The family name

My grandfather lied to my grandmother. I guess it runs in the family.

That’s my first memory as a child. I’m not sure if that says more about me or him. I pretend to be honest with my wife, and for some time I was.

I had seen on the morning of Monday, 6th of July, my grandfather with another woman. It hadn’t occurred to me at the time what they were doing, or maybe it had, I’m not sure. Considering that I can still hear him now, clear as day, “I have been at the garage all morning sweetheart,” he said, looking straight into my loving grandmother’s eyes.

I remember wondering why he had lied, but most importantly how he did it so well. I wasn’t yet aware it could be done so easily. 20 years later with two decades of watching my father do the same I have also gained the ability, and hate myself for it.

On Tuesday she asked me the most peculiar question.

“Bill, honey, has your grandfather told you anything about his whereabouts yesterday?” My grandmother asked me, holding a bag of sweets as a bribe.

My first reaction was pity. I remember feeling a lump in my throat, as one does when stuck between a rock and a hard place or in this case a white lie and hurtful truth. Having to stoop to the point of asking her 8-year-old grandson about her suspicions on her cheating husband. I did not blame her though.

It is strange how much a child can understand without acknowledging what is right in front of them. Never had it occurred to me what was really going on. I just knew that whatever my grandfather was up to it was wrong, and the truth would hurt my grandmother. I could see it in her eyes.

“Dad took me to see him in the afternoon before we came to pick you up,” I said, while my eyes studied the brand of my shoes. This was true. In the moment I thought a little white lie was best. Now I am not so sure.

They were all the same I decided.

Adults, all liars… So I unconsciously became one myself. We try to blame our issues on the past and maybe we have a right to. But at the end of the day, it’s how we deal with our problems in the present day that matter. And look at how I am dealing with mine. A pistol and a glass of whisky. A perfect match-up if there ever was one.

In case you were wondering, my grandmother did find out. Which I think was best. Unfortunately, it wasn’t just the one woman my grandfather had sneaked off to see. He had been having affairs since the day they got married, literally, he had been with her bridesmaid the evening of their wedding day.

There are certain things your mind doesn’t forget from childhood that you will carry with you your entire life. My grandfather bellowing, “ Jasmine blew me under the apple tree,” with a paper crown on his head is one of mine. The truth came out during a family Christmas dinner, ruining Christmas for the Jones’ family forever.

Nana must have known for a while. I never asked, but I suspect my parents knew too. I hate them for that. They were the adults, they were supposed to handle things.

I was a teenager at this time. Must have been about 14, so just at the ripe age of learning about sex and relationships. What a way to start; adultery, lies, shattered glasses thrown against walls, and screams of anger and disappointment, thanks grandpa…

The joy and excitement of Christmas morning fading away like the heat on my uneaten Yorkshire puddings. I sat there in silence watching them argue. My grandmother in a split of rage and sadness with something hard and heavy in her hand ready to be thrown at her unfaithful husband of 40 years. My mother in tears, for her doubts about her father, had become true so suddenly. My father sat at the end of the table drinking his glass of Merlot pretending he was in a cabin in the woods surrounded by nothing than the sound of the summer breeze hitting the trees. His lack of emotion and reaction told me he had known all along and will now have to face the wrath of questioning from my mother.

You don’t grass up your in-laws, that’s just common sense.

Of course, I now know he was as guilty himself. He wasn’t as bad as my grandfather, true, it was only the one woman he had had an affair with. Well, at least we know of. I hate him nonetheless.

This I had discovered, at the age of 16 from getting home after school to see the sight of my mother balled up on the sofa surrounded by tear-soaked tissues and an empty bottle of gin.

“Where’s dad?” I asked, already understanding what had happened.

“I don’t know. Hell hopefully,” she replied, not bothering to give me an explanation.

And now here I am myself. Cheating on my wife, not with another woman, no, that would be too cliche and played-out. I got with the times and decided to cheat on my wife of 15 years with a man.

Maybe my subconscious felt like a traditional affair wouldn’t provide me with enough guilt. So it decided to wake up some unexplored hormones and emotions lying inside me at the age of 26, saying, “Hey, feel bad enough about your life and who you are as a person? Now I’m making you realise you have been gay all along. Surprise!”

She found him in the Terminal Bar and Grill.

Out of all the ways my wife discovering I have been cheating on her for the past three years I had never expected her to befriend my lover.

Out of all the things I adore about Tom, his big mouth was never one of them. They were both strangers who -unfortunately for me- crossed paths in the wrong place at the wrong time. They had got to know each other over drinks and deep-fried appetizers, which was all well and good until he said,” I have a boyfriend, well I say boyfriend, he’s married to some poor bitch who has no idea her husband’s gay.”

After a small conversation of questions like, “ Where do you live? What do you do? What does your boyfriend do?” it didn’t take long for her to put two and two together. Honestly, I don’t know how I got away with it for so long. I never realised it had been three years until it had ended. Three years of lying, deceit and manipulation. I truly do live up to my family’s name.

On the following Friday, we packed our bags and planned our escape.

My marriage was over, that much I was certain of. So, like the coward I am, I ran.

Tom had always wanted to go to Bordeaux in France. In a pit of despair and fear, I suggested we go. He had felt so guilty for letting slip our affair to who he believed to be a total stranger but was, in fact, the very person from who the secret had to be held. He would do anything for me. He was in love with me. I’m sorry I can’t say the same. He was my hobby, my way of adventure, of feeling something real and mischievous.

Friday morning I sat in my car in front of my house I had of course been kicked out of. I waited for my wife to go to work. As soon as she had, I went inside to pack up everything of value to me without a single intention of ever going back.

Tom was under the impression that we were going on a “decluttering mind” holiday, was the term I believed I used. Where in fact we were moving, fleeing out of the country. I see how ridiculous an idea it is now, but at the time, the only focus I had was running, and of course more lies.

We had rented an Airbnb from a couple who summered in the south of Spain and would not be back for at least two months. I told Tom I had booked a week, where in reality it was a month. I wrongly assumed that would give me enough time for a new plan.

We had spent a pleasant week together; dining in fancy French restaurants, drinking overpriced red wine, visiting museums, going to clubs we were too old to be in, all the typical gay stuff. I don’t recognise myself most days.

It wasn’t so much that I had been blind to the truth. It was just that I had seen the truth differently.

For the past few years, I have been having memories of my childhood pop into my mind.

Being in the gym watching my classmates undress, admiring my math teacher Mr Richards, my friends bringing a dirty magazine into school which they all seemed to think was the wildest thing they ever saw, and me just staring at the triple paged naked woman without much care or arousal.

I ask myself now, did I always know? Did I push it all deep down for so long? Or did it never occur to me?

I remember thinking that I won’t be like my father and his father. I would be different. Well, it’s not what I had in mind but it’s definitely different!

I’m sorry to ramble like this, I’m sure you’re probably wondering where I am right now with my glass of whisky and trusty pocket pistol.

Well, I’m sat on the floor of my house, yes that’s right, the one I swore to never go back to ( I know what you’re thinking; “Bloody hell man, can you not commit to anything?”)

It didn’t take long for Tom to realise I had no intention of leaving. Frankly, I believe he always knew. Just like he knew I never loved him. He lied to himself, maybe that’s why I couldn’t love him. He reminded me too much of myself.

So, of course, he left me, in a strange way I respect him for it. We had the arguments, tears were shed, things were thrown, hurtful words were said, everything you would expect. Before I knew it I was alone in a country that I didn’t even like. I tried going out to find someone to have sex with believing that it would make me feel better. Which is difficult when the only words you can speak of their language are “bonjour” and “ baguette.” Even when you do have the choice between man or woman.

So back to the apartment it was. I had my few days of crying, feeling sorry for myself and masturbating ( because that’s what you do when you’re depressed) and with money running short I had to leave. The only place I could think of to go was back home.

The moment I turned the corner of the street I knew something was wrong.

I unlocked the front door and walked into an empty house. The irony almost made me laugh. I felt as empty as the room I was standing in. She had taken everything; the furniture, the pictures, the plants, everything but the glass cabinet in the corner of the dining room with nothing but a bottle of my favourite single malt whisky. She knew I would come back.

So, that brings us to know. I can see the stain on the wall she could never get rid of, from the drink that had been thrown at my grandfather all those years ago.

I don’t even know why I’m writing this. I suppose I wanted to apologise, but what good would it do? Why ask for forgiveness, when I don’t believe I deserve it.

I spent my entire life lying. I feel disappointed in myself not because I lied to others, but because I lied to myself. The weight of the pistol in my hand tells me I won’t make that mistake again.