I'm one of those people that people tend to open up to. I was speaking to an older chap recently and he suddenly told me about his childhood. He had lived with his parents in an expensive house in the best part of town, with huge gardens and a stream at the bottom of the garden. His Mum had left his father for a workman who came to work on the house and moved with him into an inner-city slum, with an outside toilet shared with neighbours in the back yard. Over sixty years later, he still couldn't get his head around what had happened, "That must have been some magic he possessed," he said.
That conversation prompted this story. I never thought I'd write a reconciliation story. It's not usually my thing. Anyway, there's an exception to every rule, and here's mine.
There's no sex, so if that's not your thing, please move on.
Please note this work is copyrighted, and I do not give permission for any part of it to be used elsewhere. I think that the stealing of work to monetize from this website, which is given freely by authors, is abhorrent. ©Corny1974
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Michael slowed as he drove along the promenade to let a passing bus turn. Even on this dull spring day, people walked along the seashore. Dogs chased after balls, splashed in the water, and shook themselves dry. Grandparents looking after their grandchildren pushed them in their prams past the sunken gardens and the manmade lake.
Michael had always loved it here when he was a child. His parents often took him on the lake, letting him steer the tiny hired boat around the little island in the middle. He loved these opportunities to drive, to steer as his parents cuddled together in the back seat, joking about his driving. Goodness, those old boats used to smell, and they were so noisy. He loved them, though; he loved that time. They only have row boats on the lake now. They're quiet and more ecologically sound but not as much fun, Michael mused to himself.
His parents divorced when he was nine. It was the biggest shock of his life. His parents had always seemed so close. Some of his friend's parents didn't even seem to like each other, yet it seemed obvious that his parents adored each other. That's why it didn't make sense that his mum should throw it all away for a fling with the labourer who came to build the stone fireplace. No wonder the design got bigger and more elaborate, as he obviously had designs on his mum. When she left, he watched her get in his van at the end of the long drive. She seemed reluctant, her shoulders down. In hindsight, through Michael's adult eyes, she looked like the saddest woman in the world, not a woman in the throw of a great passion. In his childhood eyes, he just wanted his Mum.
He remembered the banging then as his dad ripped that fireplace out, still in his suit from the office. He piled each piece of stone up in the drive before it became destined to be used for countless rockeries in the neighbourhood. The original fireplace was reinstalled, and he never saw Mum again. Michael did, not often, but she was still his Mum. She put up with his childish temper and then teenage bitterness on the rare occasions they met.
Michael finally turned into the car park of the retirement home overlooking the lake. It wasn't like any retirement home he had ever imagined. It was more like a high-class hotel. It wasn't like the sad, council-run homes with corridors smelling of cabbage--this home smelt of flowers, often fragrant lilies from the fresh bouquets that were in every room. In the foyer, there was a grand piano surrounded by mirrors. Beyond that, a ballroom with a stage that held the many visiting performers who put shows on for the residents. A range of different lounges, a games room, a library and two restaurants completed the ground floor.
It costs thousands of pounds a month to stay here, even in the small rooms at the back overlooking the bins. The premier rooms were more like a suite, with a balcony and views over the lake and to the beach beyond. His dad, Samuel, lived in one of these rooms. His father had come from money and seemed to have a considerable knack for making more during his business life. He would have no trouble paying the home fees even if he lived to be two hundred. He was eighty-two now. He had made the decision to move into the home. As his mobility decreased, he found it increasingly difficult to navigate his large home. He was fit and healthy in other ways, so he didn't need carers or a nurse what he needed was company. Samuel missed company and people to talk to. Of course, they could have got carers for company, but Samuel was well aware that this would just be a professional courtesy; they would be being paid to be interested, to listen. He wanted people to chat with him because they wanted to; he wanted to talk to people of his own age who understood what it was like when your body could no longer keep up with your active mind.
So, he decided to move into the Smugglers Rest Retirement Home. It was the right decision. Although Michael was now very busy looking after his father's numerous business interests, he could still call on his father a few times a week. They were very close and very similar. Samuel had brought him up single-handedly after the divorce.
It was unusual, then, for a father to get custody. However, it wasn't unusual if the husband was rich and could afford all the best solicitors that money could buy and when the mother, without the same financial backing, could be proved to have been unfaithful to her husband. Women were judged harshly back then; she was a slut, a whore, a scarlet woman.
Michael had certainly judged his mother harshly back then; he still did almost fifty years later. He had never forgiven her for cheating on his father, for cheating on their family. He needed her, and she left him for what, some rough-looking bloke without a penny to his name. Whatever he was offering was good enough for her to leave her adoring husband, loving son and beautiful home to live in a caravan in a farmer's field without running water. Yes, he must have offered her something wonderful indeed.
He was brought out of his daydream into the past when Jenny, the receptionist, coughed politely, "Sorry," said Michael, "I was miles away. Where's Dad? Is he in his room or in one of the lounges?"
"No," said Jenny, "He's out in the minibus; he's popped to the shops with your mum. They'll be back in about a quarter of an hour."
It took Michael a moment to process what he had heard: "What do you mean, my mum? My father divorced my mother forty-eight years ago. Whoever he is with, it certainly isn't my mother."
Jenny looked worried at Michaels's sudden outburst; He was such a lovely, gentle man normally. She hadn't wanted to upset him.
Mr Jennings, the manager, came over. "Jenny is right, Mr and Mrs Jones are out shopping together."
"Mrs Jones, Mrs Marcia Jones?"
"Yes," said Mr Jennings, "Your mother is a recent resident. Your parents have been spending a lot of time together. Well, all their time together, really. She had reserved one of our standard rooms at the back but Mr Jones insisted that she moved into his suite with him. He said she would prefer the view. Are you all right, Mr Jones? You look a little pale? Go and take a seat, and I'll get someone to bring a cup of tea over to you, with extra sugar, I think."
Michael walked into the nearest lounge, sat on one of the very large and expensive settees and stared out of the large picture window, barely seeing the promenade, lake or beach.
"There you go, Mr Jones. Do you mind if I call you Michael? I'm Jason, by the way. I can see I've shocked you. I presumed you knew about your parents being together. I'm sorry, it was unprofessional of Jenny to tell you in that manner, but it was done in all innocence; she's a wonderful girl," he smiled, looking across at the lovely Jenny. If only he were 10 years younger, well, 20 years younger, he would love to make her Jenny Jennings.
"Shocked me? My parents have been divorced for nearly fifty years, Jason, so you could say that. I can't believe it. I saw her sporadically over the years. To my knowledge, my dad has not seen her since he threw her out of our home all those years ago. He brought me up on my own after that. Although he married again when I was an adult. It didn't last. He has been single for the last twenty years."
"And your mother?" Jason asked quietly.
"Well, she went to live with the man she left my father for, but he died shortly afterwards. I haven't seen her for the past decade. We lost touch after she was upset that she wasn't invited to my wedding. I was 46 when I married my wife. I found it hard to trust in relationships after what had happened with my parents. Thankfully, eventually, I found the right person for me, and before I was fifty, I was a father of two."
"Oh yes, I've seen the boys when they come to visit Grandad Sam. He's very proud of them and you. He talks about you a lot and your lovely wife."
"The daughter he never had; he calls her. My wife Eve loves all the fuss he makes of her and returns it in kind. She was keen on having Dad move in with us, but he refused and chose to come here as the easiest option for everyone."
"So, your Mum has never met your little family?"
"No, though she's aware of them. I might not be in touch with her, but I am close with her sister, my Aunty Sue. I told her I had no problem with her sharing photos, but I didn't want to have contact with her."
"That explains it, then."
"Explains what?"
"Well, before she moved out of one of our small, I mean one of our standard rooms, every surface and most of one wall was covered with photos of you and your sons. She also kept a picture of your father by her bed in his younger days, though we still recognised him."
"Are you telling me that you encouraged this reconciliation, Jason?"
"No, quite the contrary, Michael. We were worried that Samuel would be cross that his ex-wife was here. Of course, he is one of our privileged guests and was already in residence before Mrs Jones moved in. If he had been upset in any way, we would have discreetly asked Marcia to leave."
"So, why didn't you."
"Well, once I was informed, I went to speak to your father, and well, I er."
"What?"
"Well, let's just say that I found that Mr and Mrs Jones had come to an understanding on their own."
Michael looked at Jason's reddening face as he refused to meet his gaze.
"Are you trying to tell me that you found my parents in bed together, Jason?"
"Yes, well, I was worried he had fallen, and I could hear moaning, so I used my passkey. I'm not innocent. I realise that some of our more active residents creep across the corridors at night. However, this was the first time I had witnessed it myself. I apologise."
"Well, Jason, I hope they pay you well; that's all I can say," Michael snorted.
"You're not happy with this news, apart from the shock?"
"No, I'm not happy that my parents have reconciled after all these years, and I have to wonder about my mother's agenda. There are many a woman who would do a lot worse for a lovely suite and a view like this, and I am sadly already aware of my mother's low morals. However, your look of discontent relaying that story has quite amused me."
"Yes, well," said Jason, "It wasn't my finest hour, and it was certainly a shock."
"So, my mother kept all those photos my aunt gave her, then?"
