Once he said he wished that I had been his father. Then it was my turn to be angry. "What madness is this?" I cried. "What crime has your father committed that you would trade him for a cutpurse?"
"He has committed no crime," Peter replied, "Unless a father can be punished for not loving his son."
-The Life And Times of Gideon Seymour, Cutpurse and Gentleman, 1792.
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I
The Birthday Treat
In which Peter looks forward to his birthday treat and subsequently argues with his father.
It was early morning on Saturday, the sixteenth of December, the first day of the Christmas holidays. In a large house on the edge of London it was beginning to get light. Peter jumped out of bed and stuck his head underneath the curtains to look outside. The sun glowed behind the houses on the other side of Richmond Green, and the cloudless sky was palest blue-- not even a wisp of a cloud. "Yes!" exclaimed Peter, and flung himself as hard as he could onto the mattress to get a good bounce.
Even torrential rain could not have spoiled this day, but crisp sunshine was better. When it was actually Peter's twelfth birthday, back in September, his father had been delayed in Venice on business and could not get back home in time. He postponed the birthday treat again at half term because of a business trip to New York, and had inked it in his diary for the first day of the Christmas holidays. Nowadays, it was mostly like this with his father's promises. They hung, like mirages, shimmering in the future, and the closer you got to them the more you expected them to disappear. When his mother had gone over to work in the States for the first time and his father was supposed to have been making a special effort, Mr. Schock had still managed to turn up at Sports' Day after Peter's big race. There was always another meeting, another client, another urgent matter demanding his attention.
But today was the day: sleighing on the dry ski slope, followed by lunch up in town, followed by a Premiership football match-- a whole day with his dad, doing his favorite things! And nothing could stop it happening now. The smell of frying bacon and sausages that was drifting up the stairs confirmed it. You never got cooked breakfasts on ordinary days in the Schock household. Peter snuggled back under his stripy duvet, relishing the moment, and pretended to be asleep when the door opened.
"Wake up, Peter, time to wake up." Margrit was definitely the best in the long line of au pairs his father had employed with since his mother had gone to work in Los Angeles. She was German and made brilliant meatballs. Her "Ws" would sound "Vs". "Peter," Margrit whispered into his ear, "I know that you're awake. We go on a journey this morning. You must get up now. Your father must speak to you." She tickled Peter until he wriggled and his face cracked into a grin. But when his eyes met hers, she was not smiling. She looked uncomfortable.
"What journey?" he demanded. "What do you mean?"
When Margrit did not answer straightaway, he shot out of bed and flew down two flights of stairs to confront his father, who was cooking eggs in the kitchen. His father was already dressed in smart clothes chosen to impress. One look at his expression and Peter knew.
"It's not happening, is it?"
"I'm sorry Peter, I really am. I'll make it up to you, I promise. I just had a phone call. I have to meet the head of the studios, who is flying back to States this afternoon."
Peter felt numb. This was not possible. Even his father could not do this to him a third time.
"But the good thing is that Margrit can take you up to spend the weekend on her friends' farm in Derbyshire. We'll do this when you get back. I know how disappointed you must be, but you've got to understand.... A lot of people's livelihoods depend on this meeting."
Father and son stood looking at each other over opposite sides of the kitchen table. All the morning's happiness started to seep out of Peter like a puddle onto the kitchen floor. But when his father walked around the table to put a hand on his shoulder, Peter quickly stepped backward out of reach. The adrenalin rush of sudden fury made Peter's fingers clench and his heart pound. He did not want to be understanding. He did not want to go and visit some strangers with Margrit. He wanted his father to cancel the meeting. He wanted to hammer his fists against his father's chest and tell him never, ever, ever again to break a promise he had made to him.
"I don't know why you bothered having a kid." he shouted.
"You never want to do anything with me-- I just get in the way!"
"If you're going to be like that, there's nothing I can say," snapped his father. "You I'm here for you as much as I can be, but someone's got to earn the money to pay for all this." He gestured vaguely at the gleaming stainless steel kitchen and Margrit, who was polishing Peter's shoes. Margrit looked as if she wished she was somewhere else.
"Wait till you're a grown- up with responsibilities. You'd do exactly the same if you were in my place."
"No I wouldn't! If Mum were here, she wouldn't let you do this to me."
This was a bad move and Peter knew it. But the words slipped out before he could stop them.
"Don't you dare take that tone with me." His father's voice had become steely with barely controlled rage. "How dare you say that, when it's your mother who's chosen to work on the other side of the planet." He picked up the frying pan and shoveled the now overcooked eggs angrily to the bin. "You'll go with Margrit. End of story. And I'll think about rescheduling your birthday WHEN and IF you stop acting like a spoiled brat."
Peter hurled upstairs, unable to cope with the feeling of helplessness, the sense of injustice that surged inside him. When he reached the first-floor landing, he turned round and leaned over the banister.
"I hate you!"
And those were the last words that passed between them.
Peter did not notice his father turning on his heel, wincing visibly. He fled into his bedroom, slamming the door so hard that fragments of gloss paint fell onto the carpet. Peter stood at the foot of his bed, kicking and kicking at the wooden leg until it hurt, holding back the tears, listening to the sound of crunching gravel as his father drove his car up the drive. He refused to give in to his impulse to rush down the window and cry, "Dad! Come back!"
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To be continued........
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