For more than fifteen years, Ive been working at a factory with a certain man whose name is Peter Smith. Were not the closest of chums, but, as it often goes, a workplace becomes a confessional, and over the years, almost every secret and odd occurrence surfaces eventually. Through these drifting conversations, Ive learned that Peter raised his son, Oliver, on his own. His wife had walked out when Oliver was just under five, and Peter picked up the pieces without so much as a complaint.
Peters not a strict father, more of a gentle soul with lofty hopes: he wanted his boy to grow into the sort who’d swap overalls for a suit, working in a cosy office instead of slogging in shops or the mill. Over the years, on rare tea breaks, Id hear that Oliver was a whiz at maths and the sciences, and Peter took every overtime shift offered to squirrel away the pounds for university feesjust in case Oliver didnt snag a full grant or a place at one of the old public schools.
But just a few months before his A-levels, Oliver threw all that out the window. In a fit of unexpected resolve, he told his dad hed join the army after graduation, not university. Supposedly, his girlfriendRosalind, by nameheld the quaint opinion that every decent Englishman ought to serve, and the sooner the better. Oliver brought Rosalind home one Friday evening, eager to parade her beauty before his father. She seemed to come from a background that made Peter quietly uneasy.
He didnt say much, just nodded along while Oliver announced Rosalind would be moving in for a bit. At first, she perched on the living room sofa like a cat whod never seen a cushion, but before long she shifted into Olivers room and started twisting him round her little finger. And then, with sly enthusiasm, it was suggested that instead of those hard-earned savings going to Olivers fees, perhaps Rosalind could use them.
It had always been her dream to be a nurse, but she hadnt scored high enough to get into a public university on her own merits. Peter hesitated, but in the end, gave her the money and sent Oliver off to boot camp, clinging to the hope things might soon sort themselves out. No sooner had Oliver packed off than Rosalind set to worming her way into Peters confidence. She suggested, in sugary tones, that the family home should be traded for two one-bed flats, so that, come Olivers return, the newlyweds would have a nest of their own.
Shed arrived without as much as a penny to her name, yet dared to propose such schemes. Of course, Peters no fool. He senses Rosalinds not to be trusted, but he also knows that once Olivers back and begging, hell likely fold.
Its sad, really. His only son, and fortune has thrown him headlong into this ridiculous, lovesick muddle. The bedsheets swirl into rivers, the kettle boils with fog, and the clock chimes in a language no one speaks.
