And When Did You Last See Your Father

The knock at the door is ominous, as the boy notices his father has not returned and the servants flee out the back door. Cromwell's soldiers barge in, soiling the clean floors with muddy boots, and drag the mother, sister, and boy to confront the man lounging in the father's chair. The soldier traps the boy with a cold stare and asks "And when did you last see your Father?" implying something has happened to the father.

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And When Did You Last See Your Father

Uploaded by

Nada Dimitrijevic

We take content rights seriously. If you suspect this is your content, claim it here.

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And When Did You Last See Your Father?

The war never meant much to me; a mere murmur in the dark, a worry line momentarily
creasing an unguarded face. I was just a boy at the time and my young mind had only room
for food, frivolity and fun. I was carefree and unburdened. I was innocent, but for how long?

They came to the door in the middle of the morning. It was a dark, grey day; rain
cascaded down, fat droplets plopping onto the roof. Not the sort of weather for playing out,
too slippery to climb the giant oak tree's broad bows. Sprawled on the extravagant rug, I
was trying to occupy myself with a disheartening volume mother had produced for me.

It was a hard knock, quite unlike the tap of mother's dainty visitors'. A loud volley of
bangs echoed around the house, it was a 'LET ME IN OR ELSE' noise. Mother's face went
pale. The maids hurriedly fled for the back door. But I didn't notice, I didn't notice much
those days, I was blissfully ignorant. I had the faintest of notions that something was
different when father hadn't appeared to wish me goodnight the previous evening. His
large, polished, oak chair had been unoccupied all morning. But these things escaped my
mind and so, when the knock came, I remained spread eagled upon the floor.

RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT! This time it was louder and longer. Mother started as if woken
from a trance, she brushed a strand of fair hair out of her eyes and then, her fingers
fumbling on the ornate, golden door handle, she pulled wide the door...

Cromwell's soldiers thronged in, crowding the room, their muddy boots soiling the
clean swept floors, their long spiked pikes scratching the polished woodwork. The soldiers
were not as I knew; they were not the laughing, long haired merry faced Cavaliers, who
stayed talking to father late into the nights. Not father's leather shod comrades with their
lacy ruffs and shining buckles. No, these men were different, they wore metal armour that
glinted in the light, their mouths were sullen slashes, their eyes held a steely glint that
caught your gaze and held it until you turned away.

Mother faltered in the doorway before succumbing to the Roundhead soldier who
seized her from behind and forcefully propelled her away. Venetia was next, she wept
silently, her head bowed, her hands clasped. Then they came for me, a tall, broad
shouldered man taking me by the waist in a vice like grip. They dragged us into father's
room, not caring for the beautiful tapestries or fine walnut furniture. Another man lounged
in father's comfortable upholstered chair, his boots resting upon the lacquered desk. The
soldier leaned forward, trapping me with his cold blue eyes. I didn't dare move for fear I
should feel the sharp end of their weapons. He cleared his throat and, with a harsh, grating
voice, asked