Fault (part one of two)

plot: tragedy 

And so their fights continued; Richard and his father raged into the night, never seeing eye-to-eye with each other and always having different expectations of how the farm could sustain them through the impending famine.

‘Don’t you see, old man? Are you just being obtuse?’ The boy threw the dregs of his wine into the fire. ‘We have to get rid of all the animals and everything that is a drain on our resources; only then can we turn every acre over to food production for ourselves and for the village. There’s no point in giving grain to the horses to get work out of them if we perish in the meantime. Healthy goats and fattened calves won’t last long once we are dead, you fool!’

His father was sad, but anger overwhelmed him. He slammed his hand on the table, upsetting the wine bottle and sending the mangy dog scurrying from the room. ‘That’s just about enough! I don’t like your tone, and I resent your constant disagreement. And I won’t tolerate your rudeness! Learn a few lessons in taking responsibility, will you?… and I know exactly what will be the making of you.’ He turned, walked away, pushing past the hired hand, leaving his son staring, frowning, seething.

The next morning, Richard discovered his dad meant business. He’d collected together a great deal of money, and gathered it into a bag on the table. On top of the bag was an hastily scribbled note.

Take your inheritance and go away. Try to survive the famine that is predicted elsewhere. Leave today, and don’t come back until you are ready to give respect to me. Now the feeling’s gone, I can’t go on – when you lose control and you’ve got no soul, it's hard to bear. Perhaps I really should be holding you, loving you…[1]

But I don’t think I can at the moment.

Dad

Richard screwed up the note, and snatched the bag, which was heavier than he’d imagined. He grabbed a small loaf and one of the jars of oil from the shelf, and left the house. He stepped onto the highway, thumbing a lift on an ox cart to the big city.

A couple of months later, he’d made a number of friends among the gambling fraternity, and met a few girls who seemed to be attracted to him. It was probably the money, he knew, but it was fun; that was a whole lot better than life had been when he was working on the farm. He gave his father little thought, and hadn’t noticed the headlines which seemed to suggest that the feared famine was no longer impending; it was arriving.

Richard’s father was deteriorating fast. He bitterly regretted throwing his son out – more, even, than the financial hardship that had caused. Each day he kept watch on the roof, despite the blazing heat, talking to himself.

‘But he had become intolerable. He had to go. Had to. Am I not to blame for the way my son turned out? Surely I am to be held to account, at least in some part. About a third. Perhaps a half? His negative ways and bad attitude and rudeness are my fault. Maybe sixty per cent. I cannot… '


to be continued

[1] lyrics to Tragedy written by Barry, Robin & Maurice Gibb; recorded by the Bee Gees on Spirits Having Flown (1979)