Holiday

I was about four or five years old when my grandfather’s green Lada pulled into our driveway one sunny summer’s morning.  We were about to go for a holiday to the seaside town of Klaipeda. 

My father bailed out at the last moment, saying it would be too cramped for four of us on the back, and went to a neighbour’s house to continue his drinking marathon.

 No one made any protest.

It soon turned out that my father had been right.  Three of us filled the back seat - my brother and my mother and I - while the grandparents sat up front.

An invisible border was quickly established between my brother and I, breach of which was, without hesitation, punished with a punch.  Before long we were out of the city and driving up the straight line of the motorway.  One glance in the rear view mirror from my grandfather was enough to settle us in the back seat.  He was a tall, strict and uncompromising figure.  Both of my grandparents were school principals; they had such presence about them that when they spoke there was no doubt in their voices that they would be obeyed. You had to pretend to listen to them or there would be trouble, the voices seemed to echo right through you.

As often did on such occasions, when separated from unwanted ears by whistling air outside, or around the dinner table in the country, a heated debate had started between the adults - a debate about the fatherland and politics. I tried to follow it at first, but unsuccessfully; the parts that weren’t meant for the kids were spoken in Russian.

Although on this road speeds of up to one hundred and thirty kilometres per hour were allowed, my grandfather never exceeded eighty.  The arrow seemed glued there on the speedometer.  The straight road, the passing blur of green outside the window, adults talking, all seemed to combine with the sound of the engine and form one monotonous hum.  It was one of those long ‘Are we there yet?’ journeys.  Although it lasted for only three hours, to be contained in one place for so long at that age was exhausting.

On arrival we went to visit a relative, whom I’d never met before.  He was a sailor who had done a lot of travelling in his time.  His house seemed like a cave of wonders, with old heavy furniture, paintings of ships and all sorts of interesting things that just begged to be touched.  Most interesting of all was his collection of exotic masks.  They kept us interested for a while, but we were too excited to be contained in yet another enclosed space, even such as this.  Besides, this was nothing compared to all the wonderful things we were promised to keep us entertained during the long journey.  We got our way eventually and soon we were out exploring the town.

We were walking down the wharf of the canal, which opened out into the sea.  There we had to catch a ferry, which would take us to see the star attraction of the trip, ‘The Museum of the Seas’.  It was located on an island whose faint shoreline could be seen on the horizon.

It was a typical ‘Soviet’ summer.  The sun was high in the cloudless sky; its excruciating heat had driven people into the shade.  Everything was sun bleached: the town; the people; there were no bright colours anywhere; no commercial ads or posters.  People’s clothes appeared pale and similar.  Everyone kept to their own little groups at a moderate distance from strangers.  Nobody wanted to form friendships accidentally with someone they didn’t know.  You never knew who people were or whom they worked for.  In Soviet society everyone understood that reserve was for the best.

I was standing with my brother on the edge of the wharf, without a worry in the world, watching the light play amongst the green particles of algae.  Lazy sounds of braking cars could be heard from the traffic some distance away.  The smell of burnt rubber was coming off the huge tyres, hanging just beneath our feet, to prevent incoming ferries brushing against the wall.  Every twenty metres or so there were steps, carved out of the wall, to allow people access to the ferries.  When there were no ferries, they were basically just steps disappearing into the water. 

Suddenly we heard the noise of an engine behind us.  It was a motorboat, fast and sleek, leaping towards us at great speed, cutting waves in two as it went.  In an instant the sleepy monotony of the afternoon was shattered.  It was close now, splashing,  real and powerful. 

‘Let’s race it!’ I shouted, but my brother knew better than to wait for my signal and was already away.  I sprang after him.  Although the boat had already passed us, we had no illusions about whom we were actually racing.  My brother was one and a half years older than me, and always beat me, without exception, but I wasn’t about to give up.  Strangely enough, after a few seconds I was running level.  Could this be it?  Encouraged, I concentrated all my strength, closed my eyes and ran.  I heard muffled voices shouting my name somewhere in the distance, but nothing could distract me from this moment of glory.  Suddenly, without warning, my leg went down with an empty, violent jerk.  A strong feeling of fear and shock rose to fill my chest.  Oh no! The steps…!  I didn’t even open my eyes as I fell.  The impact was hard and disorientating.   I hit my head and rolled down the stairs into the water.  The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was a stranger holding my hand.  It was a passer-by who luckily grabbed my hand and stopped me from tumbling into the water.

I cried and held a handkerchief pressed on my left eyebrow, whilst being led to the taxi.  The wound was deep and bleeding freely.  ‘It hurts so much, Mummy’, I said.  But in truth it didn’t hurt at all.  I was crying because I was afraid, afraid and confused.  I felt as if I’d done something really bad and would soon be punished for it.

In the hospital I was rushed through the emergency department and soon ended up in the treatment room.  It was white and sterile.  A big chair covered in white artificial leather sat in the middle; posters of Russian cartoon characters hung on the walls.  My mother and the nurse were doing their best to keep me distracted from the chair being prepared, and concentrated on the posters.

  ‘Oh look.  Who’s that, Misha?’

 Oh no, lady, you’re not tricking anyone this time.  These were the same pictures they used the last time they lured me into the dentist’s.  ‘Boo hoo!’  For about ten minutes I tried to evade ‘the chair’, shouting, resisting, running away.  Then my grandfather opened the door and said, ‘Stop fooling around and do what the doctor tells you.’  And that was that; I stopped crying, wiped my eyes, sat in the chair and allowed the doctor to stitch up the wound.  I never cried in front of my grandfather, I had to be a man in his presence and I always was. 

Two doctors finished stitching my wound.

‘Why are you here in Klaipeda?  Are you on holiday?’ one asked.

‘Yes’, said my mother.

‘Well, you have to make arrangements’, said the doctor, ‘sand and stitches don’t go together.  I think it would be best if you went home.’

Outside the hospital my mother and my grandfather started whispering.

‘I suppose we’ll have to go home if the Doctor says so,’ said my grandfather.

‘Stupid boy,’ my mother said. ‘It’s just the first day of a three week holiday and he has to spoil it, running around, not looking where he’s going.  His brother will be so upset.’ 

Before long we were back in the green Lada and on our way home.  The sun was shedding its last light of the day and I was lying on the back seat, my head on my mother’s knees.  My brother sat in the corner behind me, arms crossed, lips tight together, looking out the window.  This time there was no conversation or debate, just the same hum of the engine I’d heard in the morning.   I thought - they are being quiet because they feel sorry for me and think that I am in a lot of pain, they don’t want to disturb my peace.

 I didn’t know why but the silence made me very uneasy so, instinctively, I pretended to be in pain.

 That would teach’em!