This Life

'For me, it all began a year ago, when I first arrived here. I remember that day all too fondly, it was the start of Autumn I recall, and the leaves around St Pancras were quite golden. I had only ever been to London once before, and it was not best encouraged by the schoolmasters. In fact, I had never been to London properly, I was born there you see. I'm not sure if I ever told you that, but my mother was a Londoner born and bred. Sadly, I never got to knew her. You see, she was born somewhere in East London, New Cross I think, and was destined to live a terrible life. She barely got anywhere at school, and made many enemies whilst failing. Her parents, my grandparents, were apparently even worse. They were your typical working class husband and wife, he - a street sweeper, she - a house wife charged with looking after three terrible children, my mother being the youngest of the girls. Having no skills or qualifications she fell to the street, and that was where my father ran into her. From her letters to him it was clear they were very madly in love, sadly they were not meant to be, he, like me, was educated at Rugby School and could never be seen with her. This particular letter meant the most to me.'
Hidden inside of this long stretch of paper was another smaller, ruffled up note, as I unwravelled it my heart raced at the thought of reading a possibly great love story.

'Alfred,
I understand that you've not been able to stop teaching for a month now, but this really takes the biscuit! I'm here, in this little shack you have so kindly rented for me, in an unknown part of town, in a lot of bloody pain! I've rewritten this letter a lot of times now, and every time they say the same thing, so I thought it'd best to just be honest. There's not a day that goes by I don't think about us getting married in some far off church, and our first house in the countryside, and children, and a family dog, and whathaveyou. But sadly Alfy, the truth is completely the opposite. As a sort of continuation from your last visit, I am now 'with child'. If you ever want to see him or her, or even me, then you know where to find us. Lots of love, Lizzie.'

'My aunt said that after my mother sent that letter, my father visited her twice every week, if not more. All the while my mother had to pretend that my father was actually just her doctor, and not the child's father. The child in question was me. Finally I was born, and as passionately as I had been conceived, my birth was met with joy and happiness. Everyone told everyone the truth, and much merriment was had. After this, my father went back to lecturing at Oxford and my mother went to work in a factory. They never saw each other again. Nothing was ever said as to why, but aunt Denise hinted at some sort of infidelity on my mother's part. Sad really, isn't it? Anyway, as I got older my mother started to lose more. My grandparents passed away, her sister too, and Denise moved across to Ireland with her husband. My mother was left all alone in that great city. So, I see where you're coming from when you're melancholy. Money troubles started to get to her too, and she was forced to sell the house my father had bought her and move out of London, at long last. It was well overdue.'
'Her travels brought her to the West Country where she met a man she cared for dearly, and he cared for her. They married, and I was proclaimed as his son to avoid any confusion. Thankfully there was no confusion to be suffered by a three year old. Then, suddenly, without any warning, my mother's husband thought it best for them to move back to London, as this where he saw that they would live their lives together. On the journey back, and in quite a shocking move, my mother decided to stop in Rugby and find out whether the school knew where my father was now. Sure enough, Alfred was still hovering about in his loft in Oxford, researching and writing. Did he care about me? Did he worry about me? It was strange to think that he had a hand in creating me, and then just left me to my own devices. He truly was a God. Back in London things took a turn for the worst. My mother contracted an awful case of tuberculosis, which prompted her husband to head back to his home to fetch some things so he could spend all his time in London. My mother had been in correspondance with my father since she went to Rugby, and had told him everything, where they lived, their full names, everything he needed to know. Whilst in Somerset, my mother's husband was trampled by horses, or died in a barn fire. Something on his farm, I don't remember the actual gory details.'
'Well, my mother had sent one final letter to my father, telling him to come to London at once. He did, as this was the first time she had said she had wanted him to do anything. However, by the time my father arrived my mother had sadly passed on. In my mother's will she had given full responsibilty of me over to him, so he took me back to Oxford, he kept me well, he looked after me, I daresay he loved me. I can even recall him telling me tales of my mother, and how he would cry in the night as I read him my goodnight story. He had chosen for me to take on both his and my mother's surnames, such is why I am William Alfred Baker Jones. I was born sans the Baker however.'