22. The Pricking Of The Bubble (1973)

Main Index

The Au Pairs
The Step-stepfather
The Simulated Wank
The Toy Store
The First Single
The Queeny Put-Down
The First Hissy Fit
The First Gay Club
The Rent Boy
The Heterosexual Phase
The Lifestyle Switch
The Empty Floor
The First Poem
The Amsterdam Weekend
The First Time
The Perfect Moment
The Year In Berlin
The Trade Years
The First Memory
The Anniversary Party
The Incompetencies
The Pricking Of The Bubble
The Club Residencies
The "Tales of the City" House
The Musical Epiphany
The Worst Thing I Ever Did To Anyone
The Royal Procession
The Parental Disclosure
The Concept Albums
The Romantic Obsession
The Failure
The Apotheosis of Queer
The Shove From Above
The Interrogation
The Professional Rut
The Rebirthday
The First Boyfriend
The "Catharsis Of Joy"
The Funeral Address
The Falling In Love

troubled diva

Verily, we are Janet and f***ing John.

One evening in July 1973, my father comes into my room. I am sitting up in bed, reading “Rogue Male” by Geoffrey Household, toys and comics all over the floor. He starts talking about how he and Mummy haven’t been getting along very well recently. I have noticed this, but then they have always had their rows from time to time. He’s talking very gently, in a different voice than normal, and he’s building up to something.

“And, well, there are such things as divorces…”

I can still hear my sudden, gasping intake of breath. After which I burst into tears, and so – unbelievably – does he. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen me cry before”, he says, and this is quite true, and quite strange. I am already going numb inside, and while part of me is still crying, another part of me is detaching itself, observing and analysing.

My father carries on talking in this gentle voice, and with the wisdom of hindsight, I can see now that he has prepared for this carefully, and is handling the situation with great finesse and delicacy. Looking at one of my comics down by his feet, he even manages a joke ("I feel like Shiver And Shake now!”)

Mummy is going to be leaving, and she’s going to be getting married to Mr. G, and they’re going to live in another village a few miles away. This is all going to happen quite soon. Mummy and Daddy have been keeping it all secret, ever since last September when Mummy told Daddy she was leaving him. They didn’t tell us what was going on because they didn’t want to upset us any further. So they’ve just been pretending that everything was still normal, until now.

So, for the past nine months we have only been pretending to be a happy family. It wasn’t real. It’s all been an act. And I didn’t see through it.

My father leaves and my Mother comes in, all smiles, painting an entirely cheerful picture of our future. He wants us to call him Joe. They will only be living a few miles away, and we’ll be going to visit them every so often. We won’t have to leave this house, because she knows we love it here, and because the new house will be quite small, and because Daddy can afford to look after us better. Maybe she’ll get us a little cat, because my sister has always wanted one. Wouldn’t that be fun? Wouldn’t she be pleased?

It’s strange. I smile back and give the appearance of cheering up, but I’m doing this more for her sake, and more to keep the peace. We have avoided talking about the difficult stuff – about how upset I must be feeling. I don’t want to spoil this illusion that everything is going to be super, and so I instantly collude with it. Thus in this one short conversation, a barrier goes up between us - of polite smiles, fixed jolliness, and emotional distance. It takes many, many years for this barrier to weaken.

However, I find that I am not angry with my mother for breaking up our happy family and leaving us behind, or anything like that. Not even for one second do I ever think that way. She doesn’t love Daddy any more, and she does love Mr. G – Joe. So, of course she must get married to him.

None the less, my view of divorce, from within my safe little well brought up bubble, is that it is an awful, horrible, shameful, tragic thing, which only happens to people who aren’t like us. And I strongly feel that I absolutely must not talk about it to anybody. Keen to avoid upsetting us further, neither of my parents talk about it after tonight, either. So, I bottle up my sadness and my shame, and carry it around inside me. In my head, all the happiness of my childhood has come to a sudden and complete end, and can never be regained. My life from now on will be forever tainted with this terrible sadness, hanging over me at all times, affecting everything I do. This is the way I see things, and there is nobody there to make me see them otherwise.

After my parents have left the room, I pick up a felt tip pen, open my copy of “Rogue Male” (which I never finish), and solemnly, with a dazed sense of calm purposefulness, write today’s date in the margin of the page I am reading. I then draw a neat line right across the page, dividing the last sentence of my old life, before my father came in my room and pricked my bubble, from the first sentence of my new, so much more real life.

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