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Where the Four Winds Meet
Literary
by Arlene Pearson
Where the Four Winds Meet is the first novella in a Trilogy. This story reveals the emotional journey through time of one man as he tries to discover how his biological father really died.
‘I’m fifty-two years old and today I saw a picture of my father for the very first time. Can you imagine how that feels?’
Bobby is about to open Pandora’s Box to unlock the secrets of his past – but is he prepared for the turbulent secrets which are about to be revealed about his biological father?
‘You know when I was in Germany? A woman came to me and she said, “‘Your husband’s given me a baby as well.’”
How will the two immensely different scenarios, one good, one bad, impact upon the present and especially upon his two sons, a moody wannabe rock star and a ghostbuster who falls for a mental medium?
‘He was a wonderful man you know, your father. Such a lovely brother to have.’
Bobby uncovers what he believes is the truth and resolves to let the past go – until it surfaces once more to haunt him.
Bobby was two years old and in a room with two men. He was being swung from one man to another and spun in the process. He was screaming for them to stop spinning him around but they wouldn’t. They swung and spun, swung and spun until he was so dizzy he couldn’t see. He was hoarse with pleading for them to stop but all he could hear was their laughter and the swish, swish of that grotesque white clock with a pendulum that was moving in time with the swings. Swish, swish. Back and forth, back and forth. They didn’t stop until he was almost physically sick.
***
June 2011
It was a very old photograph, a black and white, head and shoulders shot of a young man in a soldier’s uniform. The dark beret with its central emblem was pulled down to one side over his right eyebrow, obscuring most of his forehead and right ear. The visible eyebrow was thick and black, sloping upwards to create a devilish look reinforced by the brooding dark eyes and moustache. He had a wide, curving mouth with straight white teeth and a dimple in his chin. It looked as if he was wearing a dark necktie and jacket with fur lapels.
Bobby’s features were all twisted as he looked up at his wife Amanda. His left eye throbbed like a heart. ‘It’s him,’ he said. ‘It’s my father.’
The coffee table in front of him was laden with neat piles of old black and white photographs which puddled over onto the floor. He frowned as he concentrated, tiredness flushing his high cheekbones with colour. His pupils were like black pinpricks against brown velvet. The irises were flecked with red as dark as the glass of red wine he clutched in his right hand. He pushed his grey-tinged hair out of the way with impatience, but it continued to flop stubbornly over his craggy features. Frosted light cubes like glacier mints were strung around the conservatory ceiling, a legacy from Christmas. Amanda had liked them so much they’d kept them up all year. The reflections in the glass transformed the darkness of the back garden into endless duplications of tiny bright squares, hanging like curved necklaces.
Bobby waved the photo in the air. ‘This photo wasn’t there this morning.’
‘It must have been,’ Amanda said.
‘It wasn’t. I looked through all of these photos and selected the ones I wanted to keep. I’m telling you, it wasn’t there.’
‘What wasn’t there? Where have all these come from?’ Will, their eldest son, stuck his tousled head round the door, spoon suspended in mid-air above a half-empty jar of jalapenos, blue eyes popping. His barefoot, broad frame followed. Will shared his father’s sloping eyebrows and the dimple in his chin, but otherwise looked nothing like him.
‘They’re old photographs from Gran’s house,’ Amanda said.
Son number two entered, wearing only a pair of jeans and holding a bowl of cereal. At sixteen, Mattie strongly resembled his father, with his deep-set brown eyes, wiry dark hair and square jawline.
‘It’s proper crap, clearing out her house and she isn’t even dead.’ he said.
‘Well, the stuff’s no good to her anymore,’ Bobby said. ‘She can’t even remember who I am nowadays.’
‘There are shedloads of those photos, maybe you missed it?’ Will asked.
‘I went through each one.’
‘Then how did it get there?’ Mattie positioned himself on the wooden floor.
‘I don’t know. Have you even been out of your room today?’
Mattie shrugged and began to roll a cigarette...
‘I’m fifty-two years old and today I saw a picture of my father for the very first time. Can you imagine how that feels?’
Bobby is about to open Pandora’s Box to unlock the secrets of his past – but is he prepared for the turbulent secrets which are about to be revealed about his biological father?
‘You know when I was in Germany? A woman came to me and she said, “‘Your husband’s given me a baby as well.’”
How will the two immensely different scenarios, one good, one bad, impact upon the present and especially upon his two sons, a moody wannabe rock star and a ghostbuster who falls for a mental medium?
‘He was a wonderful man you know, your father. Such a lovely brother to have.’
Bobby uncovers what he believes is the truth and resolves to let the past go – until it surfaces once more to haunt him.
Bobby was two years old and in a room with two men. He was being swung from one man to another and spun in the process. He was screaming for them to stop spinning him around but they wouldn’t. They swung and spun, swung and spun until he was so dizzy he couldn’t see. He was hoarse with pleading for them to stop but all he could hear was their laughter and the swish, swish of that grotesque white clock with a pendulum that was moving in time with the swings. Swish, swish. Back and forth, back and forth. They didn’t stop until he was almost physically sick.
***
June 2011
It was a very old photograph, a black and white, head and shoulders shot of a young man in a soldier’s uniform. The dark beret with its central emblem was pulled down to one side over his right eyebrow, obscuring most of his forehead and right ear. The visible eyebrow was thick and black, sloping upwards to create a devilish look reinforced by the brooding dark eyes and moustache. He had a wide, curving mouth with straight white teeth and a dimple in his chin. It looked as if he was wearing a dark necktie and jacket with fur lapels.
Bobby’s features were all twisted as he looked up at his wife Amanda. His left eye throbbed like a heart. ‘It’s him,’ he said. ‘It’s my father.’
The coffee table in front of him was laden with neat piles of old black and white photographs which puddled over onto the floor. He frowned as he concentrated, tiredness flushing his high cheekbones with colour. His pupils were like black pinpricks against brown velvet. The irises were flecked with red as dark as the glass of red wine he clutched in his right hand. He pushed his grey-tinged hair out of the way with impatience, but it continued to flop stubbornly over his craggy features. Frosted light cubes like glacier mints were strung around the conservatory ceiling, a legacy from Christmas. Amanda had liked them so much they’d kept them up all year. The reflections in the glass transformed the darkness of the back garden into endless duplications of tiny bright squares, hanging like curved necklaces.
Bobby waved the photo in the air. ‘This photo wasn’t there this morning.’
‘It must have been,’ Amanda said.
‘It wasn’t. I looked through all of these photos and selected the ones I wanted to keep. I’m telling you, it wasn’t there.’
‘What wasn’t there? Where have all these come from?’ Will, their eldest son, stuck his tousled head round the door, spoon suspended in mid-air above a half-empty jar of jalapenos, blue eyes popping. His barefoot, broad frame followed. Will shared his father’s sloping eyebrows and the dimple in his chin, but otherwise looked nothing like him.
‘They’re old photographs from Gran’s house,’ Amanda said.
Son number two entered, wearing only a pair of jeans and holding a bowl of cereal. At sixteen, Mattie strongly resembled his father, with his deep-set brown eyes, wiry dark hair and square jawline.
‘It’s proper crap, clearing out her house and she isn’t even dead.’ he said.
‘Well, the stuff’s no good to her anymore,’ Bobby said. ‘She can’t even remember who I am nowadays.’
‘There are shedloads of those photos, maybe you missed it?’ Will asked.
‘I went through each one.’
‘Then how did it get there?’ Mattie positioned himself on the wooden floor.
‘I don’t know. Have you even been out of your room today?’
Mattie shrugged and began to roll a cigarette...