BY PHILIP LOWE

My dearest wife has written her own memories in a book and has inspired me to write my own. I feel a little cautious in sharing my own memories of relationships and journeys. As long as everything I have experienced has brought me here, it is excusable.

I pray that our children do not experience the doubt, duplicity, and pain that I had.

I do not wish to deny the work my father must have effected, yet I believe, as my own future has taught me, he could have behaved differently—not only towards me.

My early teenage years became ripe picking fields. As I grew, my opinions changed.

At times, I recalled memories I thought were lost. Some were too uncomfortable. I have been able to reflect many times on motives and aspirations, yet it seems there has always been a different hand directing my path.

I do not know how my wife has relieved her life and her own difficulties. She must be so much stronger than me. Reader, I love her.

Cadiz

My father has been overseas a great deal; thank goodness. How sad that I should celebrate the absence of the man. I do not remember him in the house until I was about 6 years old. My mother said that after I was born, business took him away more and more.

In that time, I collected anything that was sent from foreign lands. I doubt it was because my father was away and I hoped for something from him. He was “overseas”—(wherever that was!), and I collected mostly receipts and labels that I found in the litter (one servant called it a “sauce box,” which I could never understand).

I encouraged the staff to give me this litter, and a few objected but said I needed to keep it tidily out of sight. Initially, I kept my collection in books. My father sent nothing for me nor for my little brother as he grew. The receipts and labels were colourful—appealing to children, perhaps.

One would have thought it was a fine way to educate children about the cities of Europe and myths alike. No such interest was shown to me, though. At one point, I even looked up those places in the atlas, also the library globe (which, as ever, I took care not to spin). At one point, I noted there were many receipts from Gibraltar and nearby areas. Cadiz stuck in my mind at one point; there were many receipts and labels from Cadiz, and Cadiz is a memorable name.

My father was more distant afterwards.

All the receipts and labels that enamoured me disappeared. I assumed it was a zealous cleaner who collected and then perhaps burned them.

I was once taken to Madrid by my father. All I remember was that it was incredibly hot. Apart from the heat, an enduring memory is of a huge watermelon. I recall sitting alone with this watermelon; an elderly man must have taken pity on me and cut it with his dirty penknife and gave me a slice to eat. He also cut me a few slices for later. It was lovely, and that was all I had to eat that whole day. All I had was my own company.

An old woman directed me to the shade of a tree. Like the old man, she had hideous brown teeth.

She took my wrist and made me hold out a palm. As she said “pipas,” she poured some into my hand. She took one from her own store in one of her pockets and placed it in her mouth and comically noisily sucked and chewed it, regaled with laughter. She, too, moved off, as did the other women.

A tinny bell sounded. Soon after, my father emerged from the large building as I was downing a tail-end slice. He was carrying two large boxes, one in each hand. I wondered what the boxes contained, but I had not the courage to ask. My father walked near me, expecting me to follow him as I had seen some goslings do. He did not say anything to me. No apologies, nothing

A visit overseas that had a greater meaning for me was when my father expected me to follow him to Cadiz. This was also the last time I joined him on his travels.

Once more, I accompanied my father to Spain. I was dreading the heat, but at least I knew about it. I thought at the time that my new brother was only beginning to make his presence felt. I guessed my father took me away to somehow mollify his relationship with my mother—she would enjoy the peace he could offer her by taking me out of the household equation. I believed I could learn something of his business practices.

There was no such activity. Knowing what I know now about him, I doubt my father would have been so considerate as to mollify anyone. I was mostly in the company of a maid dressed in black—I think that Lettice was her name. (I had heard her called both Lettice and Letitia.) She did not comment on anything that happened, but she had such an expressive face. The face she showed me was mostly one of hostility and disappointment.

Looking back now, I recall very little of the journey. I just remember many carriages and an uncomfortable and dark journey by boat. I do remember the disturbing faces of the other passengers whose clay pipes drew streams of smoke behind us on the boat. I experienced a little sickness when afloat, but I will not forget a man vomiting over the edge of the boat repeatedly and a friend pulling him back. Each time, he thanked his friend with a smile and a coin. His friend must have left the boat a rich man. 

I wonder why I do not remember the journey. It was an important journey, as you will see. I try to remember details of the journey I am currently taking so that such a forgetful thing does not happen again.

I heard the Spanish tongue spoken by the locals with much laughter, I thought. I heard this language for the first time, even though I had heard snatches in Madrid. Here that spoke with brutality and a frightening speed—thosee who spoke seemed to speak far too quickly for me; it sounded harsh at times, despite the laughter. All the men had dark hair and wore moustaches and beards. My father—whom I rarely saw in relaxing clothes, looked quite out of place

Arriving in Cadiz was disappointing and quiet—perhaps I was wilting after a tiring journey. Even Letitia looked as if she was suffering; then again, she always looked that way.

From what little I know about Cadiz now—much less then—it was a centre for sales of Sherries and Sack, hence the many bills of sale from this area. One of the servants at home said how Shakespeare celebrated añd mentioned Sack.

Then the whole place seemed to awaken. Colour arrived with the panels set up around the square we were in; I saw that my cases had been taken to a house nearby—heaven knew where that was. My whole life seemed to be managed and determined by others; my father—what little I saw of him—seemed relaxed. I even saw him smile at someone near the square.

Musicians arrived, and everything started to move. A small table was set up near me with a green cloth atop it. A female presented me with a glass and made sure it was filled from a jug she was carrying. Before leaving, she winked at me, which I had never seen before. Then a bowl filled with what looked like nuts was placed on the table.

Then there was a sword-fighting display. A man who had some English pulled a chair close. He reached between his legs for a chair, then sat next to me. He explained that the blades were from Toledo. I think he was trying to say how magnificent they were, and his English left him. Next, men juggling and breathing fire ended everyone’s conversation.

A woman emerged holding a baby, and many sprang to their feet and applauded her. Only then did I realise how many people were there. There must have been more than a hundred. She laughed at the crowd. She walked over to my father and kissed him on the mouth. A popular song blared, and everyone seemed to know the words and sang.

She stood and started to sing herself. A mighty voice. Yet the baby she was carrying did not like the noise, so she stopped singing to everyone’s laughter and more applause. The music continued playing, and my father stood and held the woman with the child and kissed them both to the assembled crowd’s approval. He then held the baby and mother; more kissing and laughter from him. I was shocked. More bowls of food arrived, and as they did, I constantly searched for a familiar face. Letitia looked wholly unsurprised; she even looked at me briefly with a face that dared me to object.

I thought the music did not stop yet I did not really listen to it. Darkness arrived quickly, as far as I could ascertain. Lanterns were lit near the tables, and the music seemed to get quieter. My father laughed as he got deeper into a conversation I could not understand.

Boxes were brought out like the ones I had seen my father carry in Madrid. The boxes contained bottles which were rapidly taken out of the boxes and uncorked when the bottles were put back in the box—alarmingly quickly, I thought—they made a great glassy rattle.

The mother changed the baby on a nearby table. I had never seen such a thing; at home, when necessary, my mother would hand my brother to a member of staff—the baby would be returned a few minutes later, clean with a fresh wrap on him. Here, the process ended with the mother grabbing a nearby bottle of alcohol and washing the baby with it, then taking a swig herself.

The mother changed the baby in the wide open. Unbelievable. She covered herself in a colourful shawl, then fed the baby. I did not know where to look—she did not look at me.

She appeared to behave as if this was the most natural thing. There were no comments from those surrounding her. She almost threw the baby over her shoulder and hit its back hard until it loudly burped. Again, no comments from those surrounding. She looked proud as the baby slept on her. At one point, she rose to sit next to my father, again kissing him on the mouth. 

I do not recall how I got to my bed that night. Letitia was surely too weak to carry me unaided. It was and remains a mystery. I woke with a painful ache in my head and an ache in my stomach that would not abate.

A carriage was waiting for me a short distance from the place where I slept and the square.

I stayed no longer in Cadiz, and my father’s retinue prepared to leave. I had no desire to stay there. 

Just before my carriage set off, my father appeared at the swiftly opened door. He looked at me with eyes that really sent fear through my body. I could not return his gaze but found myself looking his way; his look was mostly a threat. I did not dare think of what the repercussions would be if I shared with anyone what I had seen.

This silent threat was beyond a scolding. I had read about scoldings, but none with the stakes so high, none with those involved, such as my family and myself.

My father left the carriage door without a word. I was left with Letitia, whose face showed me no sympathy, no tenderness. Just a lethargic hostility at best.

I often thought of Jesus scolding Peter with “Get thee behind me, Satan!” In the Bible, the scene is dramatic, and I laugh now to think that I may have tried to find a similarity between the two scenes; however, my silence on the matter was called for. I wondered, who is Satan? Satan twists and bites and poisons like a serpent. Like my father.