Where there's a will, there's a way

BrokenHome

Broken home

We were in Grammy’s spotlessly clean kitchen, the lights were on, the kettle was screaming, the windows were all steamed up, and there was water everywhere. Spilling out from an open tap, and an old lady, my Grammy, was lying lifeless, in a big puddle on the floor.

She’d been dead for quite some time, but I didn’t know that, and I was probably wondering why she wouldn’t play with me. I just sat there, tugging on her ear, shaking her, trying to wake her up.

A good while later, the front door opened, and mom called out to Grammy. "Hi mom, we’re back, everything okay?" No answer and then a shriek from mom, as she spotted me sitting on the floor next to her mother, who was spread-eagled on her back..

We were both soaked to the bone, but Grammy wasn’t feeling a thing, not anymore. Mom was besides herself; she was seeing but not believing, with all sorts of s**t’ running through her head, when she cried out to dad for help

Hearing the distress in her voice, dad’s come flying through the open doorway, slipped on the wet vinyl, and gone arse over t**s, stopping up under the kitchen table. He wasn’t quite taking it all in, and mom was sobbing hysterically, trying to tell him that her mother was dead.

Pandemonium barely averted, dad took control, quickly wrapping a strong, sinewy arm around me, scooped me off the wet floor and gently placed me on a kitchen table before turning his attention back to mom.

He pulled her away from her mother, holding her tightly, talking to her very calmly and soothingly, as only he could. Mom eventually calmed down, stopped struggling and grabbed a hold of me, hugging me fiercely to her breast, while asking herself, over and over again, how, or why she’d gone out, leaving her mom to die alone.

To make matters even worse, Grammy’s death would prove to be a crippling blow to an already troubled young couple, living with mom’s mom. Now that Grammy was gone, there was no way Gramps was going to allow my dad to spend so much as a single minute more in his house, and as much as the old bastard professed to love his daughter (my mom) and me, he issued her with an ultimatum, it was either gonna be his way or the highway.

Mom and I were welcome to stay, but not dad, dad could f**k off and die. The man was a goddamned womaniser, a drunk and a braggart. Anyone could see that, couldn’t they? To add to the fire, mom was pregnant with her second child, so we were all heading for a major disaster, something like a head on steam train collision.

Gramps was big man, arrogant and too proud to admit defeat. He refused to budge and he really, really f**king hated dad, so mom had to make a choice, one that would bite her in the arse for the rest of her life, and one that she’d bitterly live to regret.

Dad was her husband, she loved him, so what was she supposed to do? He had a decent job, so it didn’t take too long for us to find a small family apartment in the city. It was a hell of a long way from the big, comfortable, family home we’d left behind, but hey, a home of our own, and we all pretended that everything was just hunky dory.

The next few years slipped past, a turmoil of frustration and bitter disappointment. Dad was unemployed and mom was telling me, again, what a bastard dad was, but luckily for me, I didn’t really understand. “Why doesn’t he come home to us anymore, where am I supposed to get money to buy food from. I bet he’s with that little b***h, Tiny.”

Mom, who hadn’t reached her twenty third Birthday yet, could easily have passed for thirty, was pregnant, again. Third baby on the way, as if a three-year-old and a one-year-old, weren’t enough to cope with. Dear Jesus, what was she supposed to do? Money was tight, the apartment was too small, and she was stuck with a wayward husband who really didn’t seem to give a s**t about her or her kids.

Dad was a hard core “ducktail.” He was tall, good looking, a bit of a charmer, and a ladies man. He always had his way with the babes. One of the rougher, tougher guys, with their slicked back hair (which is why they were referred to as ‘Ducktails’) their too tight white T-shirts, their too tight blue jeans, and their motorbikes.

To be one of them, meant owning a Norton, or a Triumph motorbike, and when they turned up, there was going to be trouble, especially if there was a rival gang in the vicinity. You’d think dad would be happy enough hanging out with his usual group of brain-dead goons, but no, dad had hooked up with a bunch of seriously bad dudes, punching way above his own weight.

These were no fly by night ducktails, or chicken s**t wanna be’s, these guys were the real deal and in a league of their own. They made a big impression on dad, he wanted to just like them, especially Reggie.

Reggie was a player, or better still, ‘the player’. He was the local snooker-hall shark, he played semi-professional soccer and cricket. He was a man’s man, and being a dead ringer for the actor John Wayne, both in looks and stature, didn’t do him any harm either.

Dad seemed to be in a better mood those days, even took mom dancing and introduced her to his new pals. Mom was also more relaxed, and appeared to be happier, but as it turned out, this was only because she’d developed an unholy crush on Reggie.

Life moved on, and again, things weren’t too good at home, hadn’t been for a while. Dad was drinking more and coming home less. It also seemed like the crew didn’t really want anything to do with him anymore.

I’m sure it was a simple case of stupidity, or maybe thoughtlessness, a moments of madness perhaps, but dad brought Tiny (his ho) to our apartment, only the one time, trying to convince us that she was just a friend. Mom was f**king steaming, and for once in her life, she was at a loss for words.

Mom and me were in the bathroom when Tiny walked in, uninvited. I was sat in the bath, waist deep in water, playing with my duck or whatever, and I looked up at her and said, “get out or I’ll kill you with a brick.” Holy moly, I hadn’t turned five yet! That was according to mom, of course.

When dad was at home, in our much too small, grey, and dingy flat, where nothing seemed to work anymore, and everything seemed to be falling apart, including their very shaky, unstable relationship. They were always swearing or yelling at each other, and or physically assaulting one another.

As a family, we were f**ked, we’d hit the wall with nowhere to go. This was rock bottom, we were all freaked out, hungry and upset. Everything was out of control, f**ked up beyond any repair (FUBAR) and then one morning, Johnny and me were gone, we’d vanished into thin air.

We were both missing, absent without leave, and mom was freaking out. My baby sisters were bawling their heads off, and with no one to calm the situation down, a nosy neighbour called the cops.

“Calm down Mrs Botha.” This was from a polite, most likely racially biased, young white policeman, who looked like he’d just graduated from high school, which could easily have been the case.

“Calm down!,” mom screamed at him, “the f**king bastard took my son, don’t you f**king tell me to calm f**king down.”

“Now, now Mrs Botha, no need for that kind of language, especially not in front of your little girls.”

“You f**king calm down, how f**king dare you come into my home and tell me to f**king calm down after what’s happened.”