So, this is my very first post on my very first blog. This blog is here mainly to connect with people who want to share their reading and writing experiences with me. It's my outlet for some of my attempts at writing, particularly as part of my Open University Creative Writing course. Any comments are, of course, very welcome. And nobody need worry about offending me, as I'm thick-skinned.

And today I must start by sharing with you my latest assignment, marked and returned to me today. I was thrilled with the mark, especially considering the final sprint to meet the deadline! I honestly don't know what happened. Xmas, obviously!

Time for a Thaw

A two-hour journey down the motorway, followed by a further hour of negotiating winding slush-filled roads leads Peter Stephens to his childhood home. The bold outline of a Victorian manor house confronts him, sporting a random assortment of bow windows, chimneys and French doors that cling tightly to the red bricks. The gentle snowfall softens the effect of the sharp corners and provides a clean disguise for the garden, where suggestions of unpruned bushes and dead flower heads hint at recent neglect.

            A silhouette of a head and shoulders appears in the window of the leathery room to the left of the front door. The dancing orange and black shapes revive that memory of his father, framed by the fierce fire, confessing his sins to his gathered family, all wilting like the cut flowers on his desk.

            Peter sits behind his steering wheel, removing his leather gloves one finger at a time. He retrieves his mobile phone from its holster on the dashboard. Its glowing screen reveals an image of Georgie, his teenage son, taken at the moment between surprise and disgust. He moves his finger against the screen to reveal a message:

‘Thinking of u. Call me. Richard x.’

With a renewed sense of purpose, Peter pockets the phone, picks up his battered satchel and steps out of the car.

Entering the vanilla-scented atmosphere of the kitchen, Peter can hear Jennifer’s loud whispers, occasionally breaking into louder exclamations:

‘God, I hope Pete gets here soon. I can just see him using this weather as an excuse to call it off. I want those two over this feud once and for all. Daddy’s driving me nuts. I’m worried about him.’

He peers around the corner and sees Jennifer squashing the phone between her shoulder and chin as she lifts a tray of hot muffins out of the oven, sliding them onto a wire rack, alongside a round sponge cake.

            ‘Why, Matt, what do you know? Has Pete told you something?’

She opens and closes cupboard doors, finally finding a jar of fine white sugar in the central island.

‘Yes, I know exactly how long it’s been. Twenty years. You don’t need to tell me. I just don’t want him to cancel, or turn up and then leave again with things, well, not resolved. Christ, mummy’s not been gone five minutes and this place is like a disaster zone. I mean, why would anyone want to move all the ingredients around?’

            Peter wonders whether it would be better to leave the kitchen and reenter noisily when Jennifer crawls into the bowels of a large cupboard, returning with a jar of cake decorations.

            ‘I know, I know. Let’s just hope that things take a turn for the better after today. After the prodigal bloody son has returned.’

            Whilst the conversation is unfolding, presumably with their other sibling, Matthew, Peter glances around the large kitchen, absorbing the changes. The 1980s functional units and electric oven have been replaced by rather heavy looking Victorian pieces, probably removed decades earlier in the search for a convenient and practical kitchen, only to be reinstated when the fashion for form over function sent hoards of nostalgic people to the reclamation yards.

            The serving hatch through to the dining room had gone, with a vast pine dresser now claiming the entire wall. Peter takes in the array of cards from well-wishers squashed onto each shelf, reminding him of his own callousness. Of course, he had already begun to see the futility of his exile, but the simple vision of these cards shocks him at the ease with which he has held onto his fathers’ mistakes well beyond their use-by date.

            Finally, slightly red-faced, either from the heat or the realisation that she’s been overheard, Jennifer exclaims:

            ‘Pete. How long… Oh dear. Why didn’t you say? How are you?’

Jennifer drops the phone into her apron pocket and pulls her brother into a rough embrace. He drops a dry kiss on the top of her head before removing her arms and striding to the sink. Peter knows that she will think he’s angry over her harsh words, but he struggles now with the truth of her emotions as well as his own. He removes an upturned glass from the draining board and fills it with water. He takes a few tiny sips, then drops the glass into the bottom of the sink.

            ‘Kids OK, Jen?’

            ‘Yes, Peter, they’re fine.’

            ‘Sorry I couldn’t make James’s 16^th. I did mean to. I even convinced Georgie, too. Something came up, work stuff. I should have let you know.’

            ‘Izzy lets you see him now, does she?’ A hint of a sneer creeps into Jennifer’s voice. ‘To be honest Peter, we didn’t honestly expect you there. It’s not often you keep your promises. To us, anyway.’

            ‘Sorry, Jen. I wish I was a better uncle. And brother.’

            Jennifer releases a guttural snort, loaded with cynicism. ‘Just be gentle on Daddy. He’s taken Mummy’s death pretty hard.’

            Peter nods and looks down at the satchel in his hand, tightening his jaw. Not quite able to look back at Jen, he heads out of the kitchen and towards the closed door of the study.

            Peter finds his father in his courtroom pose, five years beyond his late retirement, striding back and forth along the dark patterned carpet, hands clasped behind his back. Despite the heat of the study the old man is wearing an old tweed sportscoat, threads breaking free around the lapels. The leather elbow patches appear worn, as does the seat of his maroon corduroy trousers. His dark grey hair curls over the back of his checked shirt, unkempt but clean.

            At the whoosh and click of the door being opened and closed, Bob spins on his right heel to face him. He takes a step forward, pauses, then steps back.

            ‘Son. Glad you’re here. I’ve been waiting.’

            ‘Sorry. Delays. Weather. Work stuff. You know.’

            They each look at the other, inspecting around the edges, avoiding eye contact. Peter wants to see the controlling ogre of years ago, to justify his anger and his absence. Instead, he sees a grief-stricken old man.

‘How’s Georgie?

‘He’s fine. Enjoying school. He’s a bright boy. He’s with Izzy this weekend.’

‘You two not patched up your differences then? Jen tells me you work with her brother. Richard, wasn’t it?’

Peter notices his father’s eyes drift to the bag in his left hand and feels surprised at how little has filtered through to him from Jennifer and Matthew. Peter is still unsure what they know from Izzy or Georgie. Or even through insidious gossip.

‘No. It’s … well, it’s complicated. Izzy and I were over years ago.’

‘Of course. Sorry to ask. Send my love.’

‘I will. I wasn’t sure whether or not you were still in touch with her.’

‘No, Peter. I haven’t heard from her for years. Since that night she came round here looking for you. I don’t know why she thought she’d find you here. You know I never believed her accusations. That’s why I thought you might have got back together. Couldn’t forgive her, eh?’

            ‘There was nothing to forgive.’ Peter leans the satchel on the back of a tall leather armchair and pushes the buttons to release the catches. ‘I wanted to show you some pictures. Of the people in my life. Easier than words … explanations.’

            ‘Quite right, Son. Explanations never did me any good. Not with you, anyway. You thought too highly of me to start with. I brought myself too low …’

            ‘At least you faced up to your mistakes. I realise now how hard that must have been.’

            Peter sees his father’s head dip slightly in acknowledgement then he looks greedily to the leather bag, still containing the evidence of his happiness and his shame.

            ‘You’ve got yourself another woman now, eh? Come on, let’s sit. Dry off in front of the fire. You’re still damp.’

            Peter hesitates, deciding whether the possibility of becoming trapped inside the wings of the leather chair is such a good idea. He gives a small nod of acquiescence then takes a seat opposite his father in front of the fighting flames.

            ‘Son, will you allow me to talk about what happened? I want to put things right with you. That’s what I’ve wanted all along. Twenty years is a long punishment. But you came today. For your mother, I know, but you’re here and I’d like to think we can build some bridges.’

            Peter hopes that there is a bridge long enough to cross the divide which he is about to widen.

            ‘Dad, you’re right. Twenty years is a long time. I still struggle with what you did. And what you got away with.’ He stops speaking and bites his lip, shaking his head as he lowers his chin to his chest.

            ‘But what could I have done differently? It was a brief affair.’

            ‘Dad …’

            ‘No, please, let me finish. It was brief and I felt so guilty. Your mother was so trusting, so good. She was at home with two toddlers and a baby, whilst I was drinking, socialising …’ Bob gazes deeply into the fire, the flames making bright dancing patterns on his forehead.

            ‘I wanted to make things right with … Maia.’ Their hooded stares meet for an instant, then Peter looks away. ‘I didn’t know she existed for a long time. And when I found out it was much later. She had a family, she seemed settled. I wish I’d done things differently. Dammit I wish I’d never had the affair!’

                        Peter and his father remain silent until Bob emits a rasping cough behind a cupped hand, the legacy of a thousand cigars. He feels his father’s eyes exploring his face, looking for an opening.

            ‘You’re still practising, I suppose?’

            Peter is taken aback by the question, surprised by his father’s lack of information, or by his ability to act convincingly naïve. He realises that his explanations have become confessions, revelations.

            ‘No, Dad, I’m not. Look, I forgive you. I forgave you years ago. I’m sorry I never told you that. And sorry for so much more besides.’ Peter refastens the satchel, aware of his father staring at the clasps. ‘It was a long drive today and I’m shattered. I think we should leave it there. For now. Let’s have some tea with Jenny. She’ll be climbing the walls by now.’

            Peter follows his father to the kitchen. Jennifer is sitting on a barstool at the island, spectacles balancing on her nose, pen hovering over a newspaper. She looks up, her gaze flicking from her brother to her father and back. She slides from the stool to make tea and slice cake as the two men fall into the patched sofas around the brick inglenook.

            ‘Just a quick cup for me, Jen. Then I’ll be off. Got to get back before the snow really settles.’

            ‘You’re not staying? Are things OK?’

            ‘We’ll see, Sis. It’s early days.’

            ‘Dad?’ Jennifer’s creased brow shouts of her incomprehension at what she had obviously hoped would be a happy reunion. ‘For Heavens’ sake, Pete, why can’t your silly grudge just end? Have you not sulked for long enough?’

            ‘Jennifer, its fine. We talked and that’s fine, for now.’

‘No, Dad, it’s not. Has Mummy’s death not shown you that life doesn’t go on forever? If you can’t get over this now, Pete, you never will.’

‘Look, Jen, I wish it were that simple. I have some things of my own that I want to share with you. Mistakes, secrets.’

Peter pulls in a large breath as awareness dawns that the time has come for some truths. ‘Dad, I refused for years to accept what you did, but now I’m asking you to forgive me. And not just for one mistake. Lots. I’m fine now, Dad. But I’ve hurt people.’

Peter opens the satchel and shuffles various items, trying to decide what to reveal and how.

‘Peter, you’re my Son and I already forgive you. You don’t need to tell me anything that you don’t want to. My love for you isn’t dependent on anything.’

A cool wave of relief is quickly supplanted by guilt.

‘This … stuff. It needs to come out. Secrets destroy lives. That’s what I’ve learnt, Jen.’

Peter removes a bundle of papers and photographs from his bag and places them on his knee. Without looking up he starts to blurt out his series of admissions.

‘First of all, Dad, you should know I’m gay. You mentioned Izzy’s brother, Richard. We’re partners. Lovers. This is him …’ Peter produces a picture of a man with a smooth face, pink cheeks and caramel hair, bearing more than a passing resemblance to Georgie.

Quickly, and without looking up, Peter produces a yellowing newspaper.

‘And my legal career? I was disbarred. Confidentiality, conflict of interest. It’s all in there …’ Peter gestures at the newspaper. ‘I thought I was doing the honourable thing, but Izzy couldn’t bear the shame. Then the affair with Richard. Her own brother. She moved away with Georgie and I didn’t see either of them for years. She broke contact with her family, so nobody knew where they were. Or so they said.’

The three adults talk for hours, whilst the snow creeps up the window and the fires in the study and the inglenook dwindle to no more than glowing embers.

2248 words