Shopping and Separation

(Image: My 10th Birthday,  just a few weeks before Dad left for Oman.)

It’s a breezy Saturday in March 1985, I've just turned 10, and we’re off to Plymouth for a day out. We pull into the NCP car park in our new car—well, not brand new; it's a 1983 Ford Escort Ghia. I tell everyone at school that it has a computer in it, but it’s just a digital clock above the rear-view mirror. It feels very modern and cosy, although I still miss the old Rover.

The engine died after our trip to Cumbria. We drove all the way from Penrith, and just as we pulled into the cul-de-sac, that was the end of that car. Mummy hasn’t passed her test yet, so when daddy goes to Oman, she’ll have to ask the neighbour to drive us to the big Tesco.

Mummy and I wait in the car while daddy pops off to get the pay-and-display ticket. A strong smell of petrol hangs in the air throughout the multistorey. We’re parked next to a bright orange Opel Manta.

I’m wearing my brown cords and Velcro trainers, plus the Royal Navy jumper  daddy got for me, just like the one he wears. It has patches on the elbows and flaps for the epaulettes. Daddy always says I'm "Smart as a guardsman, not quite as tall.” One day, I might be both.

Soon, daddy will leave for Oman, and I'm  struggling to grapple with that thought. Today, however, we’re here to have a mooch around, grab a bite to eat, and maybe do some shopping.

I'm clutching my dad’s hand as we walk down the car park stairs. I’m going to miss him a lot, but I’m trying not to think about the day he’ll leave.

A bracing breeze blows in from Plymouth Sound, and seagulls circle above the grey, weathered 1960s architecture. It’s not the prettiest city centre; I prefer the smaller towns like Totnes and Salcombe. Still, Plymouth has the big shops, a cinema, and most importantly, a Wimpy.

“Can we, mummy?” I point at it across the busy road. Western National buses spew diesel fumes, and I turn away as a cloud approaches. “Maybe, or how about the fish place?” I wrinkle my nose and smile, “Er… how about Wimpy?” I reply.
“I thought you might say that!”, daddy says. He tickles me and makes me laugh.

We’re all together, and I feel safe and loved. This is what family life should be—it’s all of us, together. Before we eat, we’re heading to Dingles department store; Mummy wants some tights, and daddy needs some shirts for Oman.

From the chilly breeze and into the store, we are met with a waft of perfume. A lady with a big perm hands out samples and sprays customers' wrists with fragrances that all smell the same to me. We live only 17 miles away, but coming to Dingles feels like a different world.

I watch him choose his shirts for Oman and imagine him wearing them, just without us. I picture him sitting alone, having dinner, or perhaps in a car driving along a desert road past camels and mosques, as mummy and I eat roast chicken in our tiny dining room.

Finally, we reach the toy department. There’s a smell of newness reminiscent of sitting in new cars at the tiny Ford showroom in my village. A wall of Star Wars figures, Matchbox cars, board games, Lego, and Action Force greets me—everything smells like  the inside of a brand-new Ford Sierra.

Two boys are eyeing the remote-control cars. The sound of yapping teddy dogs doing summersaults fills the air. A girl plays with Speak and Spell, and a boy my age gazes into a Tomytronic. A talking Teddy Ruxpin entertains nearby. I’m captivated by a Triumph Acclaim Corgi car.

“What have you got there?”, daddy asks, putting an arm around my shoulder.
“Look, it says you can steer it with the wing mirrors.”

“Let’s have a look. Wow, that’s great, isn’t it?” He takes it from me and walks to the cash register to buy it. Thank you, daddy. It’s hard for him to leave and I don't really know why he's going out there. Mummy says it's to help him deal with the loss of his dad, which really confuses me. How would being in Oman help him? Does he not need me?

It wasn’t merely a job; it was, in effect, a form of separation, but I wouldn’t understand that until many years later. I hug my dad tightly, and he kisses me. I stand on the escalator in front of them. I turn, they're standing beside each other but not talking. They love each other; I know they do.

Inside Wimpy, the lights are bright and the air is full of laughter and conversation. A warm aroma of burgers and chips wafts through the air. I order a quarter pounder with cheese, chips, and a Coke, followed by a Brown Derby. The food is served on china plates, and it feels like a special treat—we don’t do this often.

I feel a thousand miles away from our village on the edge of Dartmoor. Just a few months ago, I came here for a birthday party where we made models from flimsy metal ashtrays. “I Won’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me” plays in the background.

After lunch, we stroll along Armada Way, but clouds cover the sun, and it’s chilly now. We make our way to The Hoe, passing the lighthouse. Up until a week ago, daddy worked as a Gunnery Officer at HMS Cambridge, just a few miles from Plymouth. The wind howls, and the three of us huddle close together. The sea is choppy. He spots a frigate and identifies it immediately. I remember the time when I feared I might lose him; he was supposed to go to the Falkland Islands in 1982.

The secretary who received his letter forgot to pass it on. The letter said that said he wanted to serve.  I later found out he'd have been on HMS Coventry. Things didn’t end well for that ship or her crew. Fire. Death. Loss. Sadness.  He was angry that he didn't go, but I got to keep my daddy.

In my mind, I hear the theme tune from BBC Panorama, accompanied by haunting images of burnt sailors and explosions on ships—a flash of light, a helicopter amidst thick black smoke trying to rescue people. The music and scenes follow me into my dreams.

I squint my eyes against the wind. It cuts through, hurting my ears. “That’ll be choppy today,” daddy remarks, and I can sense a part of him yearning to be out there. This time next week, he’ll be thousands of miles away.

As we walk back through town, a light drizzle begins to fall, and we pull up the hoods on our rain jackets. My parents hold each other and smile—perhaps all is not lost. An old man plays a mouth organ next to C&A. Three punks with green and orange Mohawks drink beer and dance to the music.

Men gather outside Dixons, eyes glued to the new televisions as they watch the results of the football scores. “Daddy… can I just check the Albion result?” The wind blows the rain sideways and Mum looks tired. The scores are rolling in… come on, please… please… Oh well, lost again. Time to head home.

We return to the NCP car park, trudging up the cold, grey staircase that doesn’t smell too pleasant. The radio hums with static until we’re out of the concrete world. Mum switches on the heater. We pass the bombed cathedral; signs point east—A38, Plympton, Exeter (M5). Soon, the concrete gives way to fields and moorland.

We’re back in our world.

A smell of wood smoke wafts through the heater vents in our car.  As we turn into the estate, I catch sight of  Colin on his BMX, wellies thick with mud.  He waves. Careless Whisper on the radio. Home now: bath time, dinner, and a James Bond film on television. Mummy closes the curtains. I didn’t want this day to end. Daddy leaves for Oman soon. My stomach churns.

Fast forward two weeks, and the day has arrived. I’m busy making a model skyscraper from old cardboard box.

He’s too busy with his bags to really notice, but he glances at it for a moment. I don’t want that moment to end. A white Vauxhall Cavalier pulls up outside—a taxi for Totnes Station. “Daddy has to go now, James.” He stands at the door with his bags while I hold him tightly. A flurry of kisses follows, and I don’t want to let go. The taxi driver is waiting, and mummy is in tears.

The car drives away over the hill. We sit on the settee, holding each other, watching the birds on the lawn washing in the rain. The house is slient, just the sound of the small grandfather clock that belonged to daddy's grandad. It always seems to be raining in South Brent. I look at my toy car and think about the great day in Plymouth.

Daddy's is in a taxi on his way to Totnes station. He'll be in his flat when we're fast asleep. I hope he's thinking of us. Actually, I know he's thinking of us.