MEMORIES

Do our memories influence our characters?

MEMORIES

“Time” muttered Old Father Buggles, “is the oddest thine that ever marred our lives. I wish I could get my head round it.”

There was silence in the room because nobody liked it when Old Father Buggles started going on about time because it was the one thing that actually made them think about how lucky they were and how sad it was that he was who he was.

It was Fanny Spencer, new to the party, who dared to question him.

“I rather like time, you sad old man,” she said without any appropriate respect or caution at all

Old Father Buggles rather liked it when he was challenged because that meant he could disperse the entire contents of his mind in a long dissertation that would bore everyone else, but so what? They’d get over it… in time..

“What is there to like, dear lady?” he asked mildly. Everyone else recognised the quiet tone as a warning but Fanny didn’t. Being ignorant of the peculiarities of the old man she thought it looked like they were in for a jolly good conversation with everyone making a point until it was tea time, but that was rarely the case when Old Father Buggles was holding forth.

“I rather like remembering things that have happened in the past, in time,” she said, “like my first love affair, or the first photograph I took on my mother’s old camera, or even my first ever kiss. They happened in time and the memories are trapped in my head in a sort of album of precious bits of time.”

Old Father Buggles stared at her. His experiences about episodes from his life, or what he looked at as the detritus spilled onto creation by time, was very different.

“You have no right to suggest that time is anything but a wasting dimension,” he told her, “and bear this in mind, young woman. When I was at school a teacher thrashed me to within an inch of my life, or so I thought. I couldn’t sit down for a month afterwards and my rear still shows the scars of that beating, and what do you think he did it to me for?”

“I suppose you did something wretchedly juvenile and stupid,” replied Fanny, her voice even, inviting him to say more. And such an invitation never went unanswered by Old Father Buggles. He was famous for finding a corner of just about any conversation in which to launch a torrent of words, mostly about how cruel the world ahd been to him.

“It was all a tragic error,” he said, “I was new to his class at school and my only knowledge of Mr Clint was to be shown a sheet of paper with his name hastily scribbled on it by somebody who let their ell’’s run into their i’s forming what appeared to be a single letter U. So when I read the word Clint I quite innocently pronounced it in the most offensive way it could be pronounced, as far as he was concerned, and without saying anything but just glaring at me he took his stick from the the umbrella stand in the corner where he kept it, and beat me black and blue. ‘come here, boy and bend over so that I can see the crack of your foul bottom through your shorts’, he yelled at me, and I tell you now, young woman, it bloody hurt! Is that the sort of memory a man likes to revel in recalling, I ask you? As I said, I couldn’t sit down for a month, and it was all because the person who’d written his name for me to read had poor and slovenly handwriting. Anyway, the only good thing that happened in those days was Mr Clint dying in a car accident, and remember that was in days when there was a great deal less traffic on the road. And, you know, the great thing was when his obituary was in the Brumpton Courier back then whoever set the type made the same mistake as poor twelve year-old me had made! Probably because the same hand had written the obituary for him to copy.”

Fanny Spencer wasn’t going to give up that easily. “But what you just described, sir, is an incident that can’t have lasted very long. Then there are lots of other things in your life that you must surely recall with joy and delight, I’m sure. I remember the first time the boy who was to become my better half in the future tried to kiss me. Neither of us had kissed another person before though I must admit to having practised by kissing the back of my own hand in front of the bathroom mirror when I was on my own.”

She looked around her at the group and smiled, “I bet you’ve all done that when you were young, and it doesn’t really help, does it? Because when we were alone one night and on the doorstep to the house where I lived with my parents he did it! He tried to kiss me, and I did my very best to kiss him back. We ended up with spittle dripping from both of us, and we started to laugh! It didn’t put us off, though, because in all honesty I rather liked the taste of him, and still do!”

“Bah!” snorted Old Ftaher Buggles, “if that story is true then you should be ashamed of yourself! Let me tell you, young woman, my first girlfriend would never have allowed that sort of thing to pass between us! There was one occasion when we were at the pictures and I did what all young men do and tried to rest a hand on her swollen bosom, you know, sort of pseudo accidentally as if I was preoccupied with the film and didn’t know what I was doing, and she stood up in the middle of our row and slapped me so hard across my face it’s a wonder it still isn’t red raw, and stormed off. Next time she saw me, at school because I was still a reluctant schoolboy, she told me in no uncertain terms that her body was her own and there’s no way she would let a boy touch any part of it until he was married to her. And that’s how I remember her. A sore face and I actually cried, partly because of the pain and partly because of the humiliation!”

“Maybe that’s why you’ve grown into such a grumpy old man,” suggested Fanny, bravely, “maybe you were just unfortunate in the girl you chose to be your friend at the cinema, and if you’d chosen a nicer, more giving young woman things might have been very different.”

“But that’s the one thing in my memory that convinces me that time ought to stay where it rightly is, in the past,” snarled Old Father Buggles, “There’s no doubt about it, if a man’s memory is being slapped face at the cinema and not much else then time’s been a waste of space. I mean, my wedding day ought to have been a joy to shine above all other joys if there had been any, but was it? I rather liked the girl and when she agreed to my suggestion that we got married I was almost pleased. The date was set, friends invited, I even had a failure of a stag night during which the stripper turned out to be my own mother who sometimes did odd things like perform for parties and had been booked to do a turn at my stag night via an agency that had my own mother on its books! I mean, the humiliation of watching her remove her lacy panties and cavort like she did! It was dreadful and I’ll hate remembering it until the day I die. Then my wedding itself, or non-wedding, should I say. There I was, at the church, and me in my best sports jacket and jeans, and the girl never appeared! So what was supposed to be a better day in my life ended up being nothing. I went back home to the flat we’d chosen to live in, she and me, and had the bed to myself. Which I suppose was better than having to share it with the dog, which is what I’d had to do at my parents’ house.”

“She must have seen sense at the last moment,” remarked Mandy, “I mean, sports jacket and jeans! And what was it you said,? You rather liked the girl? Marriage is a great deal more than rather liking each other! Take my own wedding as a for-example.

“It was the boy I’d had my first ever kiss with, Ralf is his name. The marriage service went really well, though it was in the Register office in town because both of us agreed that it would be pretentious if we had to make promises before a god we couldn’t believe existed. But anyway, it was a beautiful little service with all our friends and relatives there, and that night, well, I still can’t believe a night could be so wonderful, we hardly got any sleep. It’s no wonder that nine months later the twins were born! But my point is we more than rather liked each other, as you put it, I loved the pants off the man, and, you know, I still do. And the twins. They are the best kids in the whole wide world and that’s because, I really believe, they were born out of wild uncontrollable love!”

“Bah! Snorted Old Father Buggles, “I’ve got my memories, you rather objectionable young woman, and they add up to me hating time because I know as sure as eggs are eggs that tomorrow’s going to be no better than yesterday was, and all my yesterdays are in my memory as being crap!”

“That’s sad,” murmured Fanny gently, “I’m so sorry and I hope things turn out better for you soon.”

“Then they’d better get a move on,” growled Old Father Buggles, “I’m eighty next week!”

© Peter Rogerson 15.09.23

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