt. But I was off, away from home, from France in disgrace to Italy, Spain, Morocco and soon, Zimbabwe.
Discussion about this post
No posts
They say the best memories are those that don't always show the author in the best light. This is one of those moments. The absolute selfishness of teenagers. I didn't have keys to a house but I was still so into myself, the world revolved around me. I guess we're still pushing the boundaries at 18-19.