The Roof Of The World. Part Two

Due to the fact I am significantly more familiar with my mother's version of events, hers will be the account that I will be primarily drawing upon. She was attending a remembrance service on the base where my father served. She played the organ and was frequently called upon to provide melancholic accompaniment to the sombre proceedings that would periodically unfold there. For those who choose a career in the military, death is always a persistent variable in everybody's lives. In this particular instance, a transport plane had gone down in the Channel on a routine supply run, all twenty passengers and crew were lost, their bodies were never recovered. There was a large turnout for the service, there always was. It seems service men and women never fail to forge durable bonds with one another. The fear of death is certainly a potent incentive to imbue an unyielding sense of camaraderie amongst these brothers in arms.

At any rate, my father was among the many attending this particular service. One of the recently deceased had been a very close friend of his. A young man whose name I forget, but I remember was flying home to England for two weeks leave because his wife had just given birth to twins. My mother noticed Lance Corporal Baxter seated in the front row, looking significantly more grief stricken than those in his immediate vicinity. At sporadic intervals he would produce a black handkerchief from his sleeve and proceed to subtly wipe the corners of his eyes, refusing to acquiesce to the possibility of even a single tear escaping down his cheek. That's one thing I'll always remember about my father, the world could be crashing down around him but he would always keep up appearances. He'd never let his emotions betray his stony demeanour. My mother also noted that throughout the ceremony he did not say a single word. He didn't recite any of the prayers with the rest of the congregation, didn't sing any of the hymns, didn't even make the sign of the cross at the beginning or the end of the service. He just sat there with a pained expression on his face, looking decidedly ill at ease with everything that was transpiring around him.
The service ended and everyone began to file out of the building. Lance Corporal Baxter remained seated, and didn't move.

My mother pottered about the organ, taking infinitely more time than was required to gather her belongings together. God alone knows what exactly it was that so enthralled her but she remained seated by the organ, feigning to read her hymn books and sheet music, waiting for him to do something. Without fail that particular detail would always coax a nervous chuckle out of my mother, who would then look slightly bashful before continuing with the rest of her dreary account. She patiently waited for around twenty minutes, then without warning, my father got up and began to slowly trudge up the aisle towards the door. Suddenly flustered by this abrupt burst of activity, my mother sprung to her feet and shuffled after him. She caught up with him in the porch at the front of the building.

It was raining steadily. The base stretched out before them, it was grey and deserted. The butcher's daughter looked at the Lance Corporal. The Lance Corporal looked straight ahead.
"It was a beautiful service, said my mother at last with a note of apprehension. There was a lengthy pause, then he pursed his lips firmly together and gave the slightest hint of a nod.
Heartened by the acknowledgement, my mother went on, "It's so sad when so many are taken so young. Did you know any of them?
The Lance Corporal nodded again, this time more emphatically, but still remained silent.
"I'm sorry to hear that, were you close?
Again the Lance Corporal nodded, but in this instance a dejected look of sorrow washed over his face as he seemed to contemplate the true depth of his loss. He closed his eyes and bit into his lower lip, gravely bowing his head. My mother sheepishly looked away.
"I'm sorry, she said again. The two of them stood there for a handful of heartbeats. The Lance Corporal wracked with anguish, my mother awkwardly shifting her weight from one foot to the other, desperately trying to find the right words to sooth her despondent companion. Finally, she turned to face him. "Would you like to pray with me? She inquired. This time there was no pause, the Lance Corporal glared right at her.
"Why the hell would I want to do that? He spat the words out with such contemptuous venom that it caused my mother to flinch. He held her gaze, his bloodshot eyes fixed firmly on hers.
"If I have offended you, then I am sorry, my mother whimpered. There was another short pause.
"It is I who have offended myself for ever believing that any good would come out of this life. For ever believing that there was anyone up there who gave a damn about any of us. With that the Lance Corporal stepped out into the rain. "I'm sorry, I have to go.
"Wait! My mother yelled. There was no reaction as he stubbornly soldiered on across the quad towards his barracks. Not wishing to accept defeat so easily, she took off after him. The rain was coming down heavier now and she was soaked by the time she had caught up, but he didn't even acknowledge her presence.
"Please wait, she implored. "I just want to talk to you, just a few words. I can only imagine how you're feeling but I just wanted you to know that-
But before she could finish her sentence, she tripped and fell to the ground in a crumpled heap. The Lance Corporal took a few more steps, then stopped dead in his tracks. He didn't turn around, but eventually came the seemingly reluctant words, "Are you alright?
My mother lay there on the drenched asphalt, nursing a grazed knee.
"I'll live,
He stood there motionless, torn between his grief and his chivalric duty as an officer and a gentleman. Finally, he succumbed to the latter, turned on his heel and walked back to where my mother was sitting. Thank God he did, or I wouldn't exist.
"Good on ya dad, I would always interrupt at this point, which would cause my mother to chortle to herself again. She took great pride in relaying what a gentleman my father was at every available opportunity, always hastening to add that men like that don't exist anymore in this day and age. I'd dutifully nod in agreement and before long she'd be wittering on again.

My father took her to the infirmary where he personally disinfected and patched up my mother's knee.
"There's still good in the world, you've just proved that, my mother beamed when he had finished. He looked up at her awkwardly, but her smile was infectious. He glanced away.
"You're a good man, you just miss your friend, that's all, she continued, sensing that she was starting to make some progress.
"You're right I do, he replied. "And I refuse to accept that there is any god up there who would allow such tragedies to occur, yet occur they do. Although his reply was tinged with a certain degree of bitterness, his cadence was relaxed in comparison to the tone with which he delivered his initial comments.
"You've never had to experience death before have you? At least not someone who you really cared about, my mother retorted. He remained silent. "Its not an uncommon reaction for someone in your position to have, trust me.
"If that's the case then it's little wonder that the church is haemorrhaging devotees like rats fleeing a sinking ship, my father cut back. Mother bowed her head and exhaled slowly. "I'm sorry, now it's I who have offended you, he said, feeling slightly embarrassed. My mother took a deep breath and looked up again.
"All I can tell you is what I believe to be the case. God created all of us. He loves all of us equally. He created the whole world for us to enjoy, its ours to make of what we please. But unlike God, men are imperfect. So¦ if a group of men get together and build, for instance, a plane, then that too is imperfect. Please don't be offended by this. Planes sometimes crash, and people die. That's not God's fault. That's just the way the world works sometimes. It's just an imperfect machine created by an imperfect being that doesn't always end up doing what it's supposed to do.
My mother tried to read the Lance Corporal's stoic expression to see if anything that she was saying was registering, but he was giving nothing away. She persisted, figuring that she would go on talking until told to do otherwise.
"Let me put it another way: If you look out the window and the sky is grey and overcast, you could choose to go for a walk despite the fact you know that there is a chance it may rain and you may get wet. We all know that our actions have consequences, but that doesn't mean that we should be too afraid to take action for fear of what may happen to us. If you set off and it does begin to rain, is that God punishing you? Of course it isn't. God isn't the rain, God is the sky, and the journey we undertake beneath it isn't always fair-weathered. Sometimes it does rain, and sometimes there's thunder. But sometimes there is a beautiful sunset, or a starry night, or a rainbow. We all have to take risks, sometimes they don't work out, like what happened to your friend. But sometimes it does work out. You flew over here safely, and because of that, we were able to meet.
This caused the Lance Corporal to shoot my mother a questioning glance. "You make it sound like destiny, he said in a tone that was somewhere in between curious contemplation and exasperated bewilderment.
"I believe everything happens for a reason, she said.
"Indeed, he replied. There was yet another short pause in the proceedings as both parties mulled over their respective positions. "Its still raining outside, how about I give you a ride home, he said at last.
"That would be most generous of you, but I don't want to be a burden, my mother replied.
"Not at all, it's the least I can do to applaud your devoted persistence, the Lance Corporal acknowledged with an amiable smile. With that he escorted her to his black Volkswagen which was parked nearby and drove her across town to where she lived. Upon their arrival, he wound down the window after she had exited the vehicle so that they might exchange a few parting pleasantries. My mother was the first to speak.
"Well thank you very much for the lift. It was a pleasure to have met you. I come to the base to play at least once a month, perhaps we will see each other again.
"Perhaps we will.
"I just realised that I don't even know your name.
"Lance Corporal Ernest Baxter, but I suppose you could call me Ernie. What should I call you? Sister?
"It's Sister Mary, but I suppose you could call me Mary. If you'd prefer.
"I would prefer, said Ernie. "Well Mary, I heard there was a convent round here somewhere, now I know where it is, I might stop by for confession, or something. Maybe we'll bump into each other.
"I'll be waiting, answered Mary, and with that she turned and sauntered off in the direction of the tall, white columns at the convent's entrance.

There it is, that's the story of how my parents first met. Hardly a remarkable tale by any stretch of the imagination. A touch scandalous maybe, but nowhere near sordid enough to prevent my eager mother from churning out the same old droll recitation of it time and again. Looking back on how my childhood unfolded, it all makes perfect sense to me now. My mother was always a sucker for those who she perceived to be in any sort of need, whether they chose to admit it or not. A commendable trait I suppose, I just wish she employed better judgement at times. There were quite a few components to the dynamic of my parent's relationship in those early years, but now is not the time to go into that. All you really need to know at this point is that after their initial meeting on that fateful day, they were married and living in England within three years. After taking custody of the Berry Head Lighthouse as a favour to an old army friend who was now on the British Heritage Council, my father was then taken by the inexorable desire to breed.

My ever compliant mother obediently spawned my brother at the first time of asking. Then, after a few botched attempts, I subsequently followed not too long afterwards. It seemed after four years of lavishing all their attentions on my older sibling, the novelty had some what worn off by the time I arrived on the scene. There is no doubt that there was certainly an initial degree of jubilance surrounding my arrival into the world, so I'm reliably informed at any rate. However, I suspect this short-lived delight that so gripped my parents at the outset was mainly due to the fact that my mother had successfully managed to give birth to something that wasn't dead on arrival. I can honestly say that of all the actions I have taken throughout the entirety of my existence, that first breath set the bench mark for parental ingratiation. Nothing I have undertaken in the subsequent 10,865 days that followed that first breath has lived up to those original feelings of pride that I managed to conjure in my parents by simply not being dead.

It is little wonder that on the infrequent occasions that I reflect on my childhood, my memories are rife with instances of paternal dissatisfaction or maternal malcontent. It's not like I was ever abused or mistreated, even neglected would seem too strong an indictment of their lacklustre nurturing. I suppose the best way to describe it would be to say that their parenting techniques incorporated a not so subtle undercurrent that I ought to be exceedingly grateful simply to be alive. Anything else was considered an indulgence. In addition, my childhood seemed to be shrouded in a perpetual eclipse that was symptomatic of living in my brother's apparently flawless shadow for all those years. I don't want to appear unduly deprived, I'm just trying to illustrate that I was reared in an environment that marginalised me from the brunt of my parent's affections. To compound my extreme lack of domestic sustenance, I wasn't afforded the opportunity to seek out emotional nourishment elsewhere and spent the bulk of my childhood alone. I had a few good friends at school, but the time I was permitted to spend in the presence of the dizzying array of communicable ideas that they spewed in my general direction was drastically regulated. It was as if from a very early age my parents had in their infinite wisdom decided that a blinkered view of the world would suit me best. God knows, with hindsight maybe they were right.

Many of the most enduring memories of my childhood consist of me sitting on the crest of Berry Head, looking down as the waves crashed onto the rocks below. It was as if that barren cape where I spent the vast majority of my time somehow embodied my insular disposition. There I would sit, surrounded on three sides by the grey ocean. The world with all of its infernal trappings lay behind me. The narrow coastal road wound its way lazily back down along the rock face towards the town centre, and the rest of civilisation which lay beyond. I never had any interest in any of that. Instead I'd gaze out to sea, contemplating the distant horizon and what lay beyond. Of course I now know that had I taken the time to consult an atlas I would have realised it was just France. I'd often reflect on what purpose God had planned for me. In those early years in the midst of all my isolation, I would never have thought that I would eventually end up living in one of the most densely populated places on earth. Not only that but that I would be earning a living helping to perpetuate one of the most vile and insidious components of capitalist society.

I blame the parents.