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Sunday 27 December 2009

Images, echoes and Angels.

It has been a hard Christmas. My partner and I went to my Sister's for the day; my Mum and Dad, Uncle (yes a strange one as tradition requires), my two nephews and my Sister's partner.

The meal was sumptuous; ginger-bread stuffing, a revelation! Heaven when eaten with stuffed leg of turkey and my partners Port and chestnut sprouts. We talked about cooking, food, tradition and family. My partner lost his Mum and my Sister's partner lost hers this year. Each time I looked to one of the chairs around the table I expected Joan to be sitting there smiling and tucking away a huge plate of food; her gaze straying to the dessert.
Then as we relayed out into the bright sunlight on the decking outside, for some to enjoy a cigarette and others fresh air, I expected to see Mo standing there in her red blouse, the one with a Chinese style collar, flashing Christmas badge on her breast, trim leg trousers she loved and smart shoes with the buckles, smoking, smiling and laughing.

I felt that we were gathered more closely. Two of the three centres of our respective families gone. We are gravitating into my parents, the Universe resetting itself, as naturally as water flooding or tide falling.

We pulled crackers, laughing at the jokes, ate a full feast, talked of those elsewhere and drank good wine. We went round the table listing what our gifts were; prompting each other with mock offence when a speaker forgot a stocking filler here or a joke present there. We exchanged gifts, watching the nephews, one 22 and the other 10, getting excited at a bottle of good whisky, DVDs and a full Lego collection - the Police Station series - respectively.

The crowning moment was the simplest gift of all. A tasteful wooden frame, wrapped in tissue paper and passed to my parents. My Mum unwrapped a picture of herself, my Dad and the Angelic Joan smiling out on a shared holiday. The tears flowed from my Mum, without sobbing, her chin crumpled up, eyes reddened and she took the tissue from me that I had carried for this very moment. When she handed the frame to my Dad he smiled, water pricking his eyes and fought himself every inch of the way. I handed him a tissue, he took it without looking up. When I drove them home later Mum commented she was the only one who cried and my Dad agreed; pride and amnesia being his refuge, despite all the tears shed, unashamedly, so recently at funerals.

My partner sat for hours with the two nephews building Police cars, motorbikes, vans and finally the station itself. The adults chatted, smoked, drank and remembered. I felt like I had reached the age where I was a spectator; unable to actually enjoy and live in the moment. I could watch over them and enjoy the pleasure of others, more innocent maybe. Of course, it might have something to do with the control freak in me - the fact that through all the pleasure and excitement I was the only one who carried tissues, knowing that tears would flow and guessing where they would be shed.

My parents safely driven home; Dad's pain endurance taken to his limit so Mum could enjoy a few vodkas and the relaxing atmosphere; her knowing that we were all keeping an eye on him. I return to find my partner still building and playing with my nephews. On the television there is a home movie playing a previous New Years Eve party - the theme being Musicals - there is Les Mis characters floating past the camera, followed by three Pink Ladies from Grease and on and on. The camera swings around to a curly haired mother superior sitting on a chair, a huge crucifix hanging from her neck and a novice Nun sitting at her feet. It was Joan, smiling as always, supported and surrounded by her mad, singing and daft family; they urged her to start singing but after the first verse they all joined in with "How do you solve a problem like Maria". She giggled, laughed and beamed through the song, her round face glowing in happiness and pride. We all watched and at the end my nephew waved at his Grandmother.

The next disc was my Sister's fortieth celebration. Groups drank, sang and laughed in the shadows and pools of light; people waved when challenged by the camera, poked their tongues out and generally played the fool - it was a great night.
Then there in the dark a huddle of four figures around a central table, light bouncing of half full glasses. My parents, conspiratorially leaning over their drinks, were deep in conversation, sharing secrets and laughter with Joan and my partner's Mum, the Mighty Mo. The camera swept past, moving to catch everyone in the room. It was a glimpse of Mo's profile, her eyes gleaming with mischief and the silhouette of her hair, greying but a luxurious mane which swept back from her face and curled to a stop at the nape of her neck. I gasped and covered my mouth with my hand, swallowing hard. My partner called out "there's the Mrs Woman, My little Mommy Bear" his affectionate name for her. It was Christmas Day and we had seen Joan and Mo despite everything.

It was magic. Echoes of happier times. Dressed up, together in laughter and smiles, with celebration and love tangible in the air.

At home later I sat alone in the dark watching the news; the tree lights making the room twinkle while the awfulness washed over me. My partner in bed, a nightcap easing him into sleep. I was sober and thinking. Not a good state to be in when you are an insomniac.

Both women had their own versions of faith. To think of them standing at the bar, with the others we have lost this year comforts me, blasphemously being served their favourite tipple by a bearded youth. But I think that they believed that we are the Angels here. Sometimes we stretch our wings, lift our faces and fly, even for a few moments; we smile at someone and help to lift a great burden, reassure a stranger of a hinted at insecurity enough to sway them back to laughter or stop to watch someone safely make their way to sanctuary, down some steps or through a doorway, curling wings around them just in case they fall.

We should see every old lady as our Grandmother, each Woman as our Mum, every human being as someone to protect, help and gift. So naive in this dark and sinister world! Thoughtfulness and living in the moment would allow us time to see this; to regard each person we see as someone we care for.

That old cliché of "how would I like someone to act if that was my Mum who had fallen" means a lot - we all know what we would expect and want. Maybe that's how people like Joan and Mo see Angels and live in the moment.

Wednesday 16 December 2009

Another Funeral.



A week and one day ago a strong, cheery, welcoming and wonderful woman lost her battle and slipped away from this place. It is easy to be morbid and angry when a family member dies but when my Sister spoke about her Mother in law's struggle with illness, played out over fifteen weeks, I was sad but relieved when she was at peace.

Joan Mullins 1927 - 2009 was a tremendously wonderful individual; she welcomed our family into hers unconditionally. Hers consists of five children, multiple grandchildren, step grandchildren and great grandchildren, step grandchildren. When you add in cousins, second cousins and then honorary uncles, aunts and friends the chance of remembering all by name is difficult.

Joan was never without a smile on her face. She would conspire at family meals out with my Dad to an extra dessert. The would goad each other about what they would try, usually swapping bowls half way through. She with her walking stick and him in his wheelchair they were a pair of challenged-chucklers. With my Mum she struck up a close friendship during weekly trips to the supermarket, started to help Joan out but which morphed into laughter, friendship and support.

The strange thing for me was she knew my grandmother.

It is an odd feeling when someone comes into your life, who is not a blood relative, with whom you can talk about someone who died over thirty years before. It felt odd and at first I was reticent about it. Then a strange thing happened; the more she talked the more I saw my grandmother; Nan.

My Nan stood five feet ten to my grandad's five feet two - she was a striking woman. Joan spoke about her with warmth and kindness, remembering a strong lady who suffered no fool gladly but was quick witted, easy to move to laughter and practical. For the first time in years I could see her standing in her simple kitchen, wearing her overall, hands reddened with hot water soreness. It was gift that I shall be eternally grateful to Joan for. We didn't talk for long or at any great depth but that little insight was such a comfort that I will carry it forever.

I have written before about how each funeral is unique because each of us are one of a kind. With Joan this was also true.

Her life story was told; raised eyebrows all round about her surviving diptheria at six years old when she gained her strong and loving faith; the work during the war, the meeting of "her Rob" a husband with whom she had five children all of whom they taught to sing and, crucially, to sing together in harmony.

The service was full of hymns, prayers and consoling statements about her faith. Even for someone like me who has no definitive belief but who thinks of himself as a constant questioner it felt right and while there were tears there was enough celebration and laughter to lift out of grief and into hope.

At the wake, I looked around the room at nearly two hundred people; mostly family. I saw the twinkling of eyes as stories were told, the same mischievous glint that Joan had. Rockets of laughter with plumes of giggles lifted from the murmur as one of the Joan-isms was shared. But it was the warmth and love that filled that room; effortless, unconditional and welcoming that made me think of that lady. Each one of her children, grandchildren, step grandchildren and on and on has a little piece of her love of life and laughter. Some of us were lucky enough to come into the family by marriage and join in with these harmonies.

Joan will be missed but when you look around a room like that and see the love, goodness and easy laughter you realise that, faith or not, there is something deeper being passed on through good people. It is an immortality of a kind tangible as stone.



Thursday 3 December 2009

Shy!

Dorchester, our County town, had its Christmas Cracker Night with hospitality, Carol Singers and stalls. It was so wet that by the time my partner and I got half way down the first road to be cordoned off we were soaked. Stall holders dashed out from under the awnings to thrust plastic cups of mulled wine or freshly baked mince pies into our hands, then dashed back. A choir stood outside St Peters and battled valiantly against the cacophony of rain falling, tumbling and gurgling; the latter down drains. All we needed was a mob of disgruntled villagers a few flashes of lightning and a monster to chase!

We wandered, trying to smile through the cold and rain, determined to enjoy the late night shopping, good cheer and start to a festive period that, without our Mo, would be difficult enough. It happened a couple of times when we turned to each other in a shop or next to a stall and said "she would've loved that". This will be a constant throughout the festive period, because she loved Christmas.

But we battled on, looking at this, wandering to that or should I say sloshing back and forth because by now water had slipped into our shoes and was making headway into hat and collar. Faced with an onslaught of water of Biblical proportions we did what we always do being book-aholics and headed for a bookshop. Passing through the electronic monoliths that stop shoplifters, or at least detect them, I was dimly aware of a seated figure to the left; by the time we had shaken off some of the water, had some sympathetic looks from other shoppers who'd already dried off and glanced along the piles of books on elevated stands in front of the book shelves, we were halfway down the shop.

We drifted - I was convinced that we were steaming - from book shelf to book shelf moving along our usual path, pausing at the classics, looking at the biographies and humour and then coming to rest at the Sci-Fi; my partner's favourite genre. Nothing took our eye although there were new releases, knock down deals and of course the "recommended" chart. We did buy the latest Hairy Bikers Cookbook - my partner being a marvellously adventurous cook - it being justified as necessary (i.e. not to be wrapped as a Christmas present) because it has the recipe for Beef Wellington promised for Christmas Dinner. Only half drowned now and steaming less - I think - we moved back towards the monoliths through a shoal of oncoming drowned shoppers, dripping their way in. A voice called out.

"Fancy a book that's a romp of fun, drugs, smoking and rock n roll? There's no sex at all," the speaker cupped her mouth in her hand as she spied a child nearby look round. Adding more quietly to us, "I wonder if this town can take this kind of thing but you guys look like a pair who could handle it." Her voice was guttural, low and obviously female; in any other context it would have been seductive. Here in harsh shop-light and cold air it was piercing and playful.

Her face was bright, smiling and glowed with fun; I instantly liked her. Craig took the book offered and read the cover. "Thankyou for not Smoking by Arlo Flinn". As he looked through the first couple of pages of the paperback she chatted to him lightly, outlining what it was about. I could tell he liked her - I liked her!! - so it was a done deal. I said "go-on" unnecessarily, because I could tell he wanted it. Her face lit up. She offered to sign it for him.

She was the author. Despite my desire to write I closed up like a clam! She was published and sitting in Waterstones signing copies of her work - WOW! I was suddenly terrified that my partner would mention my writing and the degree. She asked Craig's name and wrote inside "To Craig....thank you! Arlo Flinn" then beaming warmly she handed it back to him. I took the book and escaped back to the till almost leaving any remaining dampness in my clothes back in the doorway!

I paid and we walked out wishing her good luck.

We made our way up the street and into the drizzle. I wanted to walk back and say that I wanted to be a writer and ask her a million questions. I wanted to say all those things about what I wanted to write. But I knew this was a cliché of the worst kind; mention that you want to be a writer to anyone and you instantly get treated to the "I've often thought I could write a book" or "I've got these stories that would make a good read" etc. etc. I imagined confessing to this author and her fixing her smile and thinking to herself "Oh no not another one!!"

I am probably doing her an injustice. I had a feeling of being inadequate not felt so strongly since I was a child - it was hero worship and fear that the words "I want to be like you" might slip out in a squeaky voice.

I wasn't jealous. I was scared. She was a giant, a towering figure of proved strength and power. She had done it, written her ideas down, edited it, published it and now she was selling her vision....her book.

I didn't realise that I was walking alongside my partner without saying anything, alone with my thoughts until a voice said, after reading my mind. "That will be you one day!"

I laughed and almost believed it.