The Free Spirit

One's Own Personal Hell; 1973 (Part Two)

"We're all just prisoners here of our own device..."

It rained on the sixteenth of July, 1973. I don't mean misting with dark clouds hanging overhead with humidity high enough to bring your hair into the 1980's, I mean a cold, frigid, mournful downpour. Don sent our family home before him on the morning of the fifteenth, waking up and asking us to go home, that he'd see us on the sixteenth. He never said when he was going to arrive or how he was getting home, so despite my exhaustion, I stayed awake just waiting for something - anything. I waited by the telephone hoping Don would ring me saying he was at the airport or train station or bus station, or that he was waiting for a cabbie to pick him up, but no call ever came. As I sat downstairs waiting for any sign of my husband, well past one in the morning, Maggie came down the stairs and stood on the bottom step, her beautiful blue eyes peering at me over the railing through her brilliant blonde curls.

"Maggie, it's half past one in the morning. You should be sleeping," I said to her.

"So should you," she replied, not moving from the staircase.

"Are you all right, love? Do you want Mummy to get you a glass of water or a snack or-"

"Is Daddy all right?" I paused as she interrupted me, and I let out a sigh.

"I don't know... He's had a terrible shock, though, hasn't he?"

"What about Uncle Phil? Is he all right?"

"Sweetie, I couldn't say. He was quite angry, last I saw him." She hopped off the bottom step, teddy bear in tow, and stood beside the couch.

"Is everything gonna change now? Are we gonna have to move?"

"I don't know... At the moment, I don't know anything, sweetheart. I don't even know where Daddy is or how the last two shows went or..." The two of us heard a noise at the door and we both turned to look at it, and then the door opened and in walked Don, soaking wet from the rain wearing a new hat and a bright yellow raincoat. He closed the door behind him and shook off the rain, then began to unzip his jacket before he felt two pairs of eyes on him and looked up.

"...evenin'," he said to us, not even questioning why his eight-year-old daughter was up so late past her bedtime.

"Evening? Donald, it's a quarter of two in the morning," I told him.

"Yeah?" he asked, and he took off his wet coat and hung it on the coat rack, then kicked off his boots and walked into the kitchen. I then turned to my daughter.

"Maggie, sweetie, why don't you go on up to bed, hen?" I asked her.

"Why didn't Daddy see me?" she asked, a little hurt by her father's lack of acknowledgement of her.

"He's has a long day, sweetie. I'll make sure he tucks you in and kisses you goodnight, so go on and wait for him in your bed," I told her, and she did as she was told, surprisingly rare for Maggie. I walked into the kitchen and leaned against the archway watching him crack open a bottle of beer. "Really, Don? Drinking at almost two in the morning?"

"Don't yell at me, I had a long day," he said numbly.

"I'm not yelling at you. If you've had such a long day, why don't you come to bed?" I asked him.

"I ain't tired," he replied.

"Don-"

"Look, Catherine, just leave me alone, all right?" I was a little taken aback by his sharp words, but I stood my ground.

"You're waltzing in here at a quarter of two in the morning, no word all day on your whereabouts, no phone call, no telegram, no nothing, worrying your wife and four children whom have all been asking where their daddy is, and all you have to say for yourself is 'leave me alone, I'm tired'. I'm bloody tired, too, Donald. I've waited up quite literally all day and night for you!" I shouted back at him, and he let out a sigh.