which she blamed her husband. Communicating with Tom became ever more difficult. She saw how he struggled so hard to understand why she shouted at him. She couldn’t answer him when he would come to her as she stared out of the kitchen at the vibrating shed, tears in her eyes. And she saw that he really did try to get close to her, but there was something within her that was forming, something cold and hard that prevented her from showing the pleasure and affection her son so innocently craved.
Elaine loved George and Tom deeply – her ‘two boys’ as she would call them in uncommon lighter moments. From the confident, pragmatic girl who had enrolled in that car maintenance course to teach all car mechanics a lesson, she had grown into a formidable housewife and mother. And thus she worried and fretted more than she laughed. She became easily irritated and upset, found it harder and harder to relax. She regretted almost everything she said. She had watched herself receive heavier and heavier burdens until her once shining green eyes became shrouded in lines of doubt and despair.
Little Norman had come to save Elaine. He could have saved us all.
Elaine gave birth to Little Norman at the age of thirty-six. Tom had been fourteen. The bitterness and reproach of the previous fifteen years that had covered her like a blanket of cobwebs left Elaine the instant she held her tiny baby in her arms. Nobody had ever seen a woman more transformed or more joyful. She was young again.
The night Elaine brought Little Norman home from hospital had been a triumphant time for George. He had been transforming the spare room into a nursery for months. Tom had helped a little but the adolescent disaffection for all things family had begun to nag at him. This new baby would be nothing special, he figured.
Little Norman’s room had been George’s masterpiece. He had stripped it bare, completely removing the carpet and rubbing away the existing paint until the whole room breathed relief, fumes wafting to the open window thick, heavy and delightful. From the skirting boards to the coving from the walls to the ceiling, George performed magic. He crafted mobiles of clowns and cars and animals from balsa wood and suspended them from on high where they would dance and twirl in one heavenly, dismembered frenzy. The paint was applied everywhere with a gentle touch and a subtle hand. Everything was perfect. But there in the middle of the room rested George’s heart. He had designed it himself, built it with his own hands. His sweat and his blood were in every dovetail joint, in every rounded corner and in every brush stroke. The tiny crib in which Little Norman would lay his sweet head was wonderful, magnificent.
One morning, some weeks after the birth of Little Norman, George had arrived at work to find he was to be made redundant. It had hit him like a train. To be without work had never been a contingency that he had really considered; to be denied the right to work. He was forty-two years old, a skilled craftsman. None had ever worked harder. ‘The world will always need its craftsman’, he used to say to himself. He doesn’t say that anymore. For that was his world. The world into which he was from that day thrust was one where Beauty and Imagination are subservient to Expediency and Conformity, a world that had finally caught up with him, had leapt upon his back from behind as he looked up in wonder at the tall, tall trees of his own heaven.
Thus the days had stretched before him yawning wide and eternal. He would find himself gazing at programmes on the television for hours without really watching them. They were just moving pictures. But at least it was motion. Countless times, he would pace from one end of the front room to the other just to see if anything outside had changed. Maybe a car had been moved. Maybe a ‘For Sale’ sign had been erected or taken down. Or maybe Tom was coming home early from
Elaine loved George and Tom deeply – her ‘two boys’ as she would call them in uncommon lighter moments. From the confident, pragmatic girl who had enrolled in that car maintenance course to teach all car mechanics a lesson, she had grown into a formidable housewife and mother. And thus she worried and fretted more than she laughed. She became easily irritated and upset, found it harder and harder to relax. She regretted almost everything she said. She had watched herself receive heavier and heavier burdens until her once shining green eyes became shrouded in lines of doubt and despair.
Little Norman had come to save Elaine. He could have saved us all.
Elaine gave birth to Little Norman at the age of thirty-six. Tom had been fourteen. The bitterness and reproach of the previous fifteen years that had covered her like a blanket of cobwebs left Elaine the instant she held her tiny baby in her arms. Nobody had ever seen a woman more transformed or more joyful. She was young again.
The night Elaine brought Little Norman home from hospital had been a triumphant time for George. He had been transforming the spare room into a nursery for months. Tom had helped a little but the adolescent disaffection for all things family had begun to nag at him. This new baby would be nothing special, he figured.
Little Norman’s room had been George’s masterpiece. He had stripped it bare, completely removing the carpet and rubbing away the existing paint until the whole room breathed relief, fumes wafting to the open window thick, heavy and delightful. From the skirting boards to the coving from the walls to the ceiling, George performed magic. He crafted mobiles of clowns and cars and animals from balsa wood and suspended them from on high where they would dance and twirl in one heavenly, dismembered frenzy. The paint was applied everywhere with a gentle touch and a subtle hand. Everything was perfect. But there in the middle of the room rested George’s heart. He had designed it himself, built it with his own hands. His sweat and his blood were in every dovetail joint, in every rounded corner and in every brush stroke. The tiny crib in which Little Norman would lay his sweet head was wonderful, magnificent.
One morning, some weeks after the birth of Little Norman, George had arrived at work to find he was to be made redundant. It had hit him like a train. To be without work had never been a contingency that he had really considered; to be denied the right to work. He was forty-two years old, a skilled craftsman. None had ever worked harder. ‘The world will always need its craftsman’, he used to say to himself. He doesn’t say that anymore. For that was his world. The world into which he was from that day thrust was one where Beauty and Imagination are subservient to Expediency and Conformity, a world that had finally caught up with him, had leapt upon his back from behind as he looked up in wonder at the tall, tall trees of his own heaven.
Thus the days had stretched before him yawning wide and eternal. He would find himself gazing at programmes on the television for hours without really watching them. They were just moving pictures. But at least it was motion. Countless times, he would pace from one end of the front room to the other just to see if anything outside had changed. Maybe a car had been moved. Maybe a ‘For Sale’ sign had been erected or taken down. Or maybe Tom was coming home early from
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