george the second

George the Second.

I would take him out every Sunday, my two year old son George. I lived for those Sundays. My life was always quite ordinary really. I have a job that at best I can stand and at worst I despise. I work in a recruitment agency. There is a lot of paper work - so much so that if you were to pick me up and turn me upside down, I am certain some unsigned and forgotten slip of a document would fall out. I like the people I work with though. In our office there is always a feeling of camaraderie - we know that in terms of exploitation and horror our job is probably not the worst in the world. But in terms of paper cuts and boredom it just might be! My social life is no more exciting than my work life. Especially in the last couple of years. I haven't had a partner for a while - my mind is primarily occupied by thoughts of my son, and this takes up so much of my time, that it would be difficult to find an opening for a potential girlfriend. Not that candidates are banging down the door. My mum rings without fail every Sunday evening. I have the feeling she phones late in the day so as not to disturb my time with any guests she might imagine spent the night before. She yearns for some meaningful information about my life beyond the usual chit chat, but, as with most thirty something men and their middle aged mums, I find it difficult to give her anything more than a list of the week`s trivialities. I think that in most respects I am quite normal. Except the one. My son George. George happens to be the most incredible person to have ever lived. Now stop, I know what you are thinking. Everyone feels that about their own child - witness the witless couples who flash pictures of their little monster ad infinitum to anyone luckless enough to cross their path. And as well I realise that probability suggests the most beautiful and sublime example of a human being ever to have graced the earth was never destined to have been born to my life. Nevertheless this is what happened. And I know that if you spent a few minutes with George you would understand the truth of that.

My son George was named for my ex-wife's uncle. I met him on a couple of occasions. He was what you would call the black sheep of the family. If he had been born a century earlier he would have been described as a rogue or bounder and be regarded with a cheerful suspicion. For him it was something of a tragedy that he wasn't born to those times - the sword of judgement had been sharpened somewhat by the late 20th century and it fell upon him with a lethal precision. He died a death of alcoholism. He died alone. Whimsy and flamboyance aside, this man was not a good example. He married over and over again. He consistently cheated and broke the hearts of those who would have done anything for him. He was selfish and disloyal. But he was great with kids. Kids reveal adults in a very sharp and specific light. When confronted by a child some adults will fall apart - they start 'cooing' and 'oowwwing' with abandon as if some secret switch has been flicked in their head releasing those wretched, ridiculous sounds over and over. Other adults give the toddler playing at their feet a brief and withering smile before returning to the matter at hand. But George loved children and they responded to him. He would be genuinely delighted by their presence and would chat with them with ease and joy.

And so it was that we named our baby George after the selfish alcoholic bastard who was also a patron saint of children. George the second, our baby, contained within himself his great uncle`s sense of adventure. On our Sundays together, two year old George, his little face crinkled by the effort of trying to take in all the glorious sights of the park, would go exploring. He was always fascinated by the ducks. I remember the first time he saw one. I was only 3 feet away. I saw the moment at which he turned and saw it. His face just lit up. The world was so new to him and so bright and into his field of vision had just stepped a magical creature. A creature that walked funny and was furry and had such vivid colour. Overwhelming! George was captivated. He couldn't help but extend his small chubby arm in the direction of this new, wonderful friend that had so entranced him. To touch - to be able to verify the presence of another that shares this same vast and unimaginable world; to reach out - is that not what it means to be human? George understood this so perfectly. The duck, on the other hand, perhaps disillusioned by a previous experience of children less kind, jumped away flapping furiously. George watched its emotion with a quiet disappointment. Other children would have been frightened by such a sudden flurry of activity - or screamed their lungs out because the object of their affections had flown the coup - but not George. He just stood there thoughtfully for a few moments. Then he turned to me with the largest eyes you could imagine and in them was the request for an explanation - why had the creature departed so suddenly when there was much joy yet to be had? But George was never able to dwell on such questions because the swings were waiting and they were fast and went really high.

Last Sunday I was coming back from that park and I bumped into a guy in the street, a stranger. He got so angry even though it was an accident. I mumbled my apologies but he followed me for a while swearing and threatening all kinds of violence. When I was younger I might have been tempted to respond in kind. But on a Sunday evening my thoughts were full of my son. I heard the words as if from a distance; as from a far off world. I really don't remember when he stopped screaming.

Does that give you any indication of how much I love my son, how much a child can consume you and obliterate your own tiredness with a new and crystal clear beauty. George has been absent from my life for the last two years now. I don't think he even saw the car which hit him. He hasn't been absent from my thoughts for a moment.

By Tony McKenna