Sleeper in the Valley

10.

Diary of Nicolas Garrett Holland

I found a bunch of letters that Dad had sent Mum whilst he was in the war. Poor Dad. Sounds like he had a right awful time. Maybe it was better that he didn't come home. It would've been difficult trying to readjust to normal life after experiencing what he did. Mum would hate me saying that, but that's what happened with Uncle Harry.

Mum kept the letters he sent her in an old chest with his dress uniform. She won't put his army photo out, says it's their fault he's not here. She's not wrong. In the photograph Dad looks scared, his mouth a thin line, hands clutching the hat in his lap tightly, knuckles white.

I wish I knew him and that he knew me. Mum tells me stories about him, like when he was courting her and after they were married, even some stories he'd told her about his childhood, but I know it hurts her to talk about him. But she does it for me. Because she wants me to know who he was.

She's always said how proud he was of me, how much he loved me and how he left for the War because he believed it was the right thing to do. "Damn that noble man" she'd always mutter, staring out the window as if she could see Dad outside. I think she does sometimes see him.

Most of my earliest memories are of everyone crying or staring blankly at nothing. I know Mum feels guilty about that, blames herself for not being stronger, but every February and March, after all these years, without fail, she will retreat into herself. It's like she returns to 1915 and relives Dad and Theresa's deaths, suffering those days over and over again until the calendar flips to April and she's back to normal, or at least what's normal for her. She still does it now, and no amount of cajoling or merriment can snap her out of it.

When I was a child I'd try and get her attention, singing songs and tell her stories as she sat in Dad's chair, not understanding why my usually attentive mother was staring at the wall as if in a trance. It was only after Uncle Sam was living with us permanently that he took me aside and told me that Mum would be okay, but that for now she needed to be left alone. Of course, I could never do that, sitting at her feet as I drew, dramatically acting out the stories on the radio for her, or climbing into her lap for a cuddle, wrapping her arms around me because she couldn't snap out of her head.

I remember hating parents day at school, when other kids Dad's would come in and tell us what they did for work. I wasn't the only one who didn't have a Dad, but it still hurt. Uncle Sam would fill in for Dad occasionally, but the other kids were scared of the scars on his face and the quiet, sombre way he spoke. Mum says that Uncle Sam used to be the life of the party, but that he's been like this since Uncle Harry died. Something about twin connections.

When I was fifteen and playing rugby, I was envious of all the others whose Dad's stood on the sidelines, cheering them on. Mum was always there, screaming bloody murder, but it wasn't the same.

I wish I could tell Dad all the stuff I've done. How I'm a carpenter like him, but that I want to study to be a historian. How the War ended and it looks like there's another one starting. I won't join though. Mum's already made me swear on him and Theresa not to.

I wish Dad knew how Mum still talks to him when she's doing stuff and thinks no one's around. I caught her the other day telling him off for tasting the gravy as she stirred it. She giggled and then her shoulders slumped as she remembered it was all in her head.

I wish he knew that on his birthday Mum burns a candle for him all day and sings "Happy Birthday" before she blows it out. Or that on their wedding anniversary she puts on her wedding dress, lies down on their bed, and whispers her vows to his suit.

Sometimes I wonder if he and Theresa are up there together, watching over Mum and I, waiting for us to eventually join them. I said that to Mum once, when I was a young and believed in Heaven. Mum's face went blank, as it usually does when I mention Theresa, and then she said "I hope that wherever they are, it's nice".

With the letters, I found a diary. Two actually. The diary Dad kept when he was in France and the diary Mum kept during and after the War. I read them both in secret. How Dad struggled with the violence and gore, the visions he of Mum, how he wanted to die.
And Mum, poor Mum; she wrote countless entries about Theresa, how she was judged for Theresa's death and held herself responsible even though it wasn't her fault, how could it be?!

Mum wrote about wanting to die too, imagining herself reunited with Dad and Theresa, but she couldn't leave me behind, so she kept on going for my sake. That's why I don't ask about Theresa much anymore, because I know now the guilt Mum carries with her, even after all this time.

I asked Uncle Sam about it once. He just said that he has no idea how Mum kept it all together. But somehow she did. He said she saved him, Nan and Pop, even Uncle Paddy, more times than they cared to admit. Says Dad must have imbued some of his stubbornness in her, given her a strength and determination that I don't think even she realises she has.

I'm gonna surprise Mum on Dad's Birthday. In her diary she said that she wished she had some place where she could visit him. So I've made a special bench for her and I've carved their vows into the wood. I'm going to put it underneath the tree in the backyard and she can sit there and talk to him whenever she wants.

Marie-Claude thinks it's a grand idea. "C'est une idée merveilleuse, mon amour!" she says, patting my arm and returning to her book.

My beautiful wife. Mum likes her, says that Dad would've too.

I wish Dad could've met her.

We've just found out she's pregnant. I'm going to be a father! I've already decided that if it's a boy we'll name him after Dad. Marie just nods and smiles, probably hoping for it to be a girl; if it is a girl, she can name it, I don't mind.

I can't wait to surprise Mum with Dad's bench and Marie's pregnancy. I know she doesn't like surprises, but I get a feeling she'll like this one.