A Shocking Tale

A Shocking Tale

Our family curse was something of an old running joke - that is, it was, until Dad died.

      I had just turned fourteen. I got a fishing rod for my birthday – but the best thing was that we christened my new rod with a whole day of fishing at the lake – just Dad and me; it was the best day ever. I will always remember it. The fish were biting and we caught enough to feed us for the week. 

I remember the jokes, though I never really understood them at the time:

‘Beware high voltage!’ Mum would say as she indicated a house-hold appliance, such as the hair dryer. Or when Dad went fishing someone would say ‘Don’t catch any electric eels now!’ Or ‘Watch those pylons!’ And of course, Dad was always making jokes himself. He had that laugh in the face of death attitude, which is ultimately what he did, I suppose.

Us kids were kept in the dark. Adults never told us anything directly, but that never stopped us. After the funeral the talk amongst the family was almost always hushed-up if a kid approached or if an eavesdropper was detected. I used to get fed-up being sent away just when things were getting interesting. Gradually though, with a snippet here and an uncensored comment there, the pieces came together. I was like a child detective out of Enid Blyton, only this wasn’t such a jolly jape.

By the time Mum decided I should know the full story I had pretty much figured it out. Isn’t that always the way with parents?

There were revelations: Either Mum didn’t know how brutal Dad had actually been with the old Tink (Dad’s term) or she didn’t want me to know that part of it. To this day we have never spoken about it. Probably never will.

It was Uncle Pete who told me. He had been drinking and felt that I should know; after all, it concerned me. You see, the old hag (Pete’s term) had kindly included me in her curse.

Although it was a shock at the time, what bothered me was not so much the curse, but Dad’s violent behaviour. It was so out of character. Had he really struck this defenceless gypsy woman? What could have provoked him? After all, Dad was known for his generous good nature, his easy humour - Ask any one in the village. I could not reconcile this image of Dad with Uncle Pete’s version of the story.

Years later I heard an even more damning version. Dad had already known this gypsy woman, according to Rolly Barth. Only he called her a gypsy slut and accompanied his drunken speech with a knowing wink and lewd gesture.

Rolly’s reputation as a drunk was closely rivalled by his reputation for fighting. He liked nothing more than a good bar room brawl; it was his idea of recreation. The subsequent charges of assault didn’t bother him in the least. Had I considered that at the time, I might not have thrown my first stupid punch. There again, I was uncontrollably angry.

No prizes for guessing the outcome; no contest. I was lucky to get a couple of punches into his beer-belly. I was also lucky to escape serious injury.

Apparently he went easy on me - because of his friendship with Dad. He made it sound as if they had been close mates back in the army; brothers in arms, that kind of thing. But Dad had never mentioned him, not once, which struck me as odd, to say the least.

When things calmed down Rolly actually shook my hand and offered to buy me a drink. I was so stunned, in every sense, that I accepted. Gradually, though it pained me greatly, I began to also accept some of the things he said about Dad. I always knew there had to be more to it; more to Uncle Pete’s version, anyway. Rolly supplied the missing piece.

It wasn’t a pretty picture. It was an old story; an angry man and a woman spurned - then curses and recriminations - curses with a small ‘c,’though. Not the Curse, not the incantations that had been invented by careless tongues. Cursing there had been alright, but mostly of the f-ing and c-ing kind. Whether she was described as the gypsy slut, the old hag or the tink, she was, by all accounts, a foul mouthed bitch.

Ok, there was also something about Dad and his first born (me) being fried by electricity, our hearts blasted by a hundred volts! - If you can believe that, in this day and age; archaic nonsense or what?

Dad explained himself; he had refused to let the Gypsies hook up their caravan power cables to our farmhouse generator. Thus he provoked the gypsy’s wrath and deadly curse.

I guess I’ll never really know the true story; or at least the version of it I would have liked to known: Dad’s version. Maybe it’s just as well.

The story would have remained a family joke, had it not been for the manner of Dad’s death and the hysterical claims that his death fulfilled the curse. I checked the Coroner’s report and although Dad had received an electric shock the cause of death was cardiac arrest - heart attack. What’s more, it was a congenital condition and could have happened at any time, according to old Doc Clarkson.

It turned out that I shared Dad’s condition - a major bummer, to say the least! This was the real family curse, as far as I was concerned.   I was advised to avoid strenuous exercise and to generally take thing easy.

Doc asked some routine health questions as well as asking about my occupation. You should have seen the look he gave me when I told him I was an electrician; he looked as if he was having some kind of seizure! He regained his professional calm quickly enough, but obviously he had heard about the curse. I shouldn’t have been surprised; it was typical thinking in our village. You would think that a doctor would know better and yet it was old codgers like him who gave the curse credence.

Anyway, I explained about my choice of profession. As a kid electricity was taboo, but I noticed the frequent visits from Alec the electrician. He had the job of child proofing our house. This was before the current craze of child proofing, mind you. Alec also took care of any electrical jobs. Mum told me that this was her doing; she knew it was stupid, but she did not want Dad taking any risks, not with electricity.

So I got to know Alec the electrician and was fascinated by the taboo subject. Later, when the family relaxed the taboo and even made light of it with the occasional joke, I was able to learn about electricity. Alec even gave me a good science book on the subject. To be honest though, what impressed me the most was the amount of money Alec made out of our fear… and it wasn’t just us; the fear of electricity was pervasive. Alec was coining it in. I wanted some of that.

My opportunity came when Alec complained profusely about all the extra work he was getting in the village. I realised that what he was really complaining about was the extra hassle. When I offered my help he didn’t hesitate – he had it in mind all along, the crafty bastard. We settled it with a hand shake and I became an apprentice electrician the next day. I was seventeen. 

I certainly had my work cut out for me. The whole village seemed to be undergoing a boom of modernising, not just the businesses, either – because with modernisation came that most insidious of modern vices: keeping up with the Joneses. Every one in the village seemed to be competing to improve the basic domestic amenities - which until then had remained unchanged for decades.

One of the few exceptions to this drive for modernisation was, oddly enough, our family home back on the farm. Mum had remained obstinate in the face of change. If anything she had regressed to an earlier age. The old oil lamps came back out. She relied on the wood burning stove and it was with great reluctance that this was eventually replaced with a gas cooker. An electric cooker was never considered, despite my recommendations.

No matter how much I tried to reassure her, Mum was convinced that electricity was the enemy. It was no joke now - that was for sure. She hated my job and was constantly worried that I would come to harm. Rational argument did no good. I just couldn’t get through to her.  

I worried about her too. Those old oil lamps posed a greater danger than electricity in my mind. She thought that I was the unreasonable one; she had used those lamps for years with out any bother. I had to concede that – but she was not getting any younger and I still worried about her doddering about the farm house with oil lamps.

My worst fears were confirmed on that fateful night when I came home late after a stint of overtime. At first I thought it was the chimney smoking. Mum had been using the coal fire a lot recently. Then I noticed that there was nothing coming from the chimney – smoke was billowing out of the back of the house; the kitchen!

The rest is a bit of a blur. I ran to the back of the house and found Mum struggling to put out a fire in the kitchen. The smoke was getting pretty thick by this time and I tried to pull Mum back. We were both coughing. I grabbed a dish towel to cover my mouth but the coughing was getting worse. I started to feel very sick and dizzy. I think Mum caught me. The sudden pain in my chest seemed to explode and I had a dramatic thought - this is it! - Before losing consciousness.

Well, that’s us almost up to date now. My visitors will be here soon. I had to be told what happened next. As far as I was concerned I just woke up in this hospital bed.

Mum told me all about the paramedics; they saved my life – but the bit that she seemed most excited about was how they did it: she wasn’t familiar with their equipment, the charger and the cardiac paddles – but she got that they blasted my heart back to life with electricity!

 ‘Don’t you realise what this means’, she said. She was her old self again; Bright eyed, smiling.

‘You’re free of the curse!’

It was painful to laugh, but I laughed. I had never believed in the curse. But I wasn’t going to argue with her now. She was so happy…and when I get out of here I know what I’m going to do; the memories came back – me and Dad fishing, or as he preferred Angling - good times, good memories…the lake, the woodlands and wildlife. We never did catch much but it didn’t matter. So I will take myself of for a bit of R’n’R, with the old trusty rod that Dad had given me.

I only hope I don’t catch any electric eels!