of any shift in our family’s foundations, but
soon a small pool of regular “special friends”
began to appear in our home on the
weekends. No child particularly wants to see
their own parents canoodling on the sofa,
but watching your dad smooching someone
who isn’t your mum while your mum cuddles
up to someone who isn’t your dad occupies a
whole different stratosphere of awkwardness.
Fairly soon the pool of special friends
dwindled to a special couple, Carole and
Tony. From that moment on, weekends
became one long polyamorous switcheroo.
Carole and Tony would usually arrive on
Saturday and normal family life — sitting
down for dinner, watching TV, communal
catch-ups — continued over the rest of the
weekend, just with two extra adults.
Everyone appeared to get on famously.
Dad and Carole would decamp to the marital
bedroom to discuss socialism and town
planning combatively, while Mum and Tony
would occupy the adjacent spare bedroom
with their much gentler union. My brother
and I trod carefully at the other end of the
house, unsure of what exactly was going on.
Sometimes my curiosity got the better of me.
Once I was walking down the corridor and
saw the door to a bedroom ajar. I peeked
through to see my mother in flagrante with
Tony. It felt a bit like watching a road traffic
accident. I knew I should avert my eyes but
I felt compelled to watch. I wished I hadn’t.
Sunday mornings were the peak of my
anxiety. An enduring family ritual was todeliver the newspapers to my dad in bed,
which I’d always enjoyed doing. Less so when
Carole, not my mum, was propped up naked
on the pillows next to him. Equally awkward
was the excursion to the next room to drop
off two cups of tea to my mum, who was
tucked up, postcoitally, next to Tony.
Later in the morning my friend Maria would
come past our house so we could walk to our
gymnastics class together. I lived in fear of
her catching a glimpse of the other random
couple at my breakfast bar, looking way too
at home in fluffy dressing gowns, most likely
sprawled across one of my parents.
The whole thing was excruciating. And
it was made infinitely worse by the four
adults’ blind ambivalence to how strange the
situation was for us. No explanations were
given to clarify the new sleeping
arrangements, but the obvious physical
closeness filled in the gaps, coupled with the
increasing sexual awareness of my brother
and I as we approached our teens. The
arrangement limped on for years, with Dadand Carole’s politically driven relationship
going from strength to strength as the beta
union between Mum and Tony fizzled out.T
he dictionary definition of polyamory
is “the practice of engaging in
multiple romantic (and typically
sexual) relationships, with the consent
of all the people involved”. And
herein lies the problem. We were
obedient children and our silence was taken
as tacit approval. Had we been asked just
once, “Does this situation make you feel
uncomfortable?” they would have discovered
the truth. We had no choice but to accept
our unorthodox domestic structure. It
became “normal”, but still we knew it was an
alien — and alienating — lifestyle to all our
peers. It just felt wrong. I was in my late teens
before I told a soul. My brother and I didn’t
discuss the situation with one another until
decades after that — such was the level of
unconscious acceptance.
The shame and embarrassment at my
domestic situation meant that I established
a deeply embedded pattern of emotional
suppression. Any uncomfortable feelings
were simply stuffed back inside, which
worked for a while, but as an adult I have
experienced on-off depression, suicidal
thoughts, feelings of confusion and
hopelessness. Prevailing psychiatric
research suggests that feelings of childhood
safety, unconditional love and, most
important, certainty tend to breed solid adult
behavioural foundations. In reality it’s
impossible to say whether my poor mental
health is linked to my home life as a child.
For a long time I clung on to the wish that
one day my parents would issue
comprehensive and heartfelt apologies, truly
acknowledging the damage their lifestyle
had caused, but despite years of debate
they have never reached that deeper
understanding of their actions. More than
40 years — and decades of therapy — later,
I now appreciate that the collateral
psychological damage my brother and
I sustained wasn’t intentional.
Admittedly their misguided search for
sexual nirvana hadn’t particularly cemented
my psychological foundations, and yes, a
little more emotional support over the years
might have come in handy, but however
baffling their actions, they simply didn’t know
any better. They just didn’t have it in them to
behave any differently. Still, as a mother of
three teenage children myself, I remain
astounded that my primary carers persisted
with such a destabilising — and ultimately
hazardous — parenting model.
As for the current renaissance in
polyamorous relationships? I have no
problem whatsoever with consenting
adults having sexual relationships with as
many different people as they choose.
Whatever floats your boat. It’s only when
children become part of the equation that
the trouble starts nSunday mornings were
the peak of my anxiety.
I’d deliver the papers to
Dad in bed, with Carole
naked next to him
ILLUSTRATION BY XENIA LATII
The Sunday Times Magazine • 33