Bedtime Stories
When we were living in Blaenymaes, bedtime was strictly 7 p.m. Not that we ever went to sleep at that time, of course.
Us three boys, Peter, David, and myself, shared one room, while our two sisters slept in another. Peter and David shared a bed, and I had my own. The sheets, if there were any, were made of slippery nylon that never stayed put. More often than not, we ended up on bare mattresses until Mam remembered to wash the bedding, or until we got fed up and did it ourselves.
We had two thin, scratchy blankets each. They were never enough to keep out the cold, so we'd pile on overcoats or whatever else we could scavenge.
The Nightly Ritual
Within minutes of being tucked in, Peter and David would start whispering and quietly giggling. The giggles would turn into snorts, then full-on belly laughs. Before long they'd be bouncing around on the bed, play-fighting, or doing something equally daft.
I generally stayed out of it. I knew what was coming.
Sometimes my father would shout a warning up the stairs, threatening pain if we didn't shut up. That would silence them, for about three minutes. Then they'd crack up again. Eventually, up he'd come.
He'd grab one of them by the arm, haul him upright, and give him a couple of sharp smacks on the backside. Cue tears. Then he'd turn to the other one and repeat. Throughout all this, he'd usually have a cigarette hanging out the corner of his mouth.
I'd be quick to shout, "It wasn't me, Dad — it was them!"
When it came to smacked arses, it was every man for himself.
Justice and Aftermath
Sometimes he didn't hear me in time, and I'd get a smack too, completely unjustified, of course. Peter and David found my outraged protestations hilarious. It's not surprising I hated them.
After delivering his justice, my dad would leave the room in a cloud of cigarette smoke and muttered threats, promising it would be "much worse next time."
Under the blankets, Peter and David would sob theatrically for a bit, until one of them broke the silence with a muffled giggle and muttered, "Didn't hurt."
Then, of course, they'd start again. Sometimes I joined in, knowing full well it'd end in more pain. But I often wonder why we did it at all, knowing exactly how it would play out. Did we just have short memories? Or was the fun of messing about worth the price?
The Exception
One Friday night, however, I was actually allowed to stay up late. It was supposed to be a birthday treat, my chance to stay up past seven and watch TV like a proper grown-up. But that evening, something happened that ruined it completely.
The next piece is about that night, and why, even now, I still feel a burning hatred for Lee Harvey Oswald.