There was a programme on BBC Radio the other day about divorce and the impact this has on children. For some children a separation of their mum and dad can be a blessing, especially if - as is so often the case - violence is used and fierce rows make living at home unbearable. For others, the break of their parents relationship can have a devastating affect and can inflict long-term and even permanent damage to their mental health.
It's forty years ago today since my mother and father went their separate ways. They
thought that, as a seven year old, I was too young to understand. Believe me, I wasn't.
We were living in
Cumbernauld, just outside Glasgow at the time. People talk about a seven year itch in marriage. In my parent’s case it
wasn’t so much a seven year itch as a full bodied rash which no amount of calamine lotion could ease. The rows between my mother and father would become more frequent and louder with each passing week. They did their best not to row in front of their only child but I sensed the tension. I heard it too as I lay in bed at night and listened to the incessant rowing, the accusations, the shouting and then the eerie, spine-tingling silence as my father slammed the outside door and headed to God knows where leaving mother sobbing downstairs.
On far more than one occasion I crept downstairs after Dad had stormed out and caught a glimpse of my mother’s heartbreak from halfway up the stairs. Often, I would head into the kitchen or the living room where my mother would be holding her head with her hands and put a consoling arm around her. My innocent actions naturally increased the tears to near flood levels and my mother, heart-
breakingly grateful that at least her son cared for her, made a determined effort to remain behind the emotional barrier to try to convince me everything was all right and that grown-ups often had arguments, something I would learn when was older. That she was proved right was illustrated with alarming frequency as I made the treacherous journey to adulthood…
The rows were bad enough. The simmering resentment that was all too apparent whilst I was still around during the day was equally soul destroying. My mother’s moods, my father’s sullen imposition - when he actually bothered to be at home when I was there - seeped despair into a young child’s heart and mind. My pals would eagerly ask me at school on Monday mornings what I had done at the weekend. Other than the occasional trip with Dad to
Brockville - and these became more infrequent as the marriage rapidly disintegrated - there was nothing. Either I went out with mother - which inevitably was shopping in Glasgow - or to a football game I cared little about with Dad. I really wanted to go and watch Hearts play in Edinburgh but there was no chance of Dad taking me to Scotland’s capital city. Not when he had ‘the other woman’ to see - to my mother’s obvious chagrin she turned out to be my babysitter’ (I often pondered the term babysitter when ‘the other woman’ came round, particularly as I was seven years old at the time. I half expected her to appear armed with some nappies and a packet of rusks)
As the final year of the 1960s began the only time I spent with both my parents at the same time was on the arduous car journey to see Mum’s mother and father in Aberdeen. This was in the days before the road north was turned into a motorway/dual carriageway and involved a long journey on a long and winding road. One wonders if Paul McCartney made this trip north the inspiration behind his song of the same name. That car journey was usually spent in silence with me desperately trying to amuse myself in the back seat with a cows versus sheep counting contest while Dad kept his eyes on the road, steadfastly avoiding the daggers from Mum. In front of my mother’s family my parents at least seemed to present an united front, particularly in front of me. But while I was off playing with cousins I saw once barely once a year I could still hear the Aberdeen inquisition into what the hell my parents were playing at.
As 1969 entered its final stages, my parents marriage found itself in a similar impasse. They had married in 1959 and as the 1960s dawned it was a brave new era with their lives full of vitality, hope and passion. In the decade that followed all those things suffered a long, painful demise. In November 1969 they had reached the point of no return. My first feeling of heartbreak, the first time I felt a knot in my stomach was when Dad drove Mum and me to a bus stop in
Cumbernauld on a cold November afternoon. He unloaded two suitcases from the boot of his car and placed them at the side of the road. He ruffled my hair and said he would see me soon. His attempt to say goodbye to his wife was greeted by her literally turning the other cheek.. And with that he went back in his car and headed back home. Back to his home. It was no longer my home nor Mum‘s. We stood at the bus stop waiting for the next bus to Glasgow. To Glasgow Queen Street railway station. For the train to Aberdeen. And a new life that, no matter how hard Mum tried to dress it up, would be far, far worse than the one I had in
Cumbernauld.
For a seven year old the pain was acute - but four decades ago there were no help groups to contact, no websites to log on to - and precious little help on offer. It was a case of survive or crumble.
When I reached adulthood, married and had my own children I vowed they would not endure the same pain and anguish. While Laura and Michaela have had their ups and downs they know they have the unstinting love of
both their mother and father. Something I would have given anything for four decades ago...
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