Writing for Fun
September 2017
Letting Go - Jan Norman
The tension in the farmhouse kitchen was rising. Young Toby sat mutely at the table fiddling nervously with the straps of his schoolbag, his eyes flicking anxiously from his parents to Granddad Joe. Mum with grim fury wrestled with an imaginary foe in the kitchen sink and occasionally flung the overcome onto the draining board with a clatter.
Jack wrenched on his jacket and, glaring furiously at his father, said, ‘When I’ve done milking the cows you and I have to sit down and do some serious talking Dad. We can’t go one like this anymore. It’s been six months since you supposedly handed over the reins of this farm to me but you have not let go; you’ve fought me at every turn and pooh poohed every new idea I’ve had. If things don’t change soon then either we’ll leave the farm or you will.’ With this he flung himself through the kitchen door and slammed it behind him.
Distressed Toby grabbed his coat and school bag and rushed through the door in his wake.
‘What about your toast?’ shouted Mum but found herself talking to herself. Drying her hands on her apron Mary turned with sad eyes and looked Joe straight in the eye.
‘Dad what is the matter with you? You are tearing this family apart. I was so looking forward to you retiring; for you, me and the kid having some quality time together but look at us!’ Choking back a sob she rushed from the room.
Joe suddenly felt his world crumble. The hard shiny walls of self preservation he had erected around his fragile persona when his wife June had died at Xmas now lay in shards at his feet. Hard work had sustained him and kept the hurt at bay until old age and a heart attack, six months ago, had forced him to face the cold hard truth that he could not now manage his beloved farm.
Shaking with the raised adrenalin and mixed emotions swirling dangerously within he staggered to his feet. Grabbing his anorak Joe fairly flew out of the door and headed, at a dangerously fast trot, for his favourite spot.
The trek up the slope to the middle of five acre field slowed him to a one foot in front of the other, painful slog. He glanced up at the old oak which was his goal. What he saw shocked him to the core. It had been struck by lightning. The whole right side had been sheared away. The split trunk charred and scarred. Most of its magnificent canopy was lost but surprisingly what was left had leaves and acorns. It had not given up life.
With laboured breath and a crushing pain beginning in his chest he fell against the gnarled oak. He clasped its rough trunk and squeezed his eyes shut trying to hold back the flood of tears that were welling up from the hard knot in his stomach. This tree was his timeless friend, the only one who had shared all his pain and joy since childhood, a place of emotional refuge. He realised that he had not told his friend about the death of his wife June. In fact he realised with a shock that he had frozen out everyone, including his own family, since that time. All he had allowed himself was corrosive anger and self-pity.
The dam burst and months of pain and hurt poured of his troubled heart and soul. Crying in earnest now his back slid down the bark of the oak until he sat collapsed against the trunk.
He must have slept for when he opened his eyes again the sun was high in the sky. He was relieved to find the pain in his chest had subsided. In fact he felt calm and at peace with the world for the first time in a very long while.
He would never forget June. Every day he would feel the pain of her loss in his soul but it was no good railing against the world. He knew he could not fight the ravages and cruelties inflicted by old age and disease but he could try to bear it with grace and dignity.
He needed purpose. Yes. That’s it. He would start by supporting the changes his son planned for the farm; perhaps offer to take some of the brunt of the officialese attached to farming and handle some of the paperwork and invoices; help Mary a bit around the house too. Try and get to know his grandchild Toby. Hell, what about joining, what was it? U3A? Get out from under Mary’s feet and meet some other old duffers like him?
Smiling Joe stood, albeit with difficulty and with a lighter step than before set off back towards the farmhouse.