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Authors: William Brodrick
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lessons from such a lady But I came to recognise he was troubled,
despite all his efforts to conceal it from me. Children may not know which
questions to ask but they already sense the answers. He started scratching his
arms, practically scraping the skin off. Before long it was all over his body
He joked it was the lice. So I started itching, and together we’d scratch and
scratch, laughing. One morning he said casually he had to go and see the
doctor. I was fifteen so that would be roughly 1934. I came back from a school
camp three days later and, to my surprise, was met by a young nun who brought
me to a hospital. She kept glancing at me when she thought I was looking the
other way My last memory of my father is that day, sleeping in a white room
with a high ceiling, dressed in a white gown beneath white sheets, and a smell
of strong disinfectant. The nun stayed with me, trying to hold my hand. A
doctor came in and said my father had widespread cancer, and there was nothing
they could do. I was left alone, me on a chair, my father asleep in a bed.
When I turned to go there was a priest standing behind me. He was
short and badly shaven, with bags under his eyes. His name was Father Rochet.
12th April.
Father Rochet. He
had known my father from school-days and would frequently drop by usually when
I was going out. He always looked as if he’d slept badly I had never spoken to
him for long as he was a man of few words. But I saw him a great deal, going
into the flats in and around where we lived, which I suppose was strange
because it was not his parish. He was a great one for carrying something under
his coat. I used to think it was a bottle, though I know better now My father
said he was always getting into trouble with his bishop, which Father Rochet
thought very funny Anyway there he was, behind me in the hospital, looking as
if he’d just got out of bed. I followed him into the corridor. Everything had
been arranged, he said. I was to go with him and he would take me to the house
of a friend. We would talk about my future another time.
Father Rochet took me in his car. Neither of us spoke. It was a
black night and the rain was so heavy I could not recognise any streets or
buildings. I remember watching the windscreen wipers and wondering how they
worked. The water falling in sheets across the glass. Eventually we arrived. I
opened the door and saw what I least expected or wanted: Parc Monceau.
Up those stairs I went, dripping everywhere. By now I was crying.
When the door opened, Madame Klein scowled and shook her head. ‘For heaven’s
sake, stop soaking the floor.’ Those were her first words.
My father died that night.
Father Rochet came to see me after the funeral. Again he hadn’t
shaved properly, and this time I could have sworn he smelled ever so slightly
of stale wine, which distracted me from taking on board what he said. It was my
father’s wish that I now live with Madame Klein. He had seen to all the
finances.
And so I believed family resources had sustained me in the past and
would do so in the future. I didn’t realise they were both feeding me a story
to save my dignity.
I wasn’t to know Father Rochet had introduced my father to Madame
Klein when we first arrived in Paris; I wasn’t to know my father went out each
day in a suit, then changed and earned his living cleaning floors. I wasn’t to
know that Madame Klein was our landlady; that she had waived the rent from the
outset; that she had given the piano to my father; that my lessons were free;
that both of them were what some call saints.
13th April.
Madame Klein was
the most extraordinary woman I have ever known. She must have been in her early
seventies when I came to live with her. At first I thought maybe I was there to
act as a nurse. Far from it. She was too busy to want any help.
Her husband had died about ten years earlier. He’d been a gifted
violinist, and his death had come without any warning while
despite all his efforts to conceal it from me. Children may not know which
questions to ask but they already sense the answers. He started scratching his
arms, practically scraping the skin off. Before long it was all over his body
He joked it was the lice. So I started itching, and together we’d scratch and
scratch, laughing. One morning he said casually he had to go and see the
doctor. I was fifteen so that would be roughly 1934. I came back from a school
camp three days later and, to my surprise, was met by a young nun who brought
me to a hospital. She kept glancing at me when she thought I was looking the
other way My last memory of my father is that day, sleeping in a white room
with a high ceiling, dressed in a white gown beneath white sheets, and a smell
of strong disinfectant. The nun stayed with me, trying to hold my hand. A
doctor came in and said my father had widespread cancer, and there was nothing
they could do. I was left alone, me on a chair, my father asleep in a bed.
When I turned to go there was a priest standing behind me. He was
short and badly shaven, with bags under his eyes. His name was Father Rochet.
12th April.
Father Rochet. He
had known my father from school-days and would frequently drop by usually when
I was going out. He always looked as if he’d slept badly I had never spoken to
him for long as he was a man of few words. But I saw him a great deal, going
into the flats in and around where we lived, which I suppose was strange
because it was not his parish. He was a great one for carrying something under
his coat. I used to think it was a bottle, though I know better now My father
said he was always getting into trouble with his bishop, which Father Rochet
thought very funny Anyway there he was, behind me in the hospital, looking as
if he’d just got out of bed. I followed him into the corridor. Everything had
been arranged, he said. I was to go with him and he would take me to the house
of a friend. We would talk about my future another time.
Father Rochet took me in his car. Neither of us spoke. It was a
black night and the rain was so heavy I could not recognise any streets or
buildings. I remember watching the windscreen wipers and wondering how they
worked. The water falling in sheets across the glass. Eventually we arrived. I
opened the door and saw what I least expected or wanted: Parc Monceau.
Up those stairs I went, dripping everywhere. By now I was crying.
When the door opened, Madame Klein scowled and shook her head. ‘For heaven’s
sake, stop soaking the floor.’ Those were her first words.
My father died that night.
Father Rochet came to see me after the funeral. Again he hadn’t
shaved properly, and this time I could have sworn he smelled ever so slightly
of stale wine, which distracted me from taking on board what he said. It was my
father’s wish that I now live with Madame Klein. He had seen to all the
finances.
And so I believed family resources had sustained me in the past and
would do so in the future. I didn’t realise they were both feeding me a story
to save my dignity.
I wasn’t to know Father Rochet had introduced my father to Madame
Klein when we first arrived in Paris; I wasn’t to know my father went out each
day in a suit, then changed and earned his living cleaning floors. I wasn’t to
know that Madame Klein was our landlady; that she had waived the rent from the
outset; that she had given the piano to my father; that my lessons were free;
that both of them were what some call saints.
13th April.
Madame Klein was
the most extraordinary woman I have ever known. She must have been in her early
seventies when I came to live with her. At first I thought maybe I was there to
act as a nurse. Far from it. She was too busy to want any help.
Her husband had died about ten years earlier. He’d been a gifted
violinist, and his death had come without any warning while
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