Written by a friend of mine.
Stiff Upper Lip
‘Departures, Level 4’ said an automated voice as the lift doors opened.
Determined to make a quick escape, Jeff strode forward into the squashed bodies, his
epaulette fringes contorted by the crush. An overweight youth pushed back. A rancid odour
seeped into Jeff’s airways, a germ army gaining ground into his heartland. He held his breath,
making his defences impenetrable. The lift doors opened opposite. His face reddened as air
began to seep out from his nostrils. With victory in sight, he fought his way out to the
exhileration of some fresher air before heading towards the Terminal exit signs to find his
car.
As he wandered towards Car Park 3, Section D, thick raindrops splattered against his balding
head and khaki jacket, the September sky a mottled black and grey much like his mood. His
twenty-year-old son Jimmy had recently announced he’d booked an open-ended trip to
America, starting with grape picking in the Napa Valley. Jimmy’s acceptance into military
training college, a hastily arranged favour by one of Jeff’s work colleagues, would have to be
rescinded.
As his son had turned to leave through the Departure gates, Jeff’s right eye had twitched and
he’d grabbed Jimmy by the shoulders.
“This is your decision not mine,” he’d said. “Don’t come running to me to bail you out”.
But there was something about the intensity of Jimmy’s handshake and his glanced look-back
that produced a tightening in Jeff’s stomach. I’m going to miss you, you’ve grown up so fast,
he thought.
Driving back home to The Willows took longer than usual, the wet weather causing havoc on
the roads. Jeff had inherited the residence after his father died. He’d been born and raised
there, Jimmy too. It was his haven. But as he opened the front door to a now deserted house,
his chest felt hollow.
He made himself a filtered black expresso double shot, then wandered upstairs to his open
plan study. He noticed Jimmy’s bedroom door was ajar. Faint sounds of men’s voices could
be heard from inside.
“Jimmy” he shouted.
He strode into Jimmy’s bedroom. The beige clock-radio, a seventh birthday present from
Jimmy’s mother, sat on the bedside table transmitting a talkback program. Hands on hips,
Jeff sighed then wrenched its plug from the wall socket.
It’d been weeks since Jeff last set foot in his son’s bedroom. Jimmy had attempted to make
his bed. The worn beige sisel carpet, clear of papers and clothes, revealed faded blue ink
stains. Pinned at an angle on a cork board above Jimmy’s white melamine desk were three
photos: one of Jimmy kissing a giggling Ruth in front of rock band; a faded print of Jimmy’s
frowning mother, white wine in hand, sitting in a hammock in their back garden; and one of
toddler Jimmy squeezed between his elder twin sisters, busily building a sandcastle on a
Cornish beach.
*
His mother and sisters died when he was seven. A few weeks later, he was sent away to
boarding school. He’d return home during school holidays to find his days organised with
activities – rugby training, cricket practice, swimming lessons. His father’s role as a
Brigadier in the Army meant they could never see each other and he was used to being with a
Nanny.
*
As Jeff turned to leave the bedroom, he caught sight of a hand-written note on Jimmy’s desk.
‘Father, I know you’re angry. But something’s come up.’
He scratched his head, and re-read the note. Starved of detail, he returned to his study desk
and checked the top drawer for a scrap of paper with Jimmy’s winery address in California.
“I like to leave a message for my son James Sayer?”
“No one here by that name” said the female receptionist.
“He’s a backpacker from England, due to arrive tomorrow to start grape picking.”
“I’m sorry, Sir, he’s not on the list of names of overseas workers for this upcoming season.
You must be mistaken. Have a nice day.”
Jeff slammed down the phone, marched downstairs and paced around the fish pond in the
back garden, right eye twitching. How dare he lie to his father. Who does he think he is?
A few deep breaths mixed with the strong scent of lavender from the flower beds and his
nerves had eased.
Something’s come up? The vagueness annoyed him so he returned to Jimmy’s bedroom and
rummaged through his desk drawers. Amongst the brochures from the military training
college, he found a yellow palm-sized notepad containing pages of Jimmy’s handwriting,
with entries dating back to the previous year.
‘November 13th. Tried to talk with Father again. Dismissed me. Doesn’t get me. Feel
helpless.’
‘December 11th.’ Met Ruth at the Lakes. She’s the only one who understands’.
As Jeff read through the rest of Jimmy’s notes, he felt nauseous at the back of his throat.
Cold, distant, knows best, over-controlling, the same criticisms his wife had levelled at him
before their marriage had become estranged.
Next morning, Jeff caught the train to London for a psychological appraisal as part of his
assessment for promotion to Major-General.
“Which of your personal characteristics will be important in this role?” asked the Army
Psychologist.
“Strength of character, discipline, emotional control.”
“How do you think these attributes will bring the best out of people?”
“It’ll show them who’s in charge, teach them to respect authority.”
“Thank you, Brigadier. Do you have any family?”
“A son.”
“He’s not close to you, is he.”
“How did you guess?”
“It’s no guess. It’s about secure attachment, emotional connection. They’re essential for
healthy relationships. The Army’s moved on. In today’s workplace, we call it empathy.
We’re looking for leaders with empathy.”
The Psychologist handed Jeff a book entitled Intimacy.
“Read this,” he said. “It might help.”
By the following evening, Jeff had finished the book. The chapters were like bombs blowing
apart the foundations of his mind, each one shattering a firmly held belief which questioned
his identity.
He began to write a letter to Jimmy but could only manage a few lines.
“Son, I thought I knew what was best for you. But I can see I might have been mistaken. I
should have considered your wishes. I didn’t put aside enough time with you, to get to know
you. And now you’re gone.”
He folded the letter in half and left it on Jimmy’s desk before packing his suitcase for his
departure the next day for a five-week deployment overseas.
*
The morning after Jeff had returned home, he was sitting in his black leather study chair,
arms behind his head, playing back the oldest voice message on his answer machine, received
a month ago, when he froze. ‘Father, its Jimmy. I’ll be back in two weeks for a visit. See you
then.’ He replayed the message. Jimmy’s gentle tenor tone sent a flutter through his chest. He
coughed then looked outside towards the quivering, silvery-white branches of his favourite
Birch tree. As a small boy, he’d planted the seedling that had grown into this twenty-metre
miracle. He wandered outside to stroke its thick black corky fissures. A gentle breeze floated
some golden yellow leaves onto the surface of the fish pond. Sweet trills from a pair of redbreasted
Robins, dancing the quick-step near the lavender, softened his eyes. He’d no way of
contacting his son, no control over him. But in this brief moment, he felt at ease.
He strolled through the side-gate to the front of The Willows. The copper curbside mailbox
was stuffed full. Sifting through the junk, Jeff came across a letter from the military college
addressed to Jimmy. He put his finger under the glued flap, then felt a sinking in his gut. He
remembered the words from the Army Psychologist.
Stop.
Think.
Feel.
He made his way to Jimmy’s bedroom. His note to Jimmy had disappeared. He scratched his
forehead, then left the military college letter unopened on the desk.
*
The following morning, as he was leaving the house to visit the library, the phone rang.
“It’s Jimmy.”
“Jimmy, what a surprise.”
“I read your note. I’m in town. Let’s meet at the Bandstand by the river in an hour.”
Walking along the river path towards the Bandstand, Jeff saw Jimmy and a young woman
sitting and chatting. As Jimmy stood up to greet him, a brace of ducks waddled off into the
River. “Father,” Jimmy said, offering his hand.
Jeff’s head dropped. He stared at the floor. Jimmy took a step back.
“You remember Ruth,” said Jimmy.
He glanced over Jimmy’s shoulder at the auburn hair and white skin of a doting Mother. She
was sitting on the wooden Bandstand bench beside a blue Pram, cuddling a white-blanketed
baby.
She looked up. “Hello, Mr Sayer.”
Jeff stared wide-eyed at Jimmy.
“What’s this?”
Jimmy stuttered “It’s-, he’s-, he’s-”.
“This is William, your grandson,” said Ruth.
Jeff’s eye twitched. His heart thumped.
“I-, I don’t understand. How can-, you can’t-”
A loud whirring 'Karr-arr' sound from the river interrupted him. He looked out to see the
spiky black crests and chestnut manes of two Great Crested Grebes, stretching their necks
upwards, then rising out of the water, feet paddling, breasts touching.
Must be their penguin mating dance, he thought. He cleared his throat, took a deep breath,
then turned to Jimmy.
“Well, this is a shock. When did this happen?”
“He was born six weeks ago,” said Ruth.
He stared at Jimmy. “I see. Is he healthy?”
Jimmy looked away.
“He’s got a bit of colic,” said Ruth. “He’s not sleeping much but otherwise he’s beautiful.
He’s tired now, so I’ll take him for a quick stroll along the river”.
As she pushed the pram away from the Bandstand, Jimmy faced Jeff, eyes brooding.
“I’m sorry, Father, but I knew how you’d react.”
“We’ve got a lot of catching up to do,” said Jeff
Jimmy nodded slowly.
They sat down on the bench and looked out across the river.
“Ever since we’ve known about the baby,” said Jimmy, “I’ve been longing for Mum and the
twins to be here.”
He paused, then glared at Jeff. “It’s been thirteen years and you’ve never spoken to me about
the accident. My heart feels trapped like it’s wearing an armour.”
Jeff angled his head away from Jimmy.
“I always bottled up my emotions,” he said. “It just seemed easier that way”.
“Then you sent to me Boarding school where I didn’t know anyone. It was as if you were
pushing me away.”
“You were down to go to that school from the day you were born.”
“I wanted you to notice me,” said Jimmy. “To be someone you’d be proud of. I tried to reach
out but you were never there. Always unavailable. I soon realised I’d never be the man you
wanted me to be.”
Jimmy sniffed and wiped a tear from his eye. Jeff hesitated then put his arm around Jimmy’s
shoulder. It came more naturally than he’d imagined.
“A few days after you left, I saw the lie I’d been living,” Jeff said. “If only I’d been a real
father rather than role playing.” His head dropped. “And now I have to live with knowing
those precious childhood years have gone forever.”
He turned to face Jimmy.
“So, with your permission, I’d like to try again, now that you’re a new parent. To help you be
the father I never was.”
Jimmy scratched his chin, then, sniffing, gazed out across the river.
“I’ll think about it.”
William’s cries became louder as Ruth neared the Bandstand.
She frowned. “He doesn’t want to sleep.”
“Here, let me hold him,” said Jeff.
Ruth showed him how to support the baby’s head.
Jeff stared into William’s blue eyes.
William quietened and gazed back.
Jeff’s lip quivered. He looked at Ruth.
“I’m afraid he’s got those moon-shaped Sayer eyes.”
He glanced over at Jimmy and winked.
Or was it a twitch? Jimmy couldn’t tell.
The minister has expressed regret over the recent execution of Tursilawati in Saudi Arabia without first informing the Indonesian Government.
Transportation Minister Budi Karya Sumadi plans to ask the Australian government to clarify its policy banning its citizens from travelling by Lion Air flight.
The Indonesian and Malaysian governments hold the Malindo Socio-Economic meeting for the border areas in West Kalimantan, in Sibu Negeri Serawak, Malaysia.
An archaeologist from Papua Archaeological Center, Erlin Novita Idje Djami, together with her team, has found two megalithic statues of Polynesian style on the Mount Srobu site located in Abepantai Village, Abepura District, Jayapura City, Papua Province.
