Memories And Accusations

Yes, the dead have their place, in amongst memories, and accusations. But the duty remains to be discharged

The train journey was long and boring. I felt my body rock on the rails. Nothing fits anymore. I jolt, in surprise, as if everything is unexpected.

We arrived at Portsmouth, mother, sister and I. The platform was grey and flat, stretching into a distance that ended in gravel and another town. Mother stepped down from the steps, her high heels clacking and her long skirts swirling. Paulette peered out, like a bird, unsure of flight. I hoisted the sports bag, containing father's ashes, onto my shoulder. It hurt where the handles dug in.

“We could leave him in a locker,” mother ventured.
I looked at the ranges of grey metal, with their perfect, snub nosed, key extrusions.
“No.”
“But we said we'd have prawn cocktail.”
“I'll carry him.”
“It would be much easier if we left him in a locker.”
“I'm not leaving my goddamn father in a left luggage locker at Portsmouth station.”
“Have it your own way.”
I always did.

The pub was vile. Green velvet curtains, their linings stained by nicotine. Pulpy chairs and stools. Tables with slick varnish. A young waitress came over to take our order. She did not care. I did not care. The last thing on my mind was squishy seafood drowning in an acid sauce, slapped onto a bed of shredded lettuce.

The food arrived. The bag was at my feet. We had struggled at first, to find anything substantial enough to carry him. Being as he was being buried at sea his casket was lead lined. We had been surprised by its weight. Lead is heavy. My nephew, Christopher, had provided us with and old sports bag. It was black. It said 'Head' in large green letters. I had father in a sports bag. I don't think he would have cared.

“And a bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale, with a half pint glass.”
“Gin and tonic.”
“Gin and tonic.”
Mother and sister were like clones.
“Ice and a slice?”
Mother was confused.
“Yes, yes, ice and lemon.”
I took over. I always had to take over. They had lived under the umbrella of his bombastic protection for so long that they were unable to make a decision. He had taught me differently. He would pick arguments with me just to check that I could answer back. Of course, we fought like cat and dog, but really we were the same species. He needed to ensure that I knew how to stand up for myself. He had watched the other women in his life become immobile. I was his precious, his chicken wing. He gave me special attention.

After lunch we went to the base. Mother said the right things. Paulette prompted her. I did not care. The naval officer smiled benignly. He was wearing white gloves. I wondered how dirty you could get standing still.

My back hurt. The handles of the bag dug into my shoulder blades, that soft bit of flesh between my neck and the knuckle of my arm. I could feel it dragging me down, making me lopsided. I tried to switch, the way you do with pain. I thought if I could share it out then maybe it would not hurt as much. The result was that my whole back ached.

When my muscles are damaged they burn. Fire shot through my body, like sunshine through a window, or the flash from a nuclear blast through eye glasses, left on a table, while tea grows cold. White turned brown and brown turned white. Decay sometimes muddies. Bleached bones are left in the desert..

I carried Daddy on my back, like he had carried me, when I was a small child, “Knee high to a grasshopper”. There was one time, I wet myself. He said it did not matter. Before I sat my high school exams, he squeezed my ankle, we were sitting in the car, and said “I know you've done your best, no-one can ask any more of you”.

Yes Dad, I remember when you wired in my cooker, and you ended up bleeding, because you had to drag the cables through the wall. You laughed when I crashed your car. You thought it was funny. You played squash with me, even after I hit you in the balls with my racquet. When I was a kid you used to get me to pull your finger so you could fart. We watched cartoons together. I know the way you sweep your hair over your head when you're stressed. I have heard you swear a million times and your hand hit the table/desk/door frame. I understand why you get angry and lose your temper. It is not that you hate me, or anyone else, it is that you are scared of us. You have always felt small. And here you are. In this miniature coffin, six inches by four inches. And I am carrying you. You are dead dad. You are dead. And you are the only dad I ever had. You only get one. You were mine.

The small boat sailed out, under motor power, in to The Sound. When it reached a certain position the driver, who I expect is properly called a captain, turned the engine off. The wooden structure swayed on the waves. “This is the sea dad. Remember the sea? You always loved the sea. So deep. So wide. You can lose anything in the sea. You nearly lost yourself during the war.”

A navy man stood up. He was wearing a uniform and those strange white gloves. He put a trumpet to his lips. He played The Last Post. When I was a Girl Guide we had words to those notes: “Day's done. Gone the ...” I could not remember the words. “All is well. Save thee rest,” but it could have been 'safely rest', I never hear anything properly, “God is nigh”.

The casket slid off and plopped into the water. Such a small noise. Such a big thing. The Union Jack, that had laid over his small frame, was now flat and fluttering. I had never understood his obsession with this flag. It belonged to him more than love or hope. He believed in its symbolism. The United Kindgom. His country. His sanctuary. He fought for it. He thought himself as part of it. It owned him. He did not own it. Loyalty, fidelity and patriarchy. This was MY father. He was not a man of the people. He was a man for the people.

I massaged my shoulders on the train. I did not mention my injuries. It was the least I could do. You were on my back throughout my life and you damn near broke it in your death. Father. You were father. I never knew you, until you slid out, from under that flag. There is more to being a man than your wife and kids.