Growing Up

I was very young but I remember everything that happened.
Some kids get used to the arguments while others just seem to turn the noise off. I never could. I used to sit in silence on the very top stair and listen. I could never make out what was being said because they were always shouting at each other, and over each other with piercing silences in between. During those eerie calms I would hold my breath and crouch on all fours ready to dart back to bed in case anyone came upstairs. It was always my mum.

When she did I would hide myself under the blankets and pretend to be asleep. I always did that but never really knew why.
Often she would creep to my bedside and gently position herself next to me. I knew she had been crying because the bed trembled softly in response to her distressed breathing. I remember that she would speak to me in between sobs in tones so gentle and loving that I wanted to turn over and tell her that I understood. I didn't understand but I thought it would help stop the tears. When the time finally came for my father's last vicious exit we were at least grateful for the quiet he left behind him. The worry of his drunken return faded with the seasons. It was during those turbulent times before my father left that I found my favourite place; I visited that place a lot back then.
In the first week of the summer holidays when my parents left for work, my father warned me to stay quiet and out of sight. He told me that if anyone saw me in the house alone then they would get in to trouble and if that happened I would have to go and live somewhere else. Sometimes I thought that might be quite nice but the uncertainty scared me just enough to do as he said.
All that day I sat up in the attic which was dusty and full of junk; I knew no-one would see me in there because there were no windows. There was no carpet either only bare floorboards with razor sharp teeth around the edges. I was pretending that I was a pirate or an explorer or some thing when I found the key to my favourite place; I found it in an old chest that rested in one corner. Its drawers were lined with faded newspapers which smelled musty and damp but in one I found this big old story book that changed my life forever. Inside the first page someone had written the name Jean Wilkinson. Jean was my grandma; she wasn't my real grandma but she was as kind to me as one. When things got a little scary at home my mum would telephone her and she would always come and take us to her home. She never talked about what was happening at our house she just told us stories and gave us crumpets. I didn't really like her crumpets too much but she was so kind that I didn't want to tell her. She made us coffee with hot milk and brown sugar.
The discovery of Grandma's book in the attic was a key to another world, and in it everything was how I imagined it should be. Everything and everyone in this world was kind and exciting and nothing bad ever happened. The other kids were friendly, the adults never shouted, at least not at each other and everything always worked out perfectly. In this world I was safe. In there I had everything I ever wanted.
I must have read that book a hundred times but the adventures it offered me were never the same. Soon I didn't even need to open the book; I would just hold it on my lap and spend hours in that earthy dark attic in my favourite of all places my imagination. In there I had everything I ever wanted.
Now that I'm older I often wonder what happened to that house. Someone once told that they had knocked it down to build a new road; I didn't bother to go look. I still have the book though and many more besides.

Learn more about this author, Joram Lee.
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