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.

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Guilt Gnaws

Guilt gnaws like a dog at a bone, tearing thin, translucent flesh, splintering calcium deposits.

That is what is wrong with Jordan, as far as anything is can actually be considered wrong. With each seizure, or series of seizures, his brain turns to bone. Calcification they call it.

It turned out that the man did not like me as much as I liked him. I went for promotion. I failed. My attitude. I am not oil on troubled water. They could not fault my work, but my relationships with my colleagues left something to be desired. I decided it was time to move on.

Matt's studies at university continued. He had a real aptitude for what he was doing. When we first got together I would sit in the spare room, reading and revising for my examinations. He came in one day and said “I wish I was as intelligent as you”. I accepted his admission of inferiority. As time wore on I realised he was far more intelligent than me. At first, when he discussed philosophy with me, I understood what he was talking about. After two years I was lost. His brain worked so quickly. He would take apart concepts in the same way as he took apart car engines. I watched him as he examined each component. I was jealous. I had never been acknowledged as academic.

The children grew, in direct proportion to my shrinkage. Rosa started school. She seemed very tiny. I had to put her gloves on for her in the winter, because her little fingers did not bend the right way. I liked her to wear a hat. Most of the heat we lose goes from our head.

My cooking was getting better. We bought a camper van. One day we went picking magic mushrooms with Billy, Brian and Bags. I used to go out with Viv, to clubs, to dance. She was beautiful. No-one noticed me when I was with her. I took Rosa to music lessons at the Midlands Art Centre. She crashed and banged about with tambourines and ethnic type instruments. The other mothers eyed me slightly suspiciously. There was obviously something about me that said “Council estate”. I did not have a cashmere scarf.

The first time I noticed it he was sitting in the garden. It was a sunny day. He had his burgundy carry bag with him. It was the way he sat and stared about him, slightly vacant, detached, as if we were all in a different place to him. The second time I was in the city centre and mother held his hand. They never held hands. In all the years they had been married I had never seen them holding hands. Such a simple thing. A less than intimate contact. But an admission of connection. They did not make those public statements.

It became obvious on Christmas day. Father did not understand the function of gift giving. He thought everything was for him. His smile was sickeningly simple, painted onto his face like a loose slash of incomprehension. The delight in his expression was child like. I felt sick.

Three days later mother telephoned. He had kept her awake all night, repeatedly filling the bath. The next day he ran from the house and tried to take his clothes off in the middle of the street. My sister tackled him to the floor, in an attempt to preserve both his and her dignity. As new year approached it became obvious that something would have to be done.

A nurse was employed. Father's behaviour became more extreme. He would have outbursts of shouting. It became apparent that he could not stay at home. Mother looked like wet washing. Paulette, who, as Tommy said, “Would use your dad's shit for toothpaste,” began to suffer the agonies of a child who realises their parent is regressing to helpless. I remained fairly calm. This gibbering wreck was partly the father I knew, although now he resembled the drunk one, the insanely stupid one, the unpredictable and terrifying one.

I decided to put him in a home. Mother and Paulette objected, but not vociferously enough. I knew it was what they wanted and what they needed, yet they had to make representations to the reverse, because father had always made us promise that we would never put him in a home. He was scared of being abandoned. I considered it my duty to abandon him in the same way that he had abandoned me. It was a simple imperative. My family could not care for him. He was a danger to himself and others. He needed professional help.

I spent three days touring local nursing homes. Some were mildly horrifying, with thin smears of filth. Others were downright degrading. I did not want father to be left dribbling in a chair. I did not care what it cost. We could afford it. He could afford it. This was what was going to happen.

Eventually, I found a nice one, with a large lounge, cheery staff, seemingly good food, and an atmosphere of relaxed indulgence. I took mother to see it. She made me vow I would never put her in a home like this. The words rolled off my tongue. Lying is easy if it is expedient.

All the arrangements were made. Father was to be transferred from home, in an ambulance. He was deteriorating rapidly. Years of heavy drinking had taken its toll. The corpus callosum, which joins the left part of the brain to the right part of the brain, was falling apart. His thoughts rattled around inside his head disjointedly. Every once in a while, however, the tiniest sliver of sense sparkled and he would snap into lucidity. This is what happened as he was lifted into the back of the ambulance.

“Where am I going?”
Mother and Paulette literally ran away from the question. I stood staring at the yellow open weave blanket covering his legs. The paramedic patted father's hand. I knew I could not escape. I climbed into the back of the ambulance.
“You're going to a nursing home.”
He looked at me, total terror in his eyes. “You're putting me in a home?”
“Yes, I'm putting you in a home. You're very sick. I need to make sure you get the care you need.”
He started to cry.
“It's not like the orphanage dad. We're not just going to leave you there. We still love you. We're not putting you away.”
I could not cry. I had to remain upbeat. How was he going to believe me if I seemed to be grieving my apologies already?
“I don't want to go,” he whispered.
“I'm sorry, but it's not your choice. You're too ill to stay at home.”
“You'll come and see me?”
“Of course I will you stupid old bugger.”
He laughed the way he used to, and as quickly as sense had returned to him it left. That idiot smile spread its way across his face. I took his hand in mine. His eyes moved sleepily. When he looked at me I knew he could not see me. The madness had stolen him again.

I did not go and see him every day, but when I did I took Jordan. They got on, the senile old man and the gurgling baby. I would let Jordan sit on father's lap. He did not wriggle. It was as if he knew the mind of the broken lap underneath him.

The doctors wanted instructions. We talked about outlooks and prognoses. Obviously, father was going to die, it was just a matter of when. I instructed that all treatment be withdrawn, except for pain relief. After two months he took bad. A chest infection confined him to bed. It developed into pneumonia.

Flicking through papers on my desk at work I was annoyed that no-one answered the phone ringing in my boss' office. I ripped my audio typing headphones from my head, pushed my chair back and stamped the office, grabbing the phone. “Yes,” I said tersely, knowing that I would be speaking to the receptionist, not a client, but it was not the receptionist, it was the head of personnel. As soon as I heard her voice I glanced through the glass panelling into the secretarial pool. Vicky, my team leader, was looking back at me. Everything started to move slowly.
“I'm sorry, but your sister's just called.” I knew what was coming next. I thought maybe if I put the phone back in the receiver and did not hear the news then it would not have happened. Instead I stood up straight and locked my knees. “Your father has just passed away.” Vicky's eyes were full of concern. It suddenly occurred to me that she had been told before me. I put my hand on the desk to steady myself.
“Is it OK if I leave work?”
“Of course, of course, take as much time as you need.”
I already knew this meant between three days and a week, because I had checked company policy in this matter.
“Thank you.”
I collected my things and left the building as quickly as possible. It was vitally important that I get to my car.

Ever since I started driving my car had been my screaming refuge. With the windows rolled up, the radio on loud and an open road in front of me I could really let go. I could say I felt shaky, but in reality, I did not feel anything. I was on automatic pilot. I was going to the nursing home. I imagined the rest of the family would go there. I started the engine and turned the radio on. Elton John was belting out 'Circle of Life' from the Lion King. It was bizarrely appropriate.

I remember nothing else of the day, except for seeing father dead. The nurse showed my nephew, Christopher, and I into his room. He was still warm. I noted mother had wrapped a rosary around his fingers in the usual manner. He was not a Catholic. I was amazed she had done this. I touched his face. It was odd to think that everything had stopped, completely and utterly. I looked around the room. I wanted to take something that was his. I went to the vanity unit and picked up his comb. It still had flakes of his scalp between the teeth. I put it in my back pocket. I noticed his slippers on the floor. He had the same size feet as my nephew. The idea of dead man's shoes, however, felt uncomfortable. I took the watch from father's wrist and gave it to Christopher.

Later, at home, I sat on my husband's knee in the kitchen and cried. He patted my back. I was not entirely sure what I was crying about.

The funeral was arranged. I saw him in his coffin. They had surrounded him with swags of baby blue shiny material. He looked ridiculous, especially as they had rouged his cheeks. Mother took me out to buy me a funeral outfit. She said he would have wanted me to go all beautiful. I chose a white suit, expensive. I looked great. I wore my red shoes, the ones that the axe man had never managed to chop from my feet. I was always going to keep dancing.

I did not cry. Everyone else was crying. I did not understand where they got their tears from. I felt all dry inside.

Afterwards there was food. I could not eat. Supposedly the soup was nice. I just wanted to get drunk and go to sleep. People were terribly polite.

Father was dead. Father is dead. Mother gave me his necklace, a huge, thick chain with a medallion of Jesus' face. I put it on. It still had him in it. I could hear his voice. I took it off and hid it in my jewellery box. My father was dead. Everyone told me how sorry they were. I did not what to say back. I was pleased he was gone. I looked at his casket and thought about how little he was now, all burned up, burned out. I do not remember anything else.

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