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The World of H. A. Ferdinand

~ The things that go on.

The World of H. A. Ferdinand

Tag Archives: Peony

Conversation on a landing #1

01 Wednesday Oct 2014

Posted by H A Ferdinand in Uncategorized

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Anglo-Saxon John, Peony

I broke a house rule and entered Peony’s bedroom without her permission. This strict prohibition had been put in place by Peony’s father some fifteen years ago and, like many of his pointless edicts, still hovers around in the ether of the place. I’ve no idea why we stick to it.

“You won’t need a cardigan… Oh!…. who?”

Peony’s bedroom, formerly white and plain and a bit too Shaker for my taste, was now a child’s playroom, pale blue with orange rugs and cushions, animal prints and a cot bed shoved beside her own. Sitting on top of it was a child. His legs were crossed, his expression suspicious.

The child looked up at Peony for some kind of explanation.

But it was my turn first.

“Peony!”

“Jawohl?” she saluted, very much enjoying my consternation.

“On to the landing for a moment, if you would.”

And once there I hissed: “Who does he belong to?”

“Belong to?” she spluttered, horrified. “Mum, he’s a human being, not a pet or a toy. Human beings can’t belong to anyone else.”

“Peony, he’s a small child. Small children must always belong to someone else.”

She brightened at once at the news.

“Oh in that case, he belongs to me.”

I could feel something inside give way, like my skeleton was not enough to hold me up any more. I needed something stronger, a perpetual winch, a winch of morale.

“Peony,” I pleaded. “I had no idea. How could you have had a baby and hidden it from me? It must have been so lonely for you, such a desperate time. Why didn’t you talk to me about it?”

And you could see her working through my words mechanically and arriving belatedly at the end of the sentence and promptly finding the whole thing hilarious.

“Oh Ma! Don’t be mad. He’s not mine in that way.”

“Then whose is he?”

“Well he’s Justine’s, of course. I would have thought that was obvious.”

“How on earth would I have come to that conclusion?”

“He’s got a name, you know,” she told me, as though she were the sensible, mature one, keeping an eye on correct procedure.

“And what is it?” I asked, unsure if getting that familiar was advisable.

“His name is John.”

“Oh don’t be ridiculous. No child is called John any more. It quite simply doesn’t suit a child and especially one as beautiful as this. At least tell me it’s a Jon without an aitch.”

“No it’s a proper Anglo-Saxon John. We thought it would be funny. Like having a dog called Ken, I suppose. It’s so comically wrong.”

“I don’t believe I’m hearing this. I didn’t even know she had a child.”

“Oh yes,” she replied earnestly. “She’s had him four years.”

“Yes, ever since he was born. I get how it works.”

“His dad is a famous American actor.”

Again: “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“He is! It’s absolutely true. Justine used to go out with him. Really well-known. I just can’t remember his name at the moment. You know the one.”

“No I don’t and anyway what does it matter? This is a child. A human. Not a plaything.”

And this is where, not for the first time, my daughter managed to disarm me by turning her callow exterior around, like those spinning blocks with a character on every surface, and presenting me with her compassionate, heroic side.

“Justine can’t look after him, Mum. She never could. She made a huge mistake and she’s too dependent on drugs and alcohol to cope with the world. I’ve always known that and I should never have supported her but she’s my mate and we’ve always been there for each other. Whether you like it or not, this child needs love and stability and a home. He needs a normal life, not the shocking hand-to-mouth existence he’s known so far. And she doesn’t want her really judgmental parents getting involved. And that’s why she’s arranged for me to have joint legal guardianship over him. The papers are going through now. We’ve had meetings with Social Services and guess what? I passed with flying colours. Cool.”

I opened my lips to speak but I couldn’t trust myself not to cry. Peony waited for me to get my mouth to work.

“Anyway, he’ll be school-age soon so we can pack him off there every day, bless him.”

I rubbed my temples, pushed them together to hurt myself into thinking straight. But I just felt overwhelmingly sorry for myself.

“Come on,” she said and stepped back to the threshold of her room. “Let’s take him for a walk with Ken. He likes Ken.”

“Peony, wait!” (My voice sounded puny.) “How long will we have him?”

She hovered and turned back to me, then shrugged.

“It’s fun choosing universities, don’t you think?” she said.

 

 

 

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I’ll tell you what the fuss is all about.

05 Friday Sep 2014

Posted by H A Ferdinand in Uncategorized

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Peony

The bastard slipped his lead.

He saw something in the distance and sprang into the air like a salmon, somehow unhooked his head from his collar (which I was told was impossible, incidentally) and made off at startling speed towards what looked (to him and, I’ll admit, to me) like a rabbit.

It was only that Yorkshire Terrier and now I have to pay for its ear to be sewn back on and have completely skewered my chances with that attractive man, who is not quite so attractive when sobbing over a limp, small dog.

You're not supposed to let him off the lead.

You’re not supposed to let him off the lead.

 

*

“You’re not supposed to let him off the lead,” Peony remarked when I got back.

“You look as a white as a sheet, dear,” contributed Mother.

They were watching one of those infomercials about hair removal that fill the gap before the movies start on Film Four.

“I don’t remember wanting this stupid bloody hound,” I complained to their vacant faces. “And yet here I am walking it several times a day and nobody, not one of you, takes a turn. You wanted him, you walk him.”

Ken Tray had his muzzle in Peony’s crotch by now and Mother was leaning over from her armchair and petting him like he was her son.

Speaking of which. “Where’s Charlton?” I demanded. “He can do the afternoon walk.”

My daughter kept her eyes on the screen. “He’s at the 24-hour bowling marathon, remember. Mum, you just need a bit of common sense with a greyhound. They’ve been bred to chase. He can’t help himself.”

“I would offer, you know that,” whimpers Mother. “But what about my condition? What if I collapsed in the middle of the park and there was no one there to help me? We can’t take that risk.”

And of course, there’s nothing I’m allowed to say to that, though what I want to say is: “Oh shut up with your threats of collapsing. I’ve never seen you collapse in your entire sedentary life. You’ve never even collapsed into tears. One day I’m going to go to the hospital and ask if they got your tests mixed up and gave you the results of someone who was actually ill.”

“I’ll cut his bloody legs off,” I muttered as I left them to it.

*

Connie arrived an hour later. When I opened the door to her she was standing beside a huge cardboard box.

“I’ve got that thing for Peony she wanted,” said my friend.

“What thing?” I asked as she shoved it over the threshold.

“It’s a flat pack so don’t be fooled by this compact box.”

“This box is not compact,” I said as I moved aside to let her kick it violently along.

“Charlton home?” she asked, looking up a moment from her labour.

I didn’t answer her (that’s my policy from hereon – simply ignoring her enquiries) but called Peony instead.

“Oh soo-perb,” she exclaimed. “Thanks so much, Con. Do you mind kicking it all the way upstairs?”

“I’m not going to ask,” I told my daughter.

And so she wasn’t inclined to answer. I made a point of not helping them, stung by the insensitivity of my oldest friend and my only child. Seeking permission first to bring things into my house would be a pleasant novelty.

So I had no choice but to rummage about Mother’s terrifying brain for a clue as to what was going on.

I sat down beside her in the armchair only just vacated by Peony.

“She talk to you much, does she? About things?”

Mother frowned.

“I know about Gilbert, if that’s what you mean.” Was her reply.

I know nothing about Gilbert but I muttered: “Yes, him. Honestly.”

“But I don’t care to ask much,” she sighs and finally she deigns to look away from the telly and straight at me. “When you and your brother were still at home, you both always came to me with all your problems. You were the mewling sort, dear. Always complaining about your lot. I barely had time for your poor brother. Maybe that’s why he’s so lost and rudderless now. But that girl of yours is far more independent. She just comes and goes as she wishes and is always full of such good ideas to help the world along. You don’t get many like her to the pound.”

And though she got that bit about me being mewling totally wrong, I had to admit that there was something rather unique and special about my girl. She has a big heart, that child, and always wants the people around her to be just as carefree. You can’t put her down.

And so I felt a bit mean and small and even contrite as I hovered beside her closed bedroom door later that afternoon and winced at the hammering and swearing coming from the other side.

When she eventually emerged from her bedroom, I pretended I had just been passing with a pile of laundry for the linen cupboard.

“Everything alright?” I asked airily.

“What’s an Allen key?” she grumbled.

I shrugged. “Can I help with anything?”

And there was that smile, that beautiful emerging ray or sunlight. I always lose the power of speech in its captivating warmth.

But I owed it to my dear, good girl to push a little further, to help ease her out from under whatever burden she must be bearing.

“Is it… is it trouble with Gilbert?” I stuttered.

“Eh?”

“Gilbert giving you grief?”

“What are you mewling on about, Mum?” she snapped. “Who the hell is Gilbert? Now be a good girl and find me an Allen key, would you?”

And she returned to her bedroom and to the hammering and I darted downstairs to locate her father’s old tool box.

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