Dates

By ‘dates’, I don’t mean the kind of meetings that people have which may lead to a romantic entanglement. Nor do I mean the fruit that grows on palm trees. No, I’m talking about a number of key moments in my life that have fundamentally moulded its shape and direction.

The first of these I can’t even specify exactly. It was some time in September 1981. Staying with friends in Eastern France, I met a nine-year old boy with whom I got chatting about the solar system. As one does. We even drew ourselves a diagram of the planets circling the sun, naming each of them.

One of the odder aspects of this meeting was that we shared a first name. That was unusual for France, where ‘David’ is mostly a name used by Jews though I, from England, where the name is far more common, was the Jew and he wasn’t.

They say that the quickest way to a woman’s heart is through her child, and it certainly worked in this case. David’s mother is Danielle and, 38 years on, our marriage has lasted since 11 January 1983.

The second date was 29 January 1983. That was the day David’s first half-brother, Michael, was born. If you’ve just compared those two dates, yes, there wasn’t much of a gap between Danielle and I getting arrived and Michael being born. 18 days, in fact. Danielle had to get divorced first. The judge who saw us commented, looking at her belly, that we would probably want him to reduce the time between decree nisi – the first stage of divorce – and decree absolute, the final stage after which one can marry – to the shortest possible time.

Michael deeply appreciative of my show of fatherly affection

He was right. At the time, there was no guarantee that the child (we didn’t know Michael’s sex before he was born) would inherit my British nationality if we weren’t already married. That was important if it was indeed a boy, since the French still had compulsory military service, a horrible waste of nearly a year, while the British didn’t. We did just manage to get married on time, sparing him that terrible fate. As it happened, however, the French had done away with military service by the time he reached eighteen.

Not that we regret having got married for all that.

The third date was 27 July 1984. That was when David’s and Michael’s brother Nicky was born. That completed that generation of our family.

Anyone who thinks that having a child doesn’t change your life clearly hasn’t had one. I always joke to new parents that they only have 25 years of anxiety ahead of them, but the real joke is that it isn’t a joke at all. There was a time when I was out every night at 2:00 in the morning walking around the estate where we lived, with Michael on my shoulders, while I pointed out various items of interest: the hedge, the lawn, the tree, the moon, all in the hope that he might eventually fall asleep.

Nicky was far less of a problem in the early years but developed a fairly rebellious character later. Somewhere, I still have the Post-It note from him, announcing that he was leaving us for ever, because he was sick of being treated unfairly, and he didn’t care how much we might be worried about his disappearance. And that was one of the lesser crises in our relationship.

One aspect of his rebellion that I particularly liked, however, was that he decided to grow his hair long. His brother followed suit. But when Michael changed his mind and had it cut short, Nicky stuck to his principles and kept it long. That meant that for years he’d be taken for a girl, right into adolescence when the loss of his childish looks left no one in any doubt that he was male, long hair or not.

What has never ceased to astonish me is that while most kids would resent having their gender mistaken, Nicky simply took it in his stride. When waiters in France asked “et pour Mademoiselle?” he would simply give his order, feeling it entirely unnecessary to correct their misapprehension.

And what of David in all this? Well, he’d grown from being “little David” until he stood significantly taller than me. Switching the names around seemed inappropriate, and “young David” as opposed to “old David” wasn’t an attractive option. As a result, he became Davide (pronounced like the French David, roughly Daveed in English), which he remains to this day.

He was an extraordinary asset, right up to the time he left for university. He was the best kind of big brother, so we could leave him in charge whenever we chose to go out, and it created a great relationship that has lasted to this day between the three brothers. On the other hand, in a moment of injustice towards him, we took a gift of our first ever dishwasher from my mother just three or for months before he moved out. So, for pretty much eight years, he had to do a colossal amount of washing up, and only got to enjoy a few months of a dishwasher before he left the household.

The next date of note was 11 January 2005. Now, if you remember the dates from the start of this piece, you’ll have recognised that date as Danielle’s 22nd wedding anniversary (by curious coincidence, mine too). Ironically, Danielle managed to forget that date every single year, rather refuting the common belief that it’s husbands who forget. A boss of mine once told me that the sure way not to forget your wedding anniversary was to forget it once. In my experience, I would turn up each year with a bunch of flowers and Danielle would say, “Oh, lovely! Is it our that time of year again, then?”

David(e) like to take a balanced approach towards parenting

Well, since 2005 she’s never forgotten. Why? Because our first grandchild was born on the day of our anniversary in that year. Thanks to Senada, his wife, and David, we’ve enjoyed the company of Aya for the last fourteen – now nearly fifteen – years. 

David(e), Senada and Aya
Enjoying the pleasures of Valencia, though not its best weather

She’s reached that painful stage where she has answers for all my wit (I think she regards most of it as little more than half-wit), and as often as not, she’s not just giving as good as she gets, but rather better (not an admission I find it easy to make…)

Nicky with Matilda

And the final date in this glorious list? Well, it’s Sunday, 18 August 2019. The previous evening, we had a text message, “Sheena’s waters have broken”. Twenty-four hours later, we’d dumped the dogs with our friend Begonia, who is always threatening to dogknap them anyway, and driven to the hospital in Madrid. It was great to see our second grandchild Matilda on the very day of her birth.

Sheena entertaining her new child's grandfather

David, Senada and Aya are travelling soon to see her. Michael, with our daughter-out-law Raquel, live in Madrid too so they’ve seen her many times already. And we, of course, have been up several times.

Danielle appreciating Raquel's display of daughter-out-law's affection

The next occasion will be the end of this month. I’ll be in Madrid to say goodbye to the company that has just decided to let me go (curious expression, that, “let me go”: I wasn’t trying to escape). I have to admit that seeing Matilda will go a long way towards making me feel less annoyed by the redundancy. Particularly as she’s learned to smile since last time I saw her.

Matilda's now smiling

And isn’t that what family’s for? Infuriating they sometimes may be, but overall family members are what make even annoying moments pleasurable.

Which is why those six dates matter so much to me…