Having answered all her questions to thebest of my ability, she ends with one final question: ‘does Thomas know thatyou and I had a connection after his accident in 1998?’ I explain that no, wehadn’t discussed that, and also that we met in a professional capacity. I amnot at liberty to discuss who I am treating at work; it goes against myprofessional code of conduct. She seems satisfied with my response.
Bythe time I have finished answering all the questions and successfully navigatedus to our destination, we find ourselves ambling up the long driveway towardsthe entrance of Bert Taylor’s croft. I scan the grounds but can see no sign ofmy BMW 5-Series.
CHAPTER 28
T
he black veil of foreboding descends as I near mydestination. The all too familiar bleak hopeless sense of dread consumes me asI close in. Some of my passionate resolve to confront him wanes as I fight tokeep the demons at bay. Instead of the intended grandiose entrance full ofbluster and noise, I find myself gently idling the car up the driveway andcutting the engine, happy to sit in the car a minute or two just gathering mythoughts.
This is not lost on my companions. “Areyou OK, Thomas?”
“Yes thanks, just taking a little timeout.”
James again; “Well, if you turn around,that’s OK, but if you choose to go in, remember, we have got your back.”
“I know that, thanks everyone.”
I had to go in. I had to do this. Evenwithout the latest revelation that George was my father, this visit was longoverdue. It is highly likely (given his character) that anything I have to sayto him will fall on deaf ears, but it needs to be said. How could I ever fullyheal and move on in my life without confronting him?
Just taking those few precious moments tocollect myself has the desired effect. I find the much-needed strength tocontinue on. Unwilling to allow another negative thought to penetrate my brainand stop me in my tracks, I launch myself out of the car and march purposefullytowards the front door.
A few loud thuds on the metal knocker isall the warning I give him before I pull the unlocked door towards me and landwith both feet on the threshold. “Bert! BERT!” I holler and wait a couple ofseconds. With no response, I advance further into the croft.
He has changed nothing. The place feels asthough it has been frozen in time. I cast my eyes over the coats hanging in thehallway and notice an old coat of mother’s still hanging there. Alsoimmediately obvious is the stench of the place. It is filthy. This, however, isnew and takes some adjusting to! It smells dank and mouldy and rotten. It wasnever sparkling when I lived here but nothing like this. As I pulled up to thecroft, the grounds had a dilapidated, unkempt feel to them. But, on enteringthe croft itself, the sense of decay and neglect are visible everywhere.
The hallway leads directly to the kitchenand the aroma is nothing short of pungent. Rotting food and leftovers litterall the countertops. There are indeterminable spillages down every kitchen unitI cast my eyes over. Plates and crockery are piled high close to the sink insuch a haphazard fashion, it seems unfathomable that they have maintained theirprecarious balance. How could anyone live like this? The cows in the barn arebetter accommodated! No doubt he is only concerned about where his next drinkis coming from. ‘Keeping house’ would be of no interest to Bert. That leads meto the logical conclusion of his whereabouts …
I approach the door to the dining room andgive it a good shove. There he is. There he is in all his glory, slumped in thesame (now threadbare) chair I remember him sitting in. There is a bottle ofScotch at his side, three-quarters of its contents sunk. Scanning around, thereare empty bottles of liquor discarded here, there, and everywhere. He appearsto be blissfully unaware of my presence in the room. The alcohol has clearlynumbed his senses. Well, let’s see what we can do about that!
Looking at this pathetic excuse of a manwallowing in self-pity, it strengthens my resolve and this time I do my utmostto ensure he hears me. “Bert! BERT!!” Nothing. “Wake up, man!” Still nothing,he doesn’t even stir. I venture further into the room and come to a standstillin front of his chair.
Unlike mother, Bert has aged,significantly, clearly a result of his unorthodox lifestyle. His face isweather-beaten and lined with deep furrows. His hair has changed colour and hasthinned out drastically. Only a few patches of lank, greasy grey hair cling tohis scalp. It appears as though he has tried to fashion this into somethingresembling some sort of a style, but he has failed miserably. His clothes areshabby, torn, and desperately in need of a good wash but by the look of them,they could fall apart going through a wash cycle. And his cheeks and nose areruby red, tell-tale signs of an alcoholic.
There is a nasty aroma emanating from himand there is no mistaking it – stale urine. From the look and smell of him, heis drinking himself into a stupor and not bothering with any toilet breaks.Disgusting! None of this is lost on my companions. I can hear their chitterchatter as they take it all in. “Oh, the smell!”, “This place is vile”, “Howcan he live like this?” Indeed, indeed!
This wasn’t how I expected things to playout. How can I possibly get any closure when I can’t even get a conversationout of him? I try again, bellowing his name but nothing, only the sound of myvoice echoing around the room. With no other option available, I lean forwardsand grasp both of his shoulders in my hands and give them a good shake. Theaction doesn’t wake him up. Instead, his body arches off to the left at an impossiblylooking uncomfortable angle and his head lolls backwards with no
