If the Wind Changes by Karen Jones
When I heard Mum’s voice on the phone last night it winded me. I thought he must have died, could think of no other reason for her to make contact.
“I’m sorry to bother you, I know you’re awful busy, but your dad’s had a stroke and I think it might be a good idea for you to come …” – she won’t say the word, won’t give me an inch – “…for you to visit him.”
I hadn’t realised I’d missed her. I had to gulp away tears, not just because of the news about Dad, but hearing her voice, softer because she was talking on the phone, but still strong, still Mum.
Growing up, our house held no secrets from the rest of the street, our mother’s voice made sure of that. She was an equal-opportunities yeller; good news and bad ricocheted off the walls before bouncing out the windows – always open for the fresh air, unless there was fear of actual flooding from a storm of horizontal rain – and into the small world outside.
Our father blamed her loudness on her work. All those years shouting over the noise of vacuum cleaners when she and the other women put the local cinema back to pristine condition after each screening. All those school lunches prepared in kitchens where industrial mixers and clattering pot lids tried and failed to stop the workers gossiping as they earned their living. She lost the ability to speak any other way. Her voice – as she threatened would happen to our huffy faces if the wind changed – stayed that way forever.
Ever the quiet man, my father resembled a mime act in her presence, becoming quieter and quieter until his vocabulary shrank to the occasional grunt with all other communication made through points, shrugs, and nods and shakes of his head. If she noticed his disappearing act, she never commented.
My brothers and I grew into quiet children who had learned that competing with Mother was futile. We inherited our father’s low register and quiet nature and so became something of a mystery to our mother. We liked it that way. It was our father who knew what really happened in our lives. Since an accident at work left him disabled, he was the one always at home, always there for us. He passed on our worries, our fears, our moments of happiness to our mother – presumably he chose a time of day when her mouth was full of food – and she passed our lives on to the rest of the street via the open windows.
I couldn’t walk to school without my neighbours commenting on every tiny detail of my life.
“Congratulations on your exam results, Eilidh!”
“Sorry to hear you didn’t get the part in the school play, Eilidh!”
“Hope that rash clears up soon, pet!”
And I hated it. I hated our little house, the narrow street, the village, the neighbouring villages. I hated that everyone knew everything about my life. I hated it all and plotted an escape.
I’d become a famous actress, move to Hollywood. Not getting a part in the school play should have alerted me to the implausibility of this particular dream, but I shoved
negative thoughts out of my mind. I’d become a famous tennis player – even though I’d never so much as held a tennis racquet in my life – and move to Australia. I’d become a famous author – even though English was never my best subject – and live in Paris.
My father pointed out the biggest flaw in my plans. “The people who know you here, who know your life, are people who care about you, who’ll look out for you. If you became some big famous actress, or sports star, or author, the people who’d write about you would write lies to sell their papers. The people who’d pretend to care would only do it for money. I know you hate it now, but one day you’ll see that this place is not so bad.”
I snorted, stomped out of the room, long hair flying behind me like a veil.
“But keep that up and you’ll maybe at least get into the next school play – it’d be a start, eh?”
He knew I’d laugh, but he also knew I wouldn’t do it until I’d shut the bedroom door and he couldn’t hear me. Mum would never have known that about me.
What he didn’t say – what no one talked about – was that as the youngest, the last one left at home, I’d be expected to stay, to help out, to sacrifice my life to their old age. It never needed to be said, it was just how things were supposed to be. My path was clear to them: I’d get a job in a nearby town, live with Mum and Dad and contribute to household expenses until my inevitable marriage when I’d find my own home in the village, still close, still available.
When I announced my intention to not only leave the village, but leave the country and attend university in England, reactions were as expected. Dad was partly
proud, I knew he was, but he couldn’t hide the sadness at losing me to a life he never thought I’d want. It was fine for the others, but not for me, not for his little girl. Mum went quiet. I think it’s the only time I have, or probably will, ever use that sentence regarding my mother. She looked confused, then the anger built and the shouting started.
Yes, I was well aware that since Dad’s accident she was the only one working – it was the only family life I’d ever known. Yes, I knew my brothers and their families were scattered around Britain and that she would be left to do everything, as well as work two jobs. Yes, I bloody well did think it was fair.
“What?”
“Yes. Yes, I think it’s fair. You took vows. You said, ‘In sickness and in health.’ This was your choice – it’s not mine.”
The arrogance of youth – I can see that now. And I can see the thing I’ve never been able to erase from my memory. I see the wounded look in Dad’s eyes. I see him try to shake it away, to smile and support me in my decision, to hide how much he’ll miss me. But he can’t hide the fact that I just called him a burden, just as she has in veiled comments over the years. He’s lost his ally, the one who understood. He’s lost me.
While I was a student I visited home frequently but she always made sure she was out. Every time I called she handed the phone directly to him. Every time I asked him how she was, he said she was fine, clearly having been told that I was no longer privy to her life. My job took me further away, to other countries, and even when my visits home became sporadic, when we could only grow further apart, she made sure not to be there.
A village changes in fifteen years, grows, not quite in step with the cities, but it catches up. The main street has lost most of the shops from my childhood: greengrocer; florist; newsagent; bakery have all been replaced by one shiny new Co-op. Well, it’s new to me, but I know Dad has probably told me about it in his letters. I love that my dad still writes letters and forgave his refusal to buy a computer and correspond via email.
“How can you feel what I’m saying on a computer screen, hen? You need to see my scrawl, to know it’s really me, to smell the ink I use to scratch out our lives.”
Always fancied himself as a writer, my dad, and who knows, maybe he should have given it a go. Maybe now it’s too late.
I smell the salt and vinegar before I turn the corner in to our street. The chippy is still there, the window fogged up with the breath and impatience of the customers. It’s Friday teatime so the queue stretches outside the door and a little way down the street, past the McPherson’s front door. I know they still live there and wonder if Mrs McPherson still throws water over the drunks who nip out from the chippy for a quick pee in her doorway late on Saturday nights. I hope she does. And she’ll know that I’m coming home. The whole street will know, just as they always knew everything. I imagine them peering out from behind their curtains, commenting on the suitcase I drag behind me, speculating on how much it holds, how long I plan to stay.
Mum and Dad have changed the front door since I was last here. It’s the first thing everyone does when they buy their council house, thinking it makes it truly theirs, this tiny act of non-conformity. I use the glimmering gold coloured knocker – she hasn’t let her standards slip - three short raps on the fake oak. She opens and my shock at seeing her as she is now is difficult to conceal. That’s the trouble with hearing a voice on the phone; it doesn’t prepare you for the way the person’s body has aged. She’s tiny. My big-boned, big-haired, ruddy-faced mum is tiny. The only thing I can do, the only thing that seems right, is hug her. I expect her to push me away but she doesn’t. She doesn’t go as far as to hug me back, but she leans into me for support. I feel her body quake as the tears start, but she controls them, controls herself, pulls away and tries to smile.
“There’ll be time for that later. He’s lost his speech and his right hand is weak, so he struggles to write, to tell me what he needs. Deep breath now, Eilidh. Deep breath, hen.”
And I breathe - the smell of the mince she cooked for tea, the shampoo she used this morning and the hospital smell that never quite leaves even when the patient is home. I go into the living room where she has him settled as comfortably as she can and I know it’ll be a long time before I leave home again.
______________________________
Karen Jones is from Glasgow. Her stories have appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies. She is addicted to short story competitions and has been successful in the Asham Award, Mslexia, Flash 500, Spilling Ink, The New Writer, Writers Forum and Words With Jam. Zumba and yoga keep her sane-ish.
When I heard Mum’s voice on the phone last night it winded me. I thought he must have died, could think of no other reason for her to make contact.
“I’m sorry to bother you, I know you’re awful busy, but your dad’s had a stroke and I think it might be a good idea for you to come …” – she won’t say the word, won’t give me an inch – “…for you to visit him.”
I hadn’t realised I’d missed her. I had to gulp away tears, not just because of the news about Dad, but hearing her voice, softer because she was talking on the phone, but still strong, still Mum.
Growing up, our house held no secrets from the rest of the street, our mother’s voice made sure of that. She was an equal-opportunities yeller; good news and bad ricocheted off the walls before bouncing out the windows – always open for the fresh air, unless there was fear of actual flooding from a storm of horizontal rain – and into the small world outside.
Our father blamed her loudness on her work. All those years shouting over the noise of vacuum cleaners when she and the other women put the local cinema back to pristine condition after each screening. All those school lunches prepared in kitchens where industrial mixers and clattering pot lids tried and failed to stop the workers gossiping as they earned their living. She lost the ability to speak any other way. Her voice – as she threatened would happen to our huffy faces if the wind changed – stayed that way forever.
Ever the quiet man, my father resembled a mime act in her presence, becoming quieter and quieter until his vocabulary shrank to the occasional grunt with all other communication made through points, shrugs, and nods and shakes of his head. If she noticed his disappearing act, she never commented.
My brothers and I grew into quiet children who had learned that competing with Mother was futile. We inherited our father’s low register and quiet nature and so became something of a mystery to our mother. We liked it that way. It was our father who knew what really happened in our lives. Since an accident at work left him disabled, he was the one always at home, always there for us. He passed on our worries, our fears, our moments of happiness to our mother – presumably he chose a time of day when her mouth was full of food – and she passed our lives on to the rest of the street via the open windows.
I couldn’t walk to school without my neighbours commenting on every tiny detail of my life.
“Congratulations on your exam results, Eilidh!”
“Sorry to hear you didn’t get the part in the school play, Eilidh!”
“Hope that rash clears up soon, pet!”
And I hated it. I hated our little house, the narrow street, the village, the neighbouring villages. I hated that everyone knew everything about my life. I hated it all and plotted an escape.
I’d become a famous actress, move to Hollywood. Not getting a part in the school play should have alerted me to the implausibility of this particular dream, but I shoved
negative thoughts out of my mind. I’d become a famous tennis player – even though I’d never so much as held a tennis racquet in my life – and move to Australia. I’d become a famous author – even though English was never my best subject – and live in Paris.
My father pointed out the biggest flaw in my plans. “The people who know you here, who know your life, are people who care about you, who’ll look out for you. If you became some big famous actress, or sports star, or author, the people who’d write about you would write lies to sell their papers. The people who’d pretend to care would only do it for money. I know you hate it now, but one day you’ll see that this place is not so bad.”
I snorted, stomped out of the room, long hair flying behind me like a veil.
“But keep that up and you’ll maybe at least get into the next school play – it’d be a start, eh?”
He knew I’d laugh, but he also knew I wouldn’t do it until I’d shut the bedroom door and he couldn’t hear me. Mum would never have known that about me.
What he didn’t say – what no one talked about – was that as the youngest, the last one left at home, I’d be expected to stay, to help out, to sacrifice my life to their old age. It never needed to be said, it was just how things were supposed to be. My path was clear to them: I’d get a job in a nearby town, live with Mum and Dad and contribute to household expenses until my inevitable marriage when I’d find my own home in the village, still close, still available.
When I announced my intention to not only leave the village, but leave the country and attend university in England, reactions were as expected. Dad was partly
proud, I knew he was, but he couldn’t hide the sadness at losing me to a life he never thought I’d want. It was fine for the others, but not for me, not for his little girl. Mum went quiet. I think it’s the only time I have, or probably will, ever use that sentence regarding my mother. She looked confused, then the anger built and the shouting started.
Yes, I was well aware that since Dad’s accident she was the only one working – it was the only family life I’d ever known. Yes, I knew my brothers and their families were scattered around Britain and that she would be left to do everything, as well as work two jobs. Yes, I bloody well did think it was fair.
“What?”
“Yes. Yes, I think it’s fair. You took vows. You said, ‘In sickness and in health.’ This was your choice – it’s not mine.”
The arrogance of youth – I can see that now. And I can see the thing I’ve never been able to erase from my memory. I see the wounded look in Dad’s eyes. I see him try to shake it away, to smile and support me in my decision, to hide how much he’ll miss me. But he can’t hide the fact that I just called him a burden, just as she has in veiled comments over the years. He’s lost his ally, the one who understood. He’s lost me.
While I was a student I visited home frequently but she always made sure she was out. Every time I called she handed the phone directly to him. Every time I asked him how she was, he said she was fine, clearly having been told that I was no longer privy to her life. My job took me further away, to other countries, and even when my visits home became sporadic, when we could only grow further apart, she made sure not to be there.
A village changes in fifteen years, grows, not quite in step with the cities, but it catches up. The main street has lost most of the shops from my childhood: greengrocer; florist; newsagent; bakery have all been replaced by one shiny new Co-op. Well, it’s new to me, but I know Dad has probably told me about it in his letters. I love that my dad still writes letters and forgave his refusal to buy a computer and correspond via email.
“How can you feel what I’m saying on a computer screen, hen? You need to see my scrawl, to know it’s really me, to smell the ink I use to scratch out our lives.”
Always fancied himself as a writer, my dad, and who knows, maybe he should have given it a go. Maybe now it’s too late.
I smell the salt and vinegar before I turn the corner in to our street. The chippy is still there, the window fogged up with the breath and impatience of the customers. It’s Friday teatime so the queue stretches outside the door and a little way down the street, past the McPherson’s front door. I know they still live there and wonder if Mrs McPherson still throws water over the drunks who nip out from the chippy for a quick pee in her doorway late on Saturday nights. I hope she does. And she’ll know that I’m coming home. The whole street will know, just as they always knew everything. I imagine them peering out from behind their curtains, commenting on the suitcase I drag behind me, speculating on how much it holds, how long I plan to stay.
Mum and Dad have changed the front door since I was last here. It’s the first thing everyone does when they buy their council house, thinking it makes it truly theirs, this tiny act of non-conformity. I use the glimmering gold coloured knocker – she hasn’t let her standards slip - three short raps on the fake oak. She opens and my shock at seeing her as she is now is difficult to conceal. That’s the trouble with hearing a voice on the phone; it doesn’t prepare you for the way the person’s body has aged. She’s tiny. My big-boned, big-haired, ruddy-faced mum is tiny. The only thing I can do, the only thing that seems right, is hug her. I expect her to push me away but she doesn’t. She doesn’t go as far as to hug me back, but she leans into me for support. I feel her body quake as the tears start, but she controls them, controls herself, pulls away and tries to smile.
“There’ll be time for that later. He’s lost his speech and his right hand is weak, so he struggles to write, to tell me what he needs. Deep breath now, Eilidh. Deep breath, hen.”
And I breathe - the smell of the mince she cooked for tea, the shampoo she used this morning and the hospital smell that never quite leaves even when the patient is home. I go into the living room where she has him settled as comfortably as she can and I know it’ll be a long time before I leave home again.
______________________________
Karen Jones is from Glasgow. Her stories have appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies. She is addicted to short story competitions and has been successful in the Asham Award, Mslexia, Flash 500, Spilling Ink, The New Writer, Writers Forum and Words With Jam. Zumba and yoga keep her sane-ish.
