The Homecoming
Now he was about to come through the front door, and I didn't know what to expect. An only child, I was six years old when he left, now I was eleven and accustomed to being the only 'man' in my mother's life. Apprehension held me in its grip; what on earth was I going to say to him? Perhaps just feign delight at his return and throw my arms around him?
A taxi pulled up outside and I knew the dreaded moment had arrived. It would have been different if I'd been looking forward to this day, but the thought of it had plagued me during the weeks that had elapsed since news of my father's release had reached us.
All of a flutter, my mother flung the front door open and there he was, tear-stained eyes gazing at me over my mother's deliriously happy embrace, a lot thinner than he had been, the loose flesh hanging beneath his chin and jaw, the normal body weight not yet restored.
"Welcome home dad" I muttered not too convincingly.
The weeks that followed were a sore trial for me. My parents, naturally enough, behaved as if on a second honeymoon, and I, of course, felt left out - not to say 'in the way'. Consequently, the relationship with my father became perpetually strained, once our initial awkwardness had been replaced by mutual antipathy. I have to confess that my resentment at having to share my mother with another male was ill-concealed, while my father demonstrated his disappointment at my attitude by addressing me at times abruptly, with little or no affection in his voice.
My mother was acutely aware of the situation, poor dear, and did her best to keep the peace, sharing her affection equally between us as best she could. But all of this created a bleak atmosphere in our home. Understandably my father couldn't fathom why his son wasn't lost in admiration for him, a heroic survivor of three appalling years of Japanese brutality, involved in experiences so dreadful that he couldn't even talk about them.
For my part, I was annoyed by his anti-Britishness. Although only a child, I was extremely patriotic and proud of our Armed Forces and their achievements during the War. Therefore I was utterly dismayed to hear my father declare "If I'd waited for the British to set me free, I'd still be waiting!" and went on to extol the bravery of the American paratroops who had liberated him. However I knew that the Japanese prison camp had been in the Philippines, and later discovered that this was in fact an American overseas territory. I longed to point this out to him, and agonised over the prospect, but 'chickened out' for fear of the wrath that would almost certainly have descended upon me if I had.
Things went from bad to worse. My father started drinking heavily in a desperate attempt to blot out the memory of the atrocities he had witnessed, often waking up in the night weeping about them. The doctor was called but could do little to help, aside from describing sedatives and lending a sympathetic ear.
Eventually, my mother could stand it no longer.
"We need a holiday" she informed us in a tone that brooked no argument, and booked us into a small hotel by the sea for a week.
But it was to no avail - we merely brought our uncomfortable atmosphere with us. Then matters came to a head one evening at dinner, when I piled food upon my plate, the sea air having given me a ravenous appetite. My father, having had to do without for so long, was enraged by what he saw as my gluttony, and a major row broke out between us at the table. We fled the dining room scarlet with embarrassment, and hurried to our room.
My mother insisted that her two 'boys' should shake hands immediately, and, as we solemnly did so, I burst into tears. Our differences had been buried for now, but our relationship was to be soured forever.
