Memoir: ‘Old Man, Young Man’.

(A short autobiographical memoir)

Sitting at his desk, he gazes through the window at his childhood backstreets. He’s writing his memoirs. Memoirs, he doubted anyone would read. Why would they? He wasn’t famous or particularly interesting. In the room next door, a sewing machine purrs then stops, then purrs again.

        To his left, a cup of fresh coffee steams-up part of the window; to his right a pile of photo albums wait to be sorted into categories. He pulls out an album from the middle of the pile and opens it. On the first page, two yellowing photographs greet him in a mixture of nostalgia and heartache.

        The first was taken at home during his Christmas leave in 1973. He’s in his naval uniform, his mam Katie is in her pinny, laughing. For the past few months he’d been away, aboard his ship HMS Scylla, on Icelandic patrol during the Cod War. She’d missed him. He’d missed her too. He is hugging her. His broad smile oozes love for the woman who took him on when he had no-one else. In the second photograph, taken a few months later, he is sitting, propped up between two shipmates in a seedy bar on Bugis Street, Singapore, all dishevelled and all drunk. Glancing back-and-forth at the photographs he pauses at the gap between them. The gap that told the story of how the boy in the first photograph had become the man in the second.

Suddenly aware of his faithful rescue dog, wagging her tail, he closes the album,

        ‘Alright Macie, but just around the doors before the rain starts; there’s a storm due’.

        Stepping out of the back gate, he looks down the familiar steep hill, margined by the backyards of terraced houses. Briefly lost in another time, he’s speeding down it in his pram-wheeled bogie cart, over bumpy cobblestones, dodging miners, housewives, kids and dogs, squealing in delight. A delight which ebbs away as melancholic images of bricked-up coal holes and obsolete outside toilets, now repurposed into garden sheds, appear.

They’re quieter now

these backstreets; once alive with

chattering women

leaning pinny clad,

over brick walls, arms folded

like a reef knot as

flat caps and mufflers

came and went from the coal hole

in their hobnail boots.

Long gone cobblestones

rest, morgue-like, deep beneath layers

of tarmac as their

once all-seeing eyes

now lie dormant cradling  

mem’ries of the past

Above the gate of 

number fifty-four, a room 

once a sanctuary

sixty years before 

smiles, knowing her walls kept out 

the hell of his past… 

        In a puddle, a few drops of rain bounced, then a few more as the skies rumbled above. Macie’s eyes widened as she tucked in her tail.

        ‘Come on’, he said, ‘we’d better get back’.

In the kitchen, his wife Carol is holding two cups of coffee, 

        ‘Yours had gone cold so I made you a fresh one…don’t forget you’re picking Libbee up from school at three’.

        How could he forget to pick-up his daughter’s daughters’ daughter? After picking-up his daughter’s daughter in the nineties, and his daughter in the seventies he’d been programmed years ago. It had been a long road back since he’d left the north-east, over sixty years; though he’d always yearned to ‘come home’one day. On learning of Libbee’s imminent arrival in 2019, he finally had. 

The sound of the rain battering his window conjured-up mental images of childhood, listening to his sailor cousin Paul telling him about the monsoon rains in the far east. At sixteen, captivated by his tales of exotic places, he’d followed in his footsteps and taken the Queen’s Shilling. 

Skimming the two photographs, his eyes gravitated back to the gap which, after turning the page, greeted him in a photographic avalanche of shock and delight. At the corner of the page an old letter hung by a paperclip but he didn’t read it, every word had been imprinted into his mind since that time back in 1974…

It was exactly a week after burying Mam, I found myself in Singapore. The flight from Brize Norton had been packed with a platoon of soldiers who, after discovering I was a sailor, were unsparing in their banter; a welcome diversion from my home situation. Totally disorientated, having flown into yesterday, my stomach sank like a lead weight at the sight of Royal Naval Police in the arrivals lounge. My Captain, the Almighty, had granted me two weeks compassionate leave but I’d taken three; the thought of being arrested sent a cold chill through me. Walking nervously through passport control the sensor beeped and I froze. After an overly-enthusiastic frisking, the mouth organ in my pocket was discovered and I was waved through. Holding my breath in the lounge, I caught sight of my boss, Chief Caterer Cates, and best friend Rip; arms wide, smiling, 

        ‘Welcome back, Dixy!’, they orchestrated, bouncing me in a bear hug.

        ‘The p-olice?’, I blabbered.

         ‘They’re not here for you’, laughed Cates, ‘they’re based here! You’re not that important…apart from to us’. 

Sensing my anxiety, he took me by the shoulders,

        ‘Dixy, we are all sorry for your loss’.

        ‘Am I in trouble?’. 

        ‘I don’t know. The Captain wants to see you as soon as we’re onboard.

        ‘Will you…will you come with me, Cates?’.

        ‘Yes, of course Dixy’.

A few days earlier, following passage from Kuwait, Scylla had arrived in Sembawang dockyard and the Captain had met with the Supply Officer.

        ‘S/A Dixon is arriving back shortly’, the Captain began. ‘I’d sent him home because his father, Billy, had had three strokes, but while at home his mother passed away. I’m concerned about whether he’ll cope’.

        ‘Sir, Dixon is an experienced Stores Accountant and has a lot of support from…..’.  

        ‘Yes, I’m aware of that’, the Captain intervened, ‘and we all value that camaraderie; many of us enlisted for it. But my priority must always be the operational capability of the ship. For now, a compassionate discharge must remain on the table’. 

Since retiring, his life had slowed down into simple decisions; what to eat for dinner, what to watch on television. His shrunken weeks were now punctuated by three dog walks a day and collecting Libbee twice a week.

Purr, stop, purr, stop. 

        ‘Alan it’s two-thirty!’.

Semi-oblivious to the outside world, his meandering mind drifted between savouring the mosaic of treasured memories, and keeping a lid on the underlying emotions marinating them.  

Dripping in a cold sweat, I stepped out of Changi airport into the hot, humid heat and penetrating odour of rotten onions and sewage.          

        ‘What the **** is that?’ 

        ‘That’ll be durian fruit Dixy, a prized delicacy here’, laughed Cates.

        ‘It always stinks worse after the rains’ grinned Rip, ‘but don’t worry, a few San Mig’s will soon mellow it’.

Amid a cacophony of sound, people bustled everywhere; rickshaw drivers, sellers, commuters, overwhelming me in tongues I didn’t know. 

        ‘Come on’, said Cates, ‘we’ve got a taxi with air-con; it’s about a half an hour to Sembewang dockyard’, said Cates.  

        ‘It’s good to have you back’ added Rip, ‘Once you’re settled I’ll show you the sights. We’ll do Raffles then Bugis Street then…’.

Assertively motioning Rip into the front seat, Cates got in the back with me.

        ‘How’s your dad, Dixy?’.

        ‘Not good Cates. I’m worried about him’.

It had been hard leaving his dad in hospital; the guilt had consumed him. Along with Katie it had been him who’d taken him out of the abusive kids homes and given him a life. But he’d had no choice, he’d had to go back. 

Arriving at Scylla’s gangway, beads of stinging, salty sweat rolled from my forehead into my eyes as the bosun greeted us,

        ‘Welcome back Dixy; the Captain is waiting for you in his cabin’.

Tapping Cates on the arm he whispered,

        ‘There’s a letter in the mail room for him’.

        ‘When did it arrive?’ replied Cates.

        ‘Same day he flew home from Mombasa’.

        ‘But that was nearly a month ago…. I’ll pick it up after the meeting’.

        ‘S/A Dixon, please sit down, I can see you’re anxious’, the Captain began. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss, I can’t imagine how you feel?’. 

        ‘No Sir, you can’t -’, I thought, biting my lip to stop it trembling at whatever he said next. 

        ‘I know why you’re late back and there’ll be no further action about that, so put your mind at ease. How are you feeling?’.

Swallowing with relief my voice trembled,

        ‘Sir….I’m ok, Sir…ok thank you… just tired…tired after the flight’.

        ‘Of course, I understand. How are things at home?’.

        ‘Home?…Well, Sir…er, dad is in good hands…they say they’ll let me know if…. but he’s in good hands and…..er…home… I had to return the house…home…back to the Coal Board, Sir’….but it’s all settled now’.

          ‘That must have been very traumatic for you’.

          ‘Yes, Sir…but it’s all settled now’.

          ‘Well, S/A Dixon, only you know if you can cope…but if you find you are struggling I can arrange an immediate compassionate discharge’.

Seeing my eyes welling-up, he deflected,

          ‘However, that’s only an option; I do understand how important your navy life is to you. To give you time to consider things, I’ve booked you in at the Britannia Club for the weekend before we sail on Monday. We’ll meet again on Sunday evening’. 

It was at eighteen when he’d first realised that being in paradise was no escape from guilt. He’d always dreamt of seeing the world but had never forgotten the conflict between achieving that dream or stepping up and going back to look after his dad.  

Purr, stop, purr, stop.

        ‘Alan, It’s two-forty-five, don’t be late!’. 

Sitting out on the balcony of my room, I watched the sun rising behind the silhouette of a chinese junk resting on the glass-like water of the Singapore Straits. It reminded me of a picture in a book I’d taken out of the library full of photographs from around the world. I’d never returned it because I hadn’t wanted to part with it, although decades later, during a guilt trip, I’d donated it to a school. 

At a knock on the door I was back in Singapore.

        ‘Morning, Dixy!’, Cates beamed, ‘I thought you’d like to visit Tiger Balm Gardens. I know how much you loved the Alameda in Gibraltar. 

        ‘I’d love that, Cates, thank you’.

        ‘And later, I’ll show you Bugis Street.’ added Rip.

        ‘If you’re taking him out tonight Rip, look after him. I don’t want a repeat of Cape Town when you left him in the middle of nowhere!’.

Whispering in his ear, he continued,

        ‘Did you pick up Dixy’s letter like I asked you to?’ 

        ‘Oh **** sorry Cates I forgot’, Rip stuttered, ‘shall I go and get it?’.

        ‘Yes…then meet us at Tiger Balm Gardens…and don’t stop at any bars on the way’.

He could still remember well, the gateway to the gardens with its beautifully ornate Chinese archway. How the gold-coloured mandarin characters, carved into the gate posts, conveyed an almost spiritual welcome into the tranquil sanctuary. How, just metres from the chaos of Singapore’s streets, the pandemonium had been silenced by a musical backdrop of trickling water, chirrupping birds and buzzing cicadas.

        It was a mid morning in March 1974, early enough before the heat became unbearable, and my eyes were everywhere. On either side of the walkway, cherry trees, lychee trees, and huge bonsai, mingled among dozens of amazing giant statues silently telling stories of Chinese folklore and the moral values of Confucianism. At a pond full of turtles we sat on a bench surrounded by sunbirds and humming bees, feeding on orchids and lotuses as their fragrant scents filled the air. 

        ‘Beautiful isn’t it?’, said Cates.

After the past few weeks I felt as though someone had rescued me from Titanic and dropped me into the garden of Eden. 

        ‘Almost as beautiful as my backstreets’, I laughed, looking round for Rip who always liked my one-offs. 

        ‘Where’s Rip?’, I asked.

        ‘Oh, he’ll be here soon….’, Cates replied gently, … ‘he’s gone to pick up a letter… for you’.

        ‘A letter? For me? Who from? There’s only mam who ever writes to me but she’s…. Is it from her, Cates? Did she write it before…..’. 

        ‘I don’t know. It arrived after you’d flown home from Mombasa’.

        ‘But that was weeks ago. And it would have already taken weeks in the post’. 

        ‘Try not to second-guess it. It could be about your promotion or…’. 

        ‘I’m worried, Cates. When I left, dad was still in hospital’.

Suddenly, from behind, a familiar voice called out,

        ‘Dixy…I’ve got your letter’, said Rip.

Holding the envelope, I knew straight away it was from mam.

        ‘Are you going to open it?’, asked Cates.

        ‘Later’, I mumbled. 

        ‘Have you thought any more about what the Captain said, about compassionate discharge?’.

        ‘No, I really don’t know what to do’.

Back at my room, I sat out on the balcony, as the sun began setting, and opened my letter:

“Dear Alan. You’d always dreamed of travelling the world….to see all those places Paul told you about, and the ones you saw in your library books…the more you achieve that dream, the prouder we both are of you…”

He couldn’t remember if it had been in a book, or a lesson at school, when he’d first come across the Chinese philosophy of Yin-Yang; how opposites interconnect and become interdependent. But it wasn’t until he’d spent a day in Tiger Balm gardens – then an evening on Bugis Street – the penny’d dropped. While still spellbound by the reverence of the gardens, the excessively sleazy underbelly of Singapore’s nightlife had hit him like a bolt out of the blue.

        Beefing out the economy, tables on the raucous street were crammed as Kai Tai’s – Singapore’s transvestites and transsexuals – plied their trade, entertaining the masses. On the flat-topped roof of the smelly public toilet, pissed-up sailors performed their ritualistic Dance of the Flaming Arseholes to crewmates chanting: “Haul ’em down you Zulu warrior”. As the night wore on, any thoughts of my impending meeting with the Captain faded; diluted away by bottles of San Mig, glasses of Sake and a mixture of shock and delight. I’d loved Tiger Balm Gardens; but was enthralled by Bugis Street. 

At my meeting with the Captain I was forthright,

        ‘Sir, I want to stay’.

So yes, he’d stayed; constantly worrying whether his dad would still be proud of him, while forever expecting the unexpected. Though he’d loved cuddling a koala bear, he’d been terrified by the crowds in Sierra Leone. Though he’d prayed, and shared meals with Buddhists, he’d been petrified in Kowloon after his shipmates insisted he saw the Exorcist – the same shipmates who’d made him a cake for his 19th birthday in Sydney. On bad days there’d always been comfort in a bottle.

Over the remaining seven months, the world became my backyard and Yin-Yang my philosophy. Heading home, my mind zigzagged in a kaleidoscope of contradictions….

Singapore ladyboys, toilet-top dancers, 

……..Tiger Balm Gardens, more questions than answers…

Buddhist Bangkok with your temples of gold

……Bordello’s with secrets, forever untold

Restaurants all feeding the rich in Hong Kong

……Invisible children at work all daylong… 

Up a Table in Cape Town, I silently cried

……..Apartheid, apartheid, oh why, oh why, why?

After docking in Portsmouth, he’d gone north and spent time with his dad, now resident in hospital, whose joy in seeing him was like a weight had been lifted. He still cherished the pride on his dad’s face as he’d relayed the best bits of his travels. How Maoris in New Zealand performed a welcome haka on the quayside; how in the Seychelles he’d seen the coral reef from a glass-bottomed boat. 

        ‘And best of all, dad, was sailing under Sydney harbour bridge. It was just like our Tyne bridge!’.

Returning to Portsmouth to await his next ship, he’d wandered over to the barracks dance and met a young Welsh girl. Fifty years later, he still hears her voice,

        ‘ALAN!!!!!!! Paid â bod yn hwyr!!’

The slim gold bar he’d had engraved for their Golden Wedding anniversary twinkled around her neck. 

Outside the school, Libbee skipped over to him. 

        ‘Papa, we’ve been learning about different countries’.

        ‘Wow, really?’

        ‘Yes, and you know what, the teacher said we could take a book home from the shelf. I chose this really old one; it’s a bit tatty but I really loved the pictures…..they’re from all around the world’.

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