Gift: A Son's Story (extract) - Last Words (i)

The epilogue of my book (abridged).

On 21st November 2017, as planned, Russell and I got together - the first time we'd seen each other since the day we'd settled up - and went to the downs to scatter mum's ashes.  He'd texted a week earlier to say he thought 6:30 am in the morning would be a good time, as it would be quiet, without too many people about.  He also thought it would be best if it was just the two of us.  That suited me fine.  I think he understood the 'unspoken' situation, and I was glad he'd suggested that.  If Lynn and/or Nicole had wanted to come, I'd have made my own arrangements.  I simply didn't want to see them.

            On the day before, I went into Walsh's to collect the ashes, which were in a sealed box.  I had two vases at home that had belonged to mum, so I poured roughly half into each of them and sealed them over with cling film, ready for us.  It was a strange, emotion-wrenching task.  This grey powder, sprinkled with grains of white bone, was all that remained of the most wonderful human being I had ever known.  The woman who gave me life, carried me, nurtured me, nursed me, supported me, counselled me, loved me unconditionally.  And now... just this.  This most precious substance to me on the planet.  Len had informed me of a company who could use some of the ashes to create jewellery, or a paperweight - spiralling them inside coloured glass.  Something that I would always have as a keepsake and reminder.  I'd mentioned it to Russell, who was happy for me to keep a small amount back in case I decided to do this - though he wasn't interested himself.  So I put some into a small earthenware cream jug of mum's - one of the pieces I had on the kitchen shelf unit.  I'd keep it in that jug until I was ready to use it.  It would be a small part of her that would always be with me.  A quintessence of dust, in Shakespeare's words. 

            I was dreading the day itself, and not just for the obvious reason.  I'd agonised for a long time about calling him to meet up for a proper chat, but I didn't want to create an argument or any bad feelings - or, at least, any more bad feelings.  I was sure he understood the lie of the land.  I'd spoken on and off to Joanne about it.  She thought that it would be good for him to know how I felt, but she understood my reticence.  I wanted to keep the hand of friendship there for him.  I was certain that he was in a great deal of confusion, and possibly pain, over his divided loyalties.  I could never forget how, after our last big spat over Lynn's 'slapping' comment, I accidentally bumped into them one day in a supermarket.  We hadn't spoken for over a year then, but Russell's immediate reaction was to smile and say 'Hello, Dan.'  She, though, had turned abruptly on her heel and walked away - leaving him awkwardly stranded between us.  Finally, I decided that telling him frankly how I felt about Lynn would only make things worse.  She was his wife and life-partner, after all.  Better to let it lie.

            But I knew this meeting would be uncomfortable - perhaps more so for him.  It was something we needed to do, though - be together for that time, and fulfil mum's wishes as her sons, as she would have wanted.

            On the day, I saw him pull up outside and I went straight down.  I opened the passenger door of the car and we greeted each other as if we saw each other all the time.  I put the two vases on the floor at my feet and we set off.  It was still an hour to sunrise, but the light was already showing dimly above the rooftops.  We drove along the High Street, as we had done that day thirteen months earlier, when I first took up my place at mum's.  It was empty now, though; just the occasional car, and a few early-risers mooching at bus stops, engrossed in their phones - as everyone now seemed to be.  It was a subject we had in common: annoyance at how these devices had taken over people's lives.

            "Nicole keeps on at me to get a smart-phone, but I don't want one.  Lynn won't allow people in the shop if they're yakking on their phones."

            "I don't blame her," I said.  "It's rude."

            Now that we'd brought up the subject of Lynn, he patted his pocket.

            "By the way... she gave me some bulbs to plant up there.  Somewhere out of the way, where they won't get dug up."

            "That's a nice idea.  What are they?  Tulips?"

            "Yes."

            "Mum would like that."

            "That's what we thought."

            We kept the conversation at that mundane level.  How things were going.  The weather.  It all felt rather awkward and forced.  Words exchanged for the sake of it.  There was an elephant sitting in the car with us, and we were both doing our best to ignore it.

            I'd suggested to Russell that perhaps we could go to the old stone seat on the top of the downs.  Mum used to go up there a lot.  She used to like sitting up there and looking out at the coast, with the town way down to the left and the cliffs on the right, and Reculver towers rising like a castle ruin on the promontory just beyond.  He thought that was a good idea.  So we parked as close as we could to it - about a hundred yards away, along an asphalt path.  Then we sat in the car for a while to wait for a little more light.  There were more people around than expected - mainly early-morning dog-walkers, who used the path to get to and from the slope to the beach.  Again, we forced a conversation out, keeping it to things we could agree upon. 

      I reminded him of something I'd mentioned before - that I wasn't going to 'do' Christmas that year.  It wasn't something I felt I could face in the normal way.  I'd decided, instead, to use the money I'd usually spend on cards and presents and give it to some of the charities mum favoured.  I'd told Phyllis, Joanne and a few others and they all thought it was a good idea.  Russell hadn't really commented much on it, except to say that they were going to carry on with things as normally as possible.  But then, the only real difference to their arrangements was that they would no longer be coming over to mum's on Christmas Eve.  They usually spent Christmas with Nicole and Warren.  Russell barely even saw Joanne and Carl during that time.  Mum usually saw Russell for no more than a couple of hours throughout the whole Christmas period - and that last year, of all years, had been no exception.   For me, though, it would be a major difference.  I'd always been with mum - as child and adult.  Since my divorce, it had just been the two of us.  Christmas would never be anything approaching 'normal' for me again.  I got a sense that Russell didn't entirely agree with my plan.  But he never voiced any objection to it, either.

            "I'll just be glad when it's all over," he said. 

            "Same here," I agreed.

            "And then next year," he went on - peering through the windscreen at the brightening sky, as if he was seeing the next year approaching with the light - "Partial retirement, I hope." 

            He was 67 at that time and already in receipt of his state pension.  He also had a pension from his old job.  Lynn had always wanted them to retire together, though, and she still had nine years to go.  For years, he'd been talking about giving up the drawing work and focusing on his other sources of income: chimney-sweeping and making the driftwood models.  Both were things that he really enjoyed, whereas the drawing work had long been a drudge.  They were sitting pretty, really.  But still the drawing work went on, and he was always complaining about it.  I never understood it, and neither did mum.  It was true they had a lifestyle to maintain: a big house (though paid for), two or three foreign holidays a year, cars, meals out.  But did they really need any extra?  He said they'd talked about selling up and moving abroad in the wake of the Brexit vote.  France, most likely, where her sister had a gite, and where they often went to stay.  Or downsizing to a smaller place and living off the leftover equity - at least until the grandchildren were grown up.  They could do either of those things easily, it seemed - but didn't.  Lynn's health worries had put matters into a different perspective, though, and had made them reconsider their priorities.  I'd hoped he would retire - even if 'partially'.  No point in carrying on with something you haven't enjoyed for years if you don't really need to carry on with it.  But it was his life - not mine.  Or their life, rather.  Again, I often wondered how much he was doing things that he'd rather not, because of what Lynn wanted.

            We finally left the car at just after seven and walked along to the seat.  It was a good day - airy and dry, but cold.  The wind wasn't strong, either.  Just right.  To break the mood, I told him about a scene in one of my favourite films, The Big Lebowski, when Walter and The Dude go up on the cliffs above San Pedro to scatter the ashes of their friend Donnie.  Walter, after delivering a heartfelt but hilarious eulogy, throws the ashes from the coffee can he'd collected them in - only for the wind to blow them back, covering the two of them from head to foot.

            "Hopefully, that won't happen today," he said.

            At the seat, we each took a vase.  Then we went in different directions - him to the west, me to the east - along the rough paths that wound down through the wild gorse, away from the seat and towards the sea.  I scattered the ashes in small sweeps as I went, watching them settle over the earth and grass in a glittery trail.

            "Happy birthday, mum," I said to myself as I went.  "Rest easily now.  Rest easily."

            We met back at the seat about ten minutes later.  Then I sat there for a few minutes as Russell went off to find a suitable place to plant the bulbs.  It was good to just sit alone for a bit, looking out at that expanse of sea - the wavelets beginning to sparkle now with the growing light.  Above, the sky was streaked with cirrus clouds, like furrows in a ploughed field - their undersides blushed a pale orange from the sun.  The kind of sky mum loved.  It was perfect. 

            Mum would have been 89, had she lived.  A long life, and generally a good one, in spite of the struggles.  It needed to be chronicled, I thought.  To be remembered.  It had to be committed to words, whatever might become of them.  I knew then that the time was right to do it, and that I could do it.  I was capable.  It would be my second most important job.

            I looked westwards - down towards the grey outlines of the seafront buildings, the clock tower, the pier head out there.  I thought again about my sense of affinity with it: detached and alone, but still standing.  Staring at it, I suddenly saw Russell's head bob into view as he made his way back to me.

            "I found a good spot, just under a gorse bush.  The ground was as tough as concrete, though.  I hope they take.  I'll pop up from time to time to look."

            "So will I," I said.  "I often cycle up this way, anyway.  I have another reason to, now."

            Russell pulled his coat together and shuddered.

            "Getting a bit chilly now."

            "Yeah.  Let's head back," I said.

            As we walked back along the asphalt path, we saw a middle-aged woman coming towards us - wrapped up in raincoat and big floppy hat - walking a large grey dog.  It bounded towards Russell, as if it knew him.  The woman certainly did.

            "I don't believe it," he called to her.  "Long time no see."

            As she came up to us, he gave her a friendly hug.  From words they exchanged, I gathered she was the wife of one of his friends from his rowing club days.  They stood talking for a few minutes, catching up on things.  She looked at me a couple of times, standing by, but Russell never introduced us.  She seemed to understand why we were there, and gave Russell her condolences.  They hugged each other again and made promises to keep in touch.  Then we carried on back to the car.  He told me who she was, but I didn't take much notice.  If I wasn't worth an introduction, why should I care?

(continued)  https://www.abctales.com/story/harryc/gift-sons-story-extract-last-words-ii