3 MAX 1979
With a pencil spinning between finger and thumb, Max flicked through pages of a semi-autobiographical library book for a university essay discussing the impact of childhood neglect on adults. The Author was a teacher who worked with severely disturbed children. It was a sentimental read but provided relevant case studies to add to his own experience. He had reached the fourth case study, about a girl left abandoned in Manchester. A surge of heat flooded his body and his hands shook so badly he had to stop everything. Another attack. Still gripping the pencil and breathing heavily, he slammed the book shut.
Around him, the heads of other students were stooped in study. Beyond their desks Max could see a notice board plastered with posters advertising student parties, fundraisers, and sporting events. Gasping, he tried to focus on it, attempting to slow his breathing and relax his muscles. The pencil snapped, and two jagged pieces skidded to the floor, and he grasped the edge of the desk to push himself upright.
The notice board loomed before him and one bright poster caught his attention. In large lettering he discerned a name he recognised: The Manchester Opera House presents Songs from the Musicals Starring Claudine Owen and Dirk Rogers.
This local performance would be the first time Claudine had been physically close since she had dumped him at his father’s house. Claudine’s malevolent presence emanated from the poster, and Max made a decision.
~~~
At the box office window, Max met with disappointment. ‘I’m sorry, we’re sold out,’ announced a gum chewing youth, looking anything but regretful.
‘Not even one seat?’
‘’fraid not.’
Max swung from the ticket window and exited through the heavy double doors. Outside, he paced up and down, watching his feet crossing and recrossing the pavement. Half of him wanted to leave; fear and its comrade adrenalin encouraging him to run for it. But his intellect, his analytical, psychology-student brain, recognised the benefit to him of confronting his demons.
Just before the show started, Max pushed between perfumed shoulders to give the ticket office one last try. But no accidents or sickness had acted in his favour so he dropped into a seat in the busy bar, scheming to get backstage after the show and confront his mother.
Around him, people were knocking back the last of their drinks and checking their tickets for the correct door into the auditorium. He loathed them for their adoration and high spirits and turned his eyes towards the doors and people still turning up.
A man he recognised for some reason passed close by, and Max stared at his balding head, bobbing in the well-dressed crowd. As if he sensed the intensity of Max’s stare, the man turned his head and glanced without recognition at Max, and then Max remembered who he was.
‘What the…?’ The fellow scrabbled at Max’s fingers, trying to free himself from Max’s grip on his arm. ‘What are you doing for Christ’s sake?’
‘I’m Max, Claudine Owen’s son.’
Reg, that was his name, the dolt who trotted like a puppy after Claudine at the Waldorf.
‘Let me go,’ Reg muttered, ‘Whatever you want, I can’t help you.’
Max shoved his lips close to Reg’s ear and hissed, ‘I’m here to see my mother after thirteen years. Not much to ask, is it?’
Reg recoiled and wiped spittle from his cheek, and at the same time, a bell rang, and the remaining drinkers began to move towards the auditorium. Women in satin and men with white shirts and sedate ties cast inquisitive glances at the free drama being enacted before them.
Reg whined again, ‘Let go or I’ll cause a scene,’ but Max clung on.
‘Go ahead. I’m sure the press would love to hear about the poor, abandoned son of the great Claudine Owen.’
Reg slumped his shoulders. ‘OK, OK. Come to the stage door after the performance and I’ll make sure they let you in.’
‘No thanks.’ Max murmured, ‘I’m coming in now. No doubt you have a concessionary seat for me at the front.’
~~~
‘Tell him to go away.’ Claudine’s whimper reached Max through the closed dressing room door, and he experienced the familiar hollowness of rejection. He turned away, his soles squeaking on the linoleum floor.
The dressing room door opened and closed behind him and Reg shouted, ‘Max. Wait.’
Ignoring him, Max pushed open a door onto an alleyway.
‘If you leave now, she’ll never see you again.’ Reg called.
‘If I leave now, I won’t care. I’ll forget her and move on,’ Max called back without turning, and began to march down the passageway towards the main street
Behind him he could hear Reg following, his footsteps growing nearer. The pair dodged between bodies, both oblivious to the irony of their reversed roles. Close now, Reg gabbled, ‘I want you to know how bad I feel about her treatment of you. I should have left her then. She’s an amazing woman, but completely without a heart. She mistreats me too, believe it or not.’ He clutched at the shoulder of Max’s jacket, but Max wrenched himself away and picked up speed.
Reg panted, ‘I can take her unkindness, but you…’ He tailed off, out of breath. Then in an upbeat tone, he panted, ‘Come on, son. You need answers so you can move on, and I want you to have them so I can.’
The fight left Max and he stopped so that Reg almost ran into him. Turning around, he glared at the little man and shouted, ‘Leave. Me. Alone.’
In the lamp-lit street, Reg made a sad and vulnerable sight. Anyone would think he was the one suffering, not Max. Bloody man.
‘I think I’ve stayed with your mother as penance
