A Nice Cup of Tea & a Sit Down

When I was growing up, it wasn’t unusual for children to babysit their siblings, especially on a Saturday night.   I first started babysitting when I was 8-years-old, and my sister at the time, was just 5-years-old. 

Before my parents left for an evening at the pub, they always drilled me on what to do in various situations.   The golden rule was never to answer the front door.   The second rule was that if the telephone rang, I was to tell any caller, even a person known to me, that mummy was out and daddy was in the bath.   I could take a message but nothing more.   Rule number three was, no using the chip pan.   Rule number four was, that if there was an emergency, I should ring the pub and ask to speak to my dad.   “What happens if the person who answers doesn’t know who you are?” I asked my father.   My father replied: “Everyone knows me, and anyone who doesn’t, wants to know me – you just ask for me and don’t worry about anything else.”   Of course, I looked forward to my weekly “chore” as I got to stay up until really late.   As an 8-year-old there is nothing better than boasting to your friends in school how you stay up until gone midnight every Saturday night.

As the years rolled on, I started to become an antsy teenager, and my mother took to drinking far more than was good for two people, let alone one.   At this time, things had progressed T.V. wise and there was actually something known as “The Midnight Movie” on television late on Saturday nights.   My parents invariably arrived home just about half-way through the movie and typically this is what happened:

Dad:       “What you watching then?”

Me:        “The midnight movie.”

Dad:       “I know that, I mean what’s the film called?”

Me:        “The Man Who Knew too Much”

Dad:       “The Man Who Knew too Much?”

Me:        “Yes.”

Dad:       “Funny title for a film isn’t it?”

Me:        “Not really?”

Dad:       “What do you mean, not really?”

Me:        “Not really!”

Dad:       “What are you talking about; how can a man know too much; most men don’t know enough.”

Mum:      “What, like you, you mean?”

Dad:       “I’m not talking to you, I’m talking to him.”

Me:        “Dad, I don’t know why they called it The Man Who Knew Too Much; they obviously thought it was a good title for a  film.”

Dad:       “What’ it about then?”

Me:        “Espionage and kidnapping.”

Dad:       “Well, there’s not a lot of that going on these days; they should put something on more modern.”

Mum:    “You should write a letter to the TV company; when they stop laughing they might just reply.”

Dad:       “I told you, I wasn’t talking to you!”

Dad:       “Why is that guy lying on the ground?”

Me:        “Because he is dead.”

Dad:       “Why’s he dead?”

Me:        “Because he got shot.”

Dad:       “Why’d he get shot?”

Me:        “Because he wouldn’t shut up while the film was on.”

Dad:       “You cocky little sod!  I don’t think you should be watching films like this especially as late as this.”

Mum:    “If he’s a cocky little sod, he must get it from you.”

Dad:       “Don’t start!”

Mum:    “If you were having another drink down the pub, you wouldn’t care what he was watching or how late it was.   In fact, you wouldn’t care if he was alive or dead!”

Dad:       “Don’t you say that, it’s not true!” (Door opens, in walks my sister)

Sister:   “I heard shouting and it woke me up.”

Mum:    “That’s it, now you’ve woken her up with your shouting.

Dad:       “My shouting; me?   You are the one shouting, not me.”

Mum:    “Lies, lies, lies; you just don’t know that you are shouting; I bet  you’ve woken the neighbours up by now.   I am expecting a policeman to come knocking at that door any minute.”

This would go on for what seemed like an eternity, but eventually, it all moved upstairs and eventually, things quieted down once my mother fell asleep.   By now of course, the film was over and I would sigh and think to myself that this was yet another film I never got to see the end of.   Just then, I’d hear the staircase creek.   The living room door would open just wide enough for my father to put his head through.   “What happened in the end?” he asked.   Of course I didn’t know and so I would always make something up – “His wife ripped him off,” I replied.   “I know just how he feels – if there was any justice in the world she would have been the one who got kidnapped,” my father returned.   “What would we do if mum got kidnapped?” I asked.   “We’d move”, he said without hesitation.  He then smiled, looked at me and said: “There’s a brown ale in my coat pocket; why don’t you have it – goodnight son.”

My father never told me that he loved me.   However, at times like this, I know that he did.