22. My Handsome And Kind Knights Templar

The house in France was a haven and still is. It sits on a crystal mountain on the edge of a national park, its walls hold a peace and a sanctuary. It’s where my parents spent time together without one of them disappearing off to his studio and the other packing her car on a Sunday night. There were guests, but they were nice, the rooms were broad and warm, the garden messy and secret, at night wild boars came snouting about the roses. As a child I’d play on the drive with my busybody men mending potholes. I learnt to swim in the pool, I smoked my first cigarette, stolen from a packet left out on the terrace, in an airless, windowless bathroom. My father who died sixteen years ago is there; his presence as crystal clear as the mountain. I see him in the hall in soft hat and pink shirt, off for coffee in the village, or on the roof mending tiles, the scent of lemon trees and E45, happy in the sunshine. That summer he padded about not getting involved with the catastrophe that was me. My mother in lilac Liberty shirt fawned over my handsome and kind Knights Templar who had carried me across Europe in his arms. She was delighted by him while I lay on a sunlounger, shaved head, a painful buddha. She called a doctor who laid me on my front and lifted my leg till I screamed and hit him. He agreed the disc had ruptured, there were pieces floating in spinal fluid, and returned with a huge needle. The muscle relaxant, pierced into the flesh of my backside, made me scream again but after he’d gone, I went outside and sank into the pool, the weightlessness of water. The summer passed, croissant and Paris Match, tomatoes from the garden, my mother in lilac Liberty shirt, my father on the roof. Departure came like autumn. My father disappeared in his Porsche. My mother packed the car. We dropped my handsome and kind Knights Templar off on the motorway to hitchhike to Spain to see his children. My mother put on her tape of Anna Karenina. I reclined in the front seat to save my pain. Avignon and Lyon whipped past. Supine in the low-slung Citroën, I watched the sky and imagined Russian farming, Count Vronsky in the snow, Anna in her red coat as we reached Dover, the ferry to England and home.The Literary Obsessive is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit eleanoranstruther.substack.com/subscribe