The less perilous path....

“Grow up!” He barked it like he meant it, as if he could control how anything grew. He had stood there for some time before he spoke and I wondered if he would ever make a sound. He looked so intense, as if his glare might produce the desired result.

We were in the living room . Well, that's what we called it but living wasn't much done in reality. My family was well, how shall I put it? Taciturn? Yes that will do, though it would have my grumpy father reaching for a dictionary. Always assuming there was one in the house. Or that he knew where it was.

Mum was all right really and my sister had her better points. In fact they were noticeably growing now and she was becoming a bit touchy I thought. But dad – dah we always called him - was definitely taciturn. He kept pigeons of course and I often suggested he had more to say to them than to us. But then, given his moody nature, we were generally grateful for that.

Then he said it again: “Grow up!” Still I didn't get it. And merely hmm'd which he merely ignored. I continued with the plastic scale model of a Lancaster bomber – the third I had made owing to the fact that I unwisely said, a few years back, that I wanted a Lancaster and it seems everyone remembers. I now have five. Two built, one in construction and two awaiting my attention. They shall all hang, I assured my mother, from the ceiling in my bedroom so they won't need dusting. “Too right young 'un”, she said gently. “I am not getting them down for you!”. The inference was obvious – allow them to get dusty at your peril, young man.

This particular Lancaster would be dressed in the colours of that flown by Guy Gibson, who led 617 squadron in the dam buster raid. OK, we all have our heroes and he was one of mine. The other was Jimmy 'Ginger' Lacy. He was a top ace during the Battle of Britain. But I favoured him among many as he flew the Hawker Hurricane, the less famous but far more plentiful and successful fighter. And he lived to die of old age!

This time he muttered it: Grow up! A sort of resigned note in his voice. Now I knew he was a bit OCD whatever that is but anyway I reckon he tended to obsess about stuff. So I began to feel a bit sorry for him. I remember Gran's old saw “Oh John boy, quit wirrying'; he'll turn out OK. They all do – even you...” Never could resist a dig, old gran. Anyway I said, soft like so's not to stir him, up: “Don't worry dah. Like gran says I'll be fine one day.”

He twisted his head in the armchair as if it was an effort. To be frank, given his exercise regime it probably was. “What you on about, lad?”.

Now this made me hesitate. The one thing I had learned about dah, if I had learned anything, was to be very careful answering any question. Get it wrong, miss his point, fail to hear properly and he would be on you like one of the foxes he claimed constantly took his best pigeons, as if they could tell!

Anyway, carefully soft, I responded. “Oh just you seemed a bid upset about something.” I needn't have fretted. He nodded off immediately without hearing me, the very last pint would get the blame as usual as if the previous six that lunchtime had been nothing but tap water. My dah was not in fact an alcoholic. He always waited until midday before having a drink. And he never ever touched spirits - “Devil's brew lad, keep away”. But offer him a pint of best and he was off. “I'll just pop in for a pint lad”, he would say handing me the regulation lemonade and packet of crisps. Exactly how long he thought I could make one glass of lemonade and a packet of crisps last was anyone's guess. Most often I would wait a while in a kind of forlorn hope, then slip away home to work on the planes. About three hours later he would return home, blissfully unaware that when he went out that morning he had me with him. Mum would appear within minutes of his return, as if she had been watching. But she did not disturb him. She went into the garden and pottered, as she called it.

My sister appeared. Drama followed. “I hate him I hate him, I hate him.” I inquired as if I cared but she wasn't to be pacified. “What do you bloody care?” and she stormed out. I was fairly sure dah would not ever know she had breezed in!

Mum would not be around for his return. His lunch would be on the top or in the oven, a note on the dresser informing him, she was out to her meeting. Where that was would be a mystery she would take to the grave. My guess it was a bunch of brewery widows consoling each other in a location kept a secret. “Blessings, these are” she would say, indicating her mobile phone. “Now you be sure and call me if you need me” she would say. As if I would, short of the house burning down. Even then..

Anyway, dah snored softly and I glued quietly. The cockpit was a devil – seemed no matter what trick you pulled some adhesive would mark the canopy. Mind you I was a bit fussy. My cockpits always had a crew, crafted in balsa wood with a set of instruments and even a joystick. Attention to detail I called it. “Bloody obsessed” dah said, but then he should know. Cactus now. The poor old pigeons had better hope he feeds them.

But now he started dreaming and shouting - “grow up... I said grow up...” I gently nudged him awake. “Dah, relax, its all right. What's worrying you?”

“The bloody cactus. Grows bloody sideways. I want it to grow UP...”