Secrets - The Visit To Craig's Family

First weekend.
           
Sunday. Pack sandwiches and a flask of coffee. Walk along an old railway trail with overgrown vegetation both sides. Cross a suspension bridge. Take photographs. Have lunch in a family friendly country pub. Stop off for refreshments before setting off for home.

Robert isn't used to the north; he's an Islington boy with an American mother and a mixture of accents, but I want him to get a taste of his roots.

Tonight, after supper, we'll create photo collages and upload them to the server, and we'll choose a special name for the collage album and send a link to my mates in London. I'll let Robert choose the name. It's important to keep him occupied.

Monday, I enrol him at the new school. It's a typical turn of the century building, damp looking and sawdust brown, with a bell tower on the roof where pigeons sit at various times in the day, gazing down at the playground. The playground has the presence of a courtyard.

To enter, I have to pass under an archway by the cloakrooms, across slabs of paving. Inside the building smells of dried paint and cupboards and pencil sharpeners, just like my old primary school in Whaley. I half expect you and Gordon to call my name over the din of the children – but you don't, of course.         

 I'm reluctant about leaving Robert, as he experienced bullying at his previous school, enduring it in silence until a girl in a different class brought it to a teacher's attention. Here, the head teacher Mrs Betts, a grey haired lady, aged late fifties, in a sensible grey cardigan and grey glasses, assures me that she will keep an eye on him, and I return to my car with mixed feelings.

My dad used to tell me that boys must learn to stand up for themselves, and I was fortunate in that I could do that, but Robert is different. He's a lot smaller than I was at his age, and far more uncertain of himself, with large startled looking eyes and black hair parted in the middle, the type of kid bullies might view as a target.
           
I hope you'll forgive me for what I do next, Craig. I make my way over to Headersleigh Bridge, to see your parents. Mad idea, but it's something I've got to do: make peace with them. In the years following, our families moved away. Too many awful memories.

Gordon's left first when he was fifteen. Next, I went to study computer science in London shortly after my eighteenth birthday. My mother and Mel moved to Bolton halfway through my course. About a year later, your parents moved to Headersleigh Bridge with your brother.  Mel kept in touch with your mum and dad for a while and knows their address, but she doesn't know I'm on my way to see them now.
           
The house stands part of the way up Headersleigh hill, a few minutes walk from a local convenience store. The terraced row backs straight onto the cobbled street, one cobbled street following another down the hill, into the valley.

When I arrive, I'm shocked by the condition of the house: shabby curtains, peeling paint, grimy windows with what looks like condensation glued to the glass. I wonder whether coming here was such a good idea after all.  Maybe I should have written a letter instead. I ring the bell and wait.

Movement inside, footsteps. An elderly woman answers the door and stares flatly at me.

 'Mrs Winters?' I whisper.
           
No way.  I'm so sorry, Craig. What have I done?  Why did I make this visit today? And should I even be telling you this?  Your mum's long ash blonde hair has gone, along with the perpetual smile that you and your brother inherited. She used to blow kisses at us when we were children and buy us fruit from the greengrocer's. But not anymore. White curls hang lifelessly over her ears. I've destroyed her. 

'It's Alan,' I say. 

'Yes, I know who you are. What do you want?'