我的父親——一個不羈的陌生人

My maternal aunt told me to sit down； she had some bad news. After 25 years of silence， I’d given up expecting any news from that quarter. But my aunt happened to see a tabloid account of his accidental death in Italy. My father， Brian Manning， was an English civil war historian， a Marxist， a political activist and something of a 1）hell-raiser. He and my mother met sharing a cell after being arrested at a 2）CND protest. But my mother said the real prison sentence began after they had signed the register.

He worked in 3）Manchester during the week， joining my mother and me， their only child， in remote， rural North Wales on weekends and holidays. Even when he was at home， my father was either inaccessible in his study， staring at the walls of his bedroom for weeks in deep depression， or just distant. When that distance was disturbed， it resulted in violent rages—torrents of abuse， showers of crockery. Holidays were miserable.

But with that strange optimism of children， I was relieved when after several attempts to leave him， we had to unpack the car and move all my toys back inside. By 13， my optimism was dwindling and， with my father’s university 4）sabbatical feeling like another prison sentence， I finally agreed that my mother and I should leave. When my father found out， he got drunk and threw bricks through a neighbour’s window. The police were called.

We moved to a nearby village， but when my father got a professorship in Coleraine， it was agreed that I would visit regularly. I reckoned those visits to be a success， so when I received no reply to a letter， I assumed it had gone astray and wrote another. No reply. Telephoned. Nothing. I’ve since wondered if I gave up too easily. But I was 14 years old. In my 30s， my mother now dead， I found a contact number for him on the Internet， but held back. He had made his point once—did I want to risk it being made again？

I would now never know. And here I was ringing the Foreign Office to get news of my father. Except they were rather hoping I could help them. Their inquiries had elicited only a rumour of a son in Wales—somewhere I hadn’t lived since 1982. The Foreign Office appeared not to have heard of Google. Now there was this issue of my father’s 5）mortal remains， which it was my “right” to identify； my “right” to take possession of. It was my right too， presumably， to walk away， but I discovered I couldn’t do to him what he’d already done to me. So what was my duty regarding the body of this man I didn’t know？ Burial？ 6）Cremation？

And where？ I set off to Italy in search of answers. But if I’d had difficulty understanding my father’s feelings in life， I should have known that in death their opacity would only deepen.

Inside the 7）morgue， I had a serious wobble. How could I identify this thing on the 8）gurney as the father I’d known 25 years earlier？ Apart from ageing， he had been battered by his fall. And couldn’t he have found something better to die in than a tatty black T-shirt？ With both my parents now gone， an enormous sense of aloneness crowded in on me. I was the sole survivor； sole witness to my childhood.

Hoping his home would yield the answers I need， it was apt that I had to break in like a thief. With the alarm howling， I expected the car outside to be the police. Instead， it was a face from the past： someone I had met as a child on my second visit. Her name was Rosalind and， predictably， she and my father had fallen out.

She later introduced me to two friends who had refused to let my father fall out with them—Joe and Renate， a lively， thoughtful couple in their 60s.“He had something missing. That element that makes people connect，” Joe reckoned. “But you have to understand， your father was a great man.”

“You have to understand，” I flared up，“he was a pretty useless human being.”Then I felt guilty at the stricken look on Renate’s face. My father had inspired love， not just respect. By now at least one thing was clear： I should arrange a funeral here in Coleraine.

There was such a delay in the body’s arrival that it seemed best to arrange a separate memorial at the university. And， of course， my father’s body arrived the day after the memorial， fittingly robbed of several hundred euros in transit. It seemed only fair that we were a mere three mourners—Rosalind， Joe and I. I read 9）John Donne’s “No Man Is an Island”. At Rosalind’s suggestion， I scattered my father’s ashes on the rosebeds he’d loved.

我的姨媽叫我坐下；她有壞消息要告訴我。25年的沉寂之后，我已對那人的消息沒有任何期盼。但是我的姨媽卻恰巧看到一份小報上刊登了我父親在意大利意外身亡的消息。我的父親——布萊恩·曼寧，是一位英國內(nèi)戰(zhàn)歷史學(xué)家、馬克思主義者、政治活動家，而且多少算得上是個“惹事鬼”。在一次反核武抗議活動中，他和我的母親被逮捕，并被關(guān)押在同一個牢房，他們就此相遇了。但我的母親說在他們簽字結(jié)婚后，真正的牢獄之刑才開始。

平日里父親在曼徹斯特工作，只在周末和假期才回到偏遠(yuǎn)的北威爾士鄉(xiāng)下，與母親和作為獨(dú)子的我相聚。即使父親在家，也是難以接近，因?yàn)樗创粼跁坷?，在深深的絕望中好幾個星期都盯著房間的墻壁，要么就只是冷冰冰的。你要是打破那份距離感，便會招致雷霆大怒——虐待謾罵，餐具橫飛。假期是悲慘的。

幾次離開他的嘗試之后，我們還是不得不從車中卸下細(xì)軟，把我所有的玩具移回屋內(nèi)，為此，當(dāng)時的我滿是如釋重負(fù)，小孩子就是那么奇怪樂觀。長到13歲，我的樂觀一點(diǎn)點(diǎn)減少，而且，碰上那年父親在休大學(xué)的學(xué)術(shù)休假，那感覺就像是另一次牢獄生活，于是，我終于贊同母親的決定，我們應(yīng)當(dāng)離開他。當(dāng)父親發(fā)現(xiàn)的時候，他喝得酩酊大醉并拿磚頭砸了一位鄰居家的窗戶。警察被叫來了。

我們搬到了一個鄰近的村莊，但當(dāng)父親在科爾雷恩區(qū)覓得教授一職時，他們協(xié)議我得定期探訪他。我覺得那些相聚時刻都還算不錯，所以當(dāng)我收不到父親的回信時，我猜那信應(yīng)該是送錯地方丟了，然后我再寫一封?！?br>