✦—✦—✦•
There are bad drivers on the road, angry ones too. But inside a certain red Astra was a grumpy one. Nain was in the back sleeping, behind the driver's seat. Grandpa had argued and won his argument to swap our seats.
"Sleeping passenger? I'd rather drive alone. That's how James Dean died," he had said.
"You know, he died because he was speeding in that tin can!" Nain had retorted.
In the end, Nain only swapped seats because she probably wanted to get some shut-eye, preferably without a grumpy Welshman making grumpy noises.
My most recent way of keeping Grandpa awake involved me talking about the colour of his car. We had dug pretty deep into conversation topics as you can guess. It was fully dark outside, and if not for the occasional car that passed us by, we were blind to all. So, we argued endlessly over what colour his car was.
"Rust Red," I decided.
"Come off it, I'd never drive this if it was rusted or looked like it had rusted," Grandpa scoffed.
"What would you call it then?"
"Cherry Wood," Grandad said, tasting the words and nodding.
"Looks more like burnt wood," I said a bit too quickly.
"You try one without trying to put down my beauty," he mock-leered at me.
I gave it some thought as I saw the insects hitting the windshield. Sometimes it felt like we were driving through a snowstorm. But then the bigger insects would splat against the window, making a harsh sound and leaving a yellow trail. English weather was warming up rapidly, and insects were out to replenish their ilk. Grandpa's Astra had different ideas.
"Blood," I said darkly.
"That's too dreadful, Wilf," Grandad replied. I was looking away, so I didn't see his expression.
"Wine then. Looks like blood, tastes like cherry and burnt wood. Perfect, is it not?" I turned to Clive; his face went into a tired smile.
"That is lovely, that," Grandad said. "Wine Red, Wine Splotch, Apple Wine, Spiced Wine. Come on, pick something so it sounds like a real colour."
We kept up our argument for a solid ten minutes before deciding on maroon. Moonless night had made the brick red color appear more maroon-ish. Yet, neither of us really cared about the accuracy of our final decision. Regardless, we had spent our time without dozing off at the wheel. Grandad pulled into a driveway much like the one we had left; terraced houses seemed to go on for as long as the light could reveal. Unlike the narrow houses of London with their double doors so close to each other, Chester had standards. Standards that allowed just enough distance between houses that you could forget about your neighbor. It wasn't much, but it made a difference.
A light turned on upstairs, and I saw my mum open a window and scream out of excitement. I could only chuckle; I felt the same. By the time we had awoken Nain, we were already going up the stoop. Gladys seemed a bit too out of it and rejected tea and some heated food. Mum had set up a bed for my grandparents, so she helped her up the stairs. Clive accepted the offer of food graciously, as did I — something about driving in the dark and feeling the wind through the tiny gap in the window had made me hungry.
"How was the drive here?" Dad asked conversationally.
"Fine," Grandad said.
I felt that my Grandad didn't really respect my father, or maybe I was just reading too much into how men liked their company — short and quiet.
"Wilf!" Mum pounced on me again, raining down kisses and hugs.
Enduring it for the second time tonight, I hugged her back. The best way to make it go away quickly was to play into it. The moment I felt embarrassed by it, she would do it as much as possible.
"How were your rehearsals? Are you having fun and learning lots? What happened? Did you miss mummy?" Mum kept asking me questions before I had answered her last five.
Once she finally calmed down, I started to answer.
"Rehearsals were great. We finished musicals and most of the blocking. That's when you decide who stands where and how they move on stage. I learned so many things — new bad words as well!" I ignored the gentle slap from Mum, "Do you remember James from the audition? I'm friends with him and this other kid Darien. Oh, he went on a Jaguar — not the animal. The car!"
Turns out I was excited to share what happened with me as well. Dad and Grandad both seemed to be observing me and Mum conversing with smiles on their faces. Almost as entertaining as the telly. The only thing that stopped our insanely emotive back and forth was the sudden smell of lamb, heart, earth, and even the starchy smell of potatoes that had my stomach growling. The familiar smell of my home had been nice but my mother's cooking genuinely provoked physical responses. Smell came from Cawl, Welsh for soup; it was nothing special in terms of ingredients. In fact, it'd be fair to say that every country had their own version of the simple soup with lamb, potatoes, carrots, and turnips. Mum had perfected her cooking — the salt was always just right, and I liked the thin soup that still felt hearty with all the veggies inside it. Being a proper half-Welshman, I also enjoyed lamb to bits.
Mum simply rubbed my arms or my back as I gobbled up the food, telling me of sweet nothings that had happened. Grandad spoke of the most recent church he had gone to and complained about how godless his family was turning out to be. Grandma and I hadn't gone off to Church in London, even when we had days off. As any English and Welsh family would, we bantered just enough that our barbs stung but not harshly enough to really hurt one's feelings.
Clive seemed to love his daughter dearly, and I felt that Mum definitely favoured her dad more than her mum. I imagined a backstory in my mind of Mum being a rebellious teenager and getting fed up with Gladys for her tendency to bring up old events to win arguments or complain about the habits of her daughter. Grandad seemed the type to never care too much about things, so he'd be the cool dad. Then again my imagination seemed to be applying my own feelings about Nain to the dream.
"You're almost dozing off," Mum said beside me.
"I'm up, I'm up," I said, shaking myself.
"No, silly. Let's go to bed." Mum dragged me upstairs.
I wished goodnight to Dad and Grandad, but soon I found myself teleporting into a bed. Dad had tucked in at some point. My memories melded into one another, and soon I was off to sleep. Western kids didn't always get pampered like I did. A smile stayed on my face as I basked in the warmth of my parents' love. Who knew if it could be the last time we showed our affections so openly. Brits had a reputation after all.
—✦—
Next day, I felt the true toll of my rehearsal schedule. The problem was really that there wasn't much to do in London — attend my rehearsals and classes, and that was it. So I spent time practising at home, singing and more. Adding an instrument could solve so many of my problems, but it all came down to money.
Mum sat across from me; we were currently on the Rows. A family outing — for this particular one, we had walked around aimlessly up and down the Dee. Grosvenor park was always a decent spot. From where we sat munching on gelato or refill up on tea for the rest of my family, I could see the Eastgate Clock. It was built on top of a Roman-style gate, wide arches in the gateway had no bars or steel. This was no longer a Roman fortress with legionnaires standing vigil up on walls. Instead, tourists and locals now walked freely to shop at their favorite stores. The top of the gate also functioned as a footbridge that tourists could cross to the other side of the Rows. Useful if you were on higher floors. The clock itself was a kind of gate. A wrought-iron pavilion arched over the footbridge, and atop it stood the Eastgate Clock in all its glory. I'd seen Big Ben — that grand old tower by the Houses of Parliament — and sure, it was fancy enough, dressed up as royally as any king or queen. But the Eastgate had a personality, a quiet charm all its own that Big Ben with all its poshness, could never match. Funny, really — when you travel away from home, everything feels so new and wondrous. Last month I'd been living in London, and now the familiar streets of Chester felt more beautiful than ever. The human heart always seemed to want what it didn't have.
Piano or drum, private lessons in acting, introduction into sports, martial arts, new books, and more. These were the things I wanted. Yet, I had seen the letter. Had it not been for the revelations, would I live a happier life, fully ignorant of how hard my parents worked to give me this life?
"Mum," I said in a whisper.
"Bach?" she replied in the same tone. I leaned a tiny bit closer.
"Have you got my salary from Dolittle?" I asked.
"Yes, I have it all recorded here." She went digging around in her purse — she had a bad habit of keeping it permanently open.
"Passbook — it records all deposits and withdrawals." Mum handed over the blue book.
The glossy baby-blue cover simply read Barclays across the front, book was printed to be read in landscape. I opened the first page to find a picture of an elephant and a little girl, I skipped the decorative page. The next page detailed my very own bank account. In bold, typewritten letters it read Wilfred, PRICE, with the account number printed beside in smaller font. Almost the entire book was empty, as it was a ledger book for a very new account.
The first two entries read:
Interest - N/A - Deposit - £10.00 - Balance - £10.00
Interest - N/A - Deposit - £10.00 - Balance - £20.00
The next three said what I was expecting.
Interest - N/A - Deposit - £167.40 - Balance - £187.40
Interest - N/A - Deposit - £450.00 - Balance - £637.40
Interest - £2.92 - Deposit - £450.00 - Balance - £1,090.31
A strange sense of pride came over me. I had earned that money by my own hard work. Then shame washed over me, and I looked up to see my mum studying my face. She had sacrificed her money and, more importantly, time.
"Mum, we need to talk," I said, grabbing at her hands and leading her away.
We passed by a white and black building from the Tudor era. It looked like the building was designed to hypnotise those who stared at the odd aptterns. Rows of such buildings looked amazing together and the Eastgate Clock seemed to be the crown sitting atop it. Lovely place, this. I briefly thought about my guaranteed salary for my contract — eleven weeks of rehearsals, followed by one to two weeks of previews, and at least three months of continuous performance. My compensation amounted to £10,800. That amount was insane for a child and could make a huge difference for my family. I had this unshakable belief that I would be offered an extension in my contract — unless our show was so bad that it was off stage within weeks. I started to sweat; it was even more important for Mum to accept so that I could look for my next job. We were off by a corner of a jewellery shop housed in a seven-hundred-year-old building. Mum insisted I watch my step. If you've ever been to the Rows, you'd know that there were stairs everywhere, and the front of shops also had this balcony on higher elevation than the walking area. Great for cafés but a nightmare for parents.
Once we were a good distance away from any curious ears, I ran at her.
"I'm sorry, Mum." I hugged her leg, burying my face in her clothes.
"Oh, what now? You've done nothing wrong, bach. Hey…" she said softly.
"—Sorry for being a bad boy, a bad son," I cut her off, tears spilling down my face.
"You're not a bad boy, do you hear me, Wilf?" Mum looked puzzled by my sudden outburst, but I pushed on.
"You're spending so much money on me that you haven't paid our bills. The London house is in your names too," I said, looking up at her and wiping my nose. "I can't deal with it so I'll stop acting. I can't hurt you and Dad just to do what I want. I'm stopping — sorry."
"Hey!" Mum shouted, drawing a few people's eyes, but they saw a crying child and averted their eyes.
"You've done nothing wrong! Listen, Wilfred. Mum will always take care of you. Money's nothing; we should look to the future, okay?"
I rubbed at my eyes, my breath quickened.
"Promise me," I said in between my ugly cries and rapid breathing.
"Aw, hon. Come on, don't cry." She hugged me.
"No!" I pushed her away, succeeding only because she let it. "I want you to start using half of what I make for bills and the rent in London. No ifs, buts or maybes! I need you to, or I will stop acting, terminate the contract with Hammersmith Studio and Mr Baldini! What's the point if Dad's hurting his knee and you're working just as much?!" My voice died out near the end.
Julie had taught me how to cry on command but during my performance, my real emotions had overwhelmed me.
"Hey, I'm telling you, Will. We can take care of you," Mum insisted. "Trust me on that, Will. There is no world that I won't take you to; I'll carry you if I must." Her shoulders sagged suddenly.
She knelt down, coming down to my height and looked into my eyes as if she were staring into my soul.
"Do you like acting?" she asked me.
"Yes…" I said, averting my eyes away from hers.
"Hey," she took my face and turned it to look at her again, "Do you like dancing?"
"Not as mu—" I shrank under her gaze, "Yes."
"What about singing?" She seemed so close that her features were just blurs to me, but her eyes were radiant and as sea-green as my own.
"I love singing," I replied, this time truly meaning it. Songs were always there for me.
"Then you'll pursue your dreams. Can you promise me that, Wilfred?"
I tried to look away; she kept me captured and trapped. Her palms cupping my cheeks. Her eyes still piercing mine.
"Even if Dad's gone or if I'm gone, you'll focus on your dreams. Our money, our hardships… None of it comes in between you and your wish. Do you understand?" she said, with conviction I hadn't seen in her before.
"I—" There was nothing for me to say. I needed to help, I had the means.
"Promise me!" Mum said, her tone almost a shout from how close I was to her face.
Time seemed to slow down, and I felt worse as she kept looking at me. With no escape path open to me nor will strong enough to oppose my mum, I took the coward's path.
"Promise," I muttered.
"Couldn't hear you," Mum said evenly.
"I said, I promise." I spat out.
"Good," she replied, ruffling my hair. "We should get you a haircut — your head's getting too big for you."
I trudged along beside my mother, thinking about how my carefully planned argument — one my grandmother had helped me rehearse — had completely fallen apart. It hadn't just failed; it had backfired so spectacularly that now Mum refused to take any money from my earnings at all. We came back to take our seats, the men were sipping tea and speaking about football. Nain gave me a questioning look when our eyes met. I shook my head at her subtly, she smiled knowingly. Had she betrayed me, or simply known better all along?
The battle was lost; time to move on. The only way left to get what I wanted was to earn more money — maybe even gain access to my account so my grandparents could use it for travel, photos, and the like. Money could be used for my expenses while reducing some burden on my parents. We made our way back home so that I could get some more of my mother's cooking. I skipped a step as a thought struck me. What had once been a luxury dream now felt like a goal: I wanted my very own piano. My parents had chosen to invest in my future — now it was my turn to invest in myself. Body and soul.