Man Of Few Words

Chapter 10

So that is... well, was my career. Now you know what I did for a living and how it contrasts with the work you are now reading. It's been one long excuse for not writing very much at a time so far, hasn't it? Well, I say 'long'...

Let's go all the way back, then. The beginning seems as good a place to start as any, I suppose. Not that this is the start of the book any more, of course. But you know what I mean...

I was born in the small Oxfordshire village of Pearford, not in a hospital, but at the home of my parents, Mr. Markus Alexander and his wife Elaine.

Our home was on a long, very narrow lane that branched out from the centre of the village towards the fields and scattered patches of woodland that surrounded it. It really was a very narrow lane. Only wide enough for one car to squeeze through for most of its length, and not particularly straight, so residents had to get very good at reversing swiftly and efficiently, or else become quite unpopular with other residents who no doubt had very important places to go, and no time for anyone who couldn't drive backwards out of the lane as skillfully as they themselves could.

This being an authentic village lane, there was pretty much no uniformity to the buildings along either side of it. There were a few semi-detached houses, and one short terrace, but generally every dwelling was a unique expression of its owner's pride at being middle-class enough to pretend to be upper-class. The only discernable pattern was that the further along the lane you went, the bigger and more obnoxious the houses became. We're not talking mansions or pseudo-palaces or anything that extravagant. Just houses that took up a lot of room and looked really bloody pleased with themselves. Our place was near the top of the lane, close to the village.

For as long as I can remember, the Alexander residence was referred to as a "cottage", but I'm not sure it really was one. It wasn't that old or that small, and it certainly wasn't thatched or timber framed. The upstairs wasn't even built into the roof space. I think my parents called it a cottage because they liked how it sounded and, to be fair, it did have certain cottage-esque qualities.

For example, while it wasn't built from Cotswold stone – Pearford isn't in the Cotswolds – it had definitely been built with a kind of Cotswold effect in mind. The stonework on the outside walls had that same irregular, yet somehow very neat, patterning that you get on classic Cotswold buildings, but the characteristic yellow colour had not been recreated. Instead, it was a sort of pale, sandy grey. It wasn't a bad effort at imitation overall though, and the blanket of ivy covering most of one end of the building really added to the authentic cottage effect. As did the haphazard phalanx of small trees and large bushes crammed into the tiny front garden. The back garden was much the same, only a little bigger. There was grass in among all the woody stems, but you couldn't really call it a lawn. Dad did all his mowing with a strimmer.

I think my parents liked the idea of their home being nestled among the trees, like a precious little box, with leafy, green cotton wool keeping it safe from harm. Personally, I found it a little gloomy and remember, when I was really little, looking enviably upon the big, flat, open lawn of the larger house next door. Our back garden kinda backed onto the side of theirs, and I would just stand there, peering out of the thick foliage of my own surroundings, wishing that I could go and run around over there. And wondering why I never saw any kids doing that.

Our neighbours were an older couple whose kids had all moved out, so they just kept their lawn nice. They barely ever even set foot on it. What a waste.

At the side of the cottage was a gravel driveway with a really pointless gate across it. I suppose the point of the gate was to give the impression that some grand estate – and not merely more gravel and a miniature jungle – lay beyond. It was actually just a source of hassle though, and mum usually just parked our compact Mercedes 190 out front. The back section of the driveway only got used when we had visitors.

Dad, by the way, never parked the car. He never drove at all, in fact. And still doesn't. He can drive, and I'm pretty sure he still has a valid licence, but he just doesn't. He was involved in a pretty bad accident before I was born, I think. I don't really know the details.

Shortly after they'd bought the cottage, my parents had had a small porch added to the front of it. This made the front garden even more cramped, but served as a place to take off our shoes and leave our coats. I think they maybe added it on because the cottage didn't have a hall, and they found it somehow alarming that the front door opened straight into the living room. So, after the porch was built, only one person ever came into the living room without being in at least one other room in the house first. And that person was me.

My mother had apparently insisted on a home birth, citing all manner of physical and psychological benefits. I suspect though that she just did it to show off. This suspicion is reinforced by the habit she had of drawing attention to the faint bloodstain on the living room's hearth rug. Not only would she vocally remind me of it, both when I was in trouble and when she was especially proud of me, she would also tell visitors all about it, often including it as one of the highlights of her informal guided tours of the cottage. She considered it a great jump-off point for launching into the story of my big entrance via her big – or I suppose I should say 'dilated' – exit. The story doubled as a lecture on the benefits of home birthing, supported by numerous statistics and anecdotes, but was ultimately just one almighty humblebrag from start to finish.

So yeah, even if you didn't know my mum very well, you'd likely be shown the family bloodstain within ten minutes of setting foot through the front door, simply as a means of demonstrating just how much better she was than you. Up until I was about thirteen or fourteen that is, at which time a terrible accident befell the rug. A particularly large, particularly hot ember flew out of the fireplace and onto the rug when no one was in the room, burning a hole big – I suppose I shouldn't say 'dilated' – enough for me to put my head through.

The rug was thrown out and I got a massive bollocking for leaving the fire guard off, the first ever not to be complemented by the traditional sanguine visual aid. Same old lecture though, the only difference being that instead of repeatedly pointing at the bloodstain, she repeatedly pointed at the space on the floor where the bloodstain had been.

My sister Harriet, bythe way, was delivered by caesarean section at John Radcliffe Hospital inOxford a little over three years later. Everything went fine.