Bless me Father

Chapter 3

36 Chapter 3 One day, we were while holidaying at Munster on the South Coast, my father bought chocolates for my children, Paul, Gianni and Gabriella. He held the sweets out in his hands and invited the children to choose. They rushed to him. Paul, being the eldest, was there first and grabbed the biggest chocolate of the three. My father cuffed him on the ear, took the chocolate back and handed it to Gabriella. He gave Gianni one, and put the last one back in his pocket, denying Paul, who fled the scene in tears. I took my father aside and quietly berated him about the incident. He gave me the argument that the youngest, especially a girl, should have first choice. I was in no mood to argue, and for the sake of peace, let the matter be. But it hurt. It really, really hurt. A quiet anger rose inside me as I recalled all the violence I had experienced at my father’s hands during my childhood. I took Paul aside and consoled him. I used the excuse that grandpa had been brought up like this. Violence was the only language he understood. I told Paul about the tough life his grandpa had lived and fell back on the disclaimer that it was too late to change old, deep-rooted habits. Paul wasn’t stupid. He was ten years old. He broke away from me, crying and swearing: ‘I hate fucking grandpa. He’s not my grandpa!’ All I could do was sigh and hope that Paul would forget and forgive. He never did. He has never forgotten this incident. Nor has he forgiven his grandfather. Over the years Paul has felt a fascination and even a form of admiration for the man. But forgive? or forget? Never. 37 I can never forget my childhood. But I do forgive. I think it is simply my nature to do so. Many of my friends and relatives think I’m crazy. Especially Paul. I have taken pains over the years to explain to Paul, and my other children, that bitterness only serves to make us bitter. If we hold onto it we achieve no more than slowly killing ourselves. Many years after the chocolate incident, when Paul and I started to work together, I felt the time had come for me to confide in him about my past. After all, we were now in an adult relationship, and we were business partners. We sometimes reversed roles and I would ask advice from him – as if I were his son. He often joked that he should be charging me psychologist’s consultation fees. When I told him about my experiences at the hands of his grandpa, and especially my relationship with Father Orsmond, he said, ‘Jeez dad, I would have killed the fuckers … can understand grandpa, just a bit, but not the other shit. No way.’ Carla had said, so often, to me, ‘Break the chain…break the chain.’ No matter how the children infuriated me from time to time, I controlled my temper and especially that thoughtless, inherent urge to lash out; to give them ‘the hiding of their life’. Only once did I lash out at Paul – with a soft, controlled kick to his buttocks. I felt incredible guilt and remorse for a long time afterwards. He still jokes that it was the biggest ‘no hiding’ he ever received from me. The power of father figures slowly and subtly became apparent to me in later years – I started to notice a rather strange, if not weird, phenomenon. At first it bothered me, and reminded me of a form of schizophrenia, the thought of which had haunted me in my youth. I became intrigued by this and would actually – with a strange sense of detachment – observe and study my behaviour. The phenomenon is this: When I found myself in an intellectual, cultural or social debate, I would take on the mannerisms of Father Orsmond. Just like Father Orsmond, I would hold my 38 cigarette between my fingers and without gesticulating, rest the elbow of my left arm (the one holding the cigarette) in the palm of my right arm … and listen to the debate pensively and thoughtfully before offering my opinions. I would use the phrase ‘always take the consequences of your actions …’ if it was called for. Even today, at times I can hear his voice...