My parents went to great lengths to hide our heritage from my brother and me during our early years. The lie was perpetuated amongst their friends too. My grandfather was the only one I knew who was openly proud of his heritage. He spoke Lithuanian fluently and would not hesitate to tell people about his background, his life and loves at any opportunity. The older family members generally did not hide their background, but they wouldn’t boast of it either. It was my grandfather who was seen to be the main problem.
There were occasions when my mother’s, or her sister’s, friends would visit when we were staying at Rostrevor. These must have been harrowing times for them, as they ran the risk of their friends actually meeting my grandfather. It was a true concern to them, and could not be allowed to happen at any cost. These experiences presented a logistical nightmare for them. Despite his many years living in an English speaking country, my grandfather retained a strong accent throughout his life. His speech had certainly been tempered by the Scottish influence, but his English vocabulary was lacking and the European grammar that is distinctively different from English was sometimes evident in his speech. He also had some of his own linguistic shortcuts that might have indicted to a stranger that all was not as it seemed. He was a grumpy individual throughout his life, and would bark orders without hesitation. For example, he used to sit and watch TV in the draughty kitchen in the Rostrevor house each evening when he made himself an evening snack. The kitchen was a walk through affair with a door at each end; one leading to the laundry and outside, and the other to the hallway and the rest of the house. The kitchen was one of the main centres of the house, and you had to walk through it to get most anywhere else, and he got so annoyed if you left one of the doors open on the way through. He’d snap, “Shit-a-door. Shit-a-door.” (Shut the door. Shut the door). Another of his little catch phrases was, “No-needy” if ever you were doing or about to do something he thought was unrequired. (This meant that the thing was not needed.) My mother and June surmised that anyone encountering him would notice these odd speech peculiarities, put two and two together, and come up with Lithuania. This, of course, would have been a dreadfully shameful thing.
The general approach to encounters with strangers took two forms. The simplest was to arrange short visits for their friends at times when he was out or otherwise engaged so that he could be excluded from the guests’ presence. He might have planned a shopping trip to the city or had some activity planned that took all his attention for a few hours. It was these times that were best for such visits. If meeting him could not be avoided, a brief introduction would be made with only enough time for “hellos” to be exchanged, and either he or the guests would be quickly ushered into some other room. My grandmother sometimes assisted on these occasions by being ready to call him away on some pretext. He generally didn’t like his routine disrupted and would happily retire to his bedroom and watch TV whilst the guests would be entertained in the lounge with the door closed discretely behind them.
These visits were manageable because the environment was controllable, but they would have been stressful. The occasional toilet visit may have led to a meeting in the passageway, and they may have stopped and spoken to each other. Or, he may have come into the kitchen for something to eat when supper was being served for their guests. Either event would have sent my mother and June into a spin. He may have spoken to their guests, introduced himself, and tried to socialise with them. Shock. Horror. Let the earth open and swallow us all.
There were also occasions, though not so common, when the family would have get-togethers at other people’s houses or in public. These occasions presented greater difficulties because there was an increased risk of him mingling with others. It was difficult to control. There were no doors to hide behind. People may have met him and engaged him in conversation with the risk of them discovering his background. It was proposed that if anyone questioned us about his strange accent they planned to say the accent was due to him being a Scottish Highlander, and these people were are all a bit difficult to understand at the best of times. If any strangers assumed his first language to be Gallic, that would have been fine, and their error would have gone uncorrected. This was in fact a good ploy, but it would never have fooled anyone familiar with the Scottish accent. They successfully managed to closet him away from others or hide guests from him for the rest of his life.
You might imagine it reasonable to expect, after spending a good deal of your life in the company of family members, that you would know their character. That seemed a reasonable belief to me, once. You may have thought so, too. They are not politicians, after all, who all too often get caught out bending the truth. Outwardly, you might find them agreeable, being able to chat about the latest movie, sporting event, and the like. However, when put to the test, these individuals may show characteristics that may not match your expectations. Given the right conditions, they may reveal aspects of themselves that may surprise you. Like peeling back the ‘onion layers’ of a person’s character to reveal a rotten core; it can be an unsettling experience. One such experience took place at my parents’ house one evening. The catalyst of the situation was the inclusion of my father’s old army friend, Joe Davies.
Steph and I had been invited to my parents’ house for dinner. The evening promised good food, a glass or two of wine, the expected exchange of pleasantries, and possibly some interesting conversations with my parents’ guest. Joe had been visiting Australia, and had taken time out from his holiday to look up my father.
My father had met Joe and another man during his time in the Second World War, and they had become good friends. This threesome had remained together throughout their internship in an Italian prison of war camp and during their adventures that followed. Together, they had escaped from the camp, serving the remainder of the war together, and engaged in actions with a group of partisans in Italy.
My father subsequently wrote an account of his experience in Italy. One of the Scottish newspapers ran a competition in the early 1960s, calling for readers to submit narratives of their war experiences, with the winner’s story being published, along with a prize for their effort. My father didn’t win the competition, but his entry may well have ended up as part of the historical archives of the period. He gave me his copy of his account.
I expect my father welcomed the company of a previous comrade in arms, and would have had much to reminisce about. So, it’s not too surprising that Joe was invited to stay at my parents’ house as their guest for a few days. However, from my brief meeting with him the ugliness of his nature soon showed itself. I don’t understand how my mother (or my father, for that matter) tolerated him, and why he was permitted to stay in their home. The man was obnoxious, and as a consequence Steph and I left part way through the evening.
We arrived just before dinner was served, and were introduced to Joe. It’s remarkable how sometimes when meeting strangers you can form an instant impression of them, and very often that first impression proves accurate. These first impressions may be based on subtleties that register in our subconscious; perhaps sharing a similar sense of humour, or their greeting may have accompanied a sneer rather than a smile. I don’t recall much of our conversation with Joe; we had little in common, but he seemed an unlikeable character.
Eventually, dinner was served. There were five at the table, my parents, Steph and me, and Joe. Everything seemed set for a pleasant evening. I hadn’t seen my parents for a while, and was keen to catch up on the news and gossip, and Joe may have been an interesting addition at dinner that evening. Not long into the meal, Joe made a comment that Steph found offensive. It may have been Joe’s expectation that his opinions were not to be challenged. This may have been how he related to his wife, friends or relatives. It may have been that he disliked women, and saw an opportunity to deride her. Steph took issue with his comment, and responded to it, the effect of which was to enrage him. Affronted by her response he jumped to his feet, and I’m sure he was on the verge of turning nasty. His sudden action startled the rest of us. It made me anxious. He may have been considering striking her. I was sure he was about to lunge at her, and got up in readiness to defend her. Though, I suspect Steph was sufficiently skilled in self-defence to handle herself in that type of situation. It was very odd behaviour for a guest in someone’s home. My father also rose, presumably to stem any violence, my mother looked upset and said nothing, and the upshot of it was that we cut the evening short, and left. The simplest solution was to walk away.
Confiding in us, as we walked to the car, my mother said she too had found Joe disagreeable, and said how he had told them of how he had raped his wife; boasted of it, in fact. We weren’t going to put up with this man, and the rape of his wife was only another reason to avoid his company. I have to question the values of my parents for continuing to entertain him, particularly after his boast of rape. I wonder why he was allowed to remain in their home, and find myself shaking my head at the thought of it. His admission of the rape should have been grounds to kick the guy out. I wouldn’t have put up with his behaviour if it were my house. He would have found himself out in the street as soon as he dropped that bombshell.
His presence was tolerated, because, my mother said, my father hadn’t seen him for such a long time, saying she put up with him for my father’s sake. That’s insufficient reason to allow a thug in your house. Judgements of character are often based on the associations one keeps, and this experience left me with a lot of unanswered questions as well as a new perspective of my parents. My mother’s long-standing desire to keep the peace at all costs was misguided.