by GJ Minett
Then, when I reached eight months, everything changed. One evening he came home from work and was sullen and unresponsive. I put it down to a bad day at the office and did my best to coax him out of it but the mood, if that was the word for it, persisted. It would be easy to exaggerate here – he wasn’t angry; there were no sharp exchanges between us. He certainly wasn’t disrespectful or unkind in anything he said or did. It’s just that he ceased to be the person he’d been for the previous few months – overnight, it seemed. The weekend trips, shopping expeditions to buy things for the baby, the little bar of chocolate I would occasionally find on my pillow or the flowers he’d bring home in the evening . . . all of these came to a shuddering halt. The change in his attitude towards me made itself more apparent in absences than anything else. No real interest over the dinner table in what I‘d been doing that day. No inclination to join with me in drawing up lists of names. No sharing of light-hearted moments at work. I would have had to be totally insensate not to notice.
I tried on several occasions to draw him out and was rebuffed each time – never unkindly but always decisively. He said he was just tired but deep down I was worried that this cloud that had settled over him suggested a change of heart. Maybe he was having second thoughts about raising a family and didn’t know how to broach the subject with me.
It was only when I woke him in the early hours one morning and asked him to drive me to the hospital that he seemed to snap out of it. And I’ll never forget the moment when he came in to see Julie for the first time. His face was a picture as he held out his arms and took her from the nurse. Of course I can never be sure that what I saw in his expression was actually there and not just the product of my overactive imagination. But it seemed to me as if he was summoning up every paternal instinct in his body and somehow fashioning from it a protective shawl in which he was wrapping her, even as he trembled with fear that his hands might be too rough or his movements too clumsy. He was drawing a line in the sand, marking her out as someone to be protected at all costs, and the smile he turned in my direction made me so grateful for the decision I’d taken all those months ago. Whatever doubts I might have had back then, there were none now. Whoever the real father might be, this was destined to be Josef’s baby. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I don’t intend to write about Julie’s life in these pages. I have no idea how I would go about decanting the essence of her into so small a vessel. She lived for five thousand one hundred and twenty-two days and I could probably summon up an anecdote for every single one of them. Equally I’m sure you’ll understand if I give a wide berth to the circumstances of her death. I assume you already know more than enough on that subject – everyone else seems to.
When Julie died, something reached inside, ripped out a part of me and tore it to shreds. I imagine it must have been the same for Josef, although I can’t be more specific because we never really talked about it. Even in grief, we preferred to shut ourselves away and find our own way of coping. Initially, particularly during the days leading up to the funeral, things were so hectic we barely had time to think. There were the usual arrangements to be made and so many people who wanted to express their condolences – friends, work colleagues, even total strangers who wrote in their hundreds to offer their sympathy, thus making my own family’s silence seem even more reprehensible in my own eyes. Meanwhile Josef had taken it upon himself to keep the intrusion from the media to a minimum. He threw up a protective shield for which I was more than grateful, uncomfortable as I was in the spotlight. So for that brief period we tended to see ourselves as the rest of the world did. We were defined by our loss, the grieving couple, turned back in on ourselves, each clinging on to the other for dear life.
But once it was all over, and the period of intense exposure had died away, we suddenly found ourselves with the rest of our lives stretching out ahead of us and no real idea as to how we were going to fill such a vast expanse of time. It was only then that we understood how important Julie had been in providing a bridge between the two of us. Now that she’d been taken away, we seemed to be on opposite banks of some fast-flowing river and by the time we realised what was happening, our two futures had drifted a long way apart.
Josef threw himself into his work, staying later and later at the office and accepting invitations to occasional weekend conferences and seminars. When he wasn’t working, he was playing golf or tennis, two sports to which friends at work had introduced him and for which, to his great surprise, he had a certain aptitude. And when he was not playing either, he was going for walks of increasing distance, setting out early on Sunday mornings and staying away for the best part of the day. He always made a point of inviting me to come along with him but must surely have known what my answer would be. I don’t imagine he was too disappointed.
As for me, I set out to put right one of the many injustices I felt I’d suffered during adolescence. I’d always shown promise at school and was encouraged by my English teacher to stay on and give serious consideration to applying for university. I’d have liked nothing better but knew my father well enough to understand there was little point in even raising the matter at home. He’d made it clear from the word go that universities were a waste of time and money. He was out there in the real world at fourteen, earning a decent wage – never did him any harm.
Now though I had time on my hands so I opted for a correspondence course in English Literature, eventually committing myself to an A level in one year. Having successfully negotiated that, I signed up for a course in freelance journalism, which turned out to be money well spent. Within three years, I was contributing book and film reviews to a monthly magazine, a lucrative little sideline which I was able to continue until relatively recently.
I also had my faith which, perhaps surprisingly, had been strengthened rather than shattered since Julie died. Until then it had been more of a superstitious hangover from my childhood days, when I’d gone along unquestioningly with whatever I was told at Sunday school. Now though I found myself asking more pertinent questions and, to my surprise, found answers that made a huge difference to my life. Josef, bless him, probably asked himself the same questions and came up with answers that were diametrically opposed to mine. Any tenuous faith that might have outlived his experiences during the war had melted away to mere contempt after his daughter was taken from him.
So there we were, to all intents and purposes leading separate lives under the same roof. We still had a social life of sorts. From time to time we would be invited out for dinner at the home of one of Josef’s work colleagues and we would of course feel obliged to reciprocate. There was also his company’s annual Dinner/Dance, a glamorous affair which provided us with the chance to dress up and enjoy an evening in the company of others. And on Valentine’s Day, without fail, Josef would book a table at a restaurant in town and make sure I had a red rose to take home with me. Somehow though that was symptomatic of the problem between us. It was all symbols – smoke and mirrors. It served its purpose in keeping the illusion alive and I’m sure those who knew us had very little idea of just how far apart we actually were, but the reality was that if you stripped away the affection, the politeness and the sheer habit of it all, there was precious little else.
The gulf between us widened with every passing year. Even so, I would have had to be blind not to notice how ill he was becoming. Josef wasn’t a tall man but he was broad-shouldered and the years of working on the farm had endowed him with a strong, healthy physique. Even in times when food was harder to come by, he was always the sturdy boy of country stock. Towards the end of 1973 though, the change in his physical appearance was so noticeable even I felt the need to say something. His clothes seemed to hang off him and he started walking with something of a stoop, as if hunched over to protect himself. I’d often envied him his youthful appearance in the past but those days were long gone.
His appetite had always been hearty – he loved a cooked breakfast and still, even
after thirty years in this country, regarded a traditional fish-and-chip supper as a real treat. Now, as often as not, he’d come home and ask for something simple, just a couple of pieces of toast maybe. I would end up cooking for myself, then watch him chew thoughtfully at the bread which he washed down more and more frequently now with a glass of ale. When we did eat together, he would pick at whatever I served up and leave half of it on the plate before disappearing off to the shed. And at some stage in the early hours of the morning, I would be woken by the sound of his bedroom door opening, as he tiptoed into the bathroom where, despite the precautions he took in shutting the door and running the taps, I could hear him bringing back up the meagre amount he’d succeeded in swallowing.
I asked him about it – of course I did. Several times. He brushed my concerns aside. Nothing was wrong. He’d been overworking maybe. I needn’t concern myself. If I pushed too hard, he became defensive and I knew it was time to back off. There were distinct echoes here of the way he’d been in those last two months before Julie was born: the same evasiveness, the same touchy response whenever I asked what was wrong. And it was impossible for me to go back to that time without thinking of the doubts that had assailed me then, the worry that he might have changed his mind about wanting a child after all, which naturally led on to thoughts of Julie and what she’d meant to both of us. It has never been very far below the surface.
I made one last attempt to get him to tell me exactly what was wrong with him or, failing that, to promise that he would at least go to see our doctor. Again he tried to shrug it off but this time I was determined to turn it into a confrontation. Eventually he frowned and asked me why I was making so much of it. When I told him that I was worried, that I cared about him, he snapped at me, something about how it was a bit too late in the day for that. I was hurt by the sharpness of his tone. We didn’t have arguments. I suppose there has to be some passion, some emotional connection there for rows to develop. But this time there was an edge to his voice that made me back off, wary. And if I never raised the subject again after that evening, it was less out of respect for his wishes than my fear of raking over coals that were long since dead. I knew from years of experience that if Josef didn’t want to talk, he wouldn’t.
Towards the end of February 1974, Josef reminded me casually over lunch that the annual reunion dinner at RAF Duxford was scheduled for the following weekend. I say reminded, although the truth is I had no real recollection of it having come up in any previous conversation. Certainly, when I checked, there was no reference to it on the wall calendar in our kitchen. I assumed it was an oversight on my part or maybe one of those occasions when I was guilty of ‘tuning out’ of a conversation, which often happened if I had a book in my hands. Josef explained it would be a weekend affair, involving a coach tour to a couple of RAF air bases with an overnight stay at a hotel in Manchester. The plan was for him to drive up early on Saturday morning and get back late Sunday afternoon . . . always assuming I didn’t mind.
The last part was purely a matter of form. It would have been interesting to know what his reaction would have been, had I come up with some objection, but I’m sure he knew he was on safe ground. I’d spent occasional weekends on my own while he was away on business and actually quite enjoyed the freedom to do whatever I wanted, with no need to take anyone else into consideration. If I was at all anxious, it was only because I didn’t like the idea of him driving all the way to Manchester. Josef was as safe as houses behind the wheel as a rule but the weather forecast for the weekend was not at all good, with heavy snowfall expected. In addition I still had concerns about his health and felt such a trip would be doing him no favours at all. I asked if there was no one else who might be able to give him a lift, but he brushed aside my concerns and that was the last we spoke of it.
On the morning in question I got up early and prepared a cooked breakfast for him. I knew he wouldn’t be able to cope with anything too filling but I wanted to make sure he set off with something warm inside him at least. He made a point of clearing his plate, then gave me the usual perfunctory kiss on the cheek, said he hoped I would enjoy the film that evening and picked up his coat. He got as far as the door before pausing for what must have been no more than a second or two – just long enough for me to wonder what it was he’d forgotten. Then he turned round, walked back over to me and, to my great surprise, rested both elbows on my shoulders. He cupped my cheeks in his hands and tilted my head forward before planting a gentle kiss on the top of my head. I started to pull back but he held me there for a moment, his head resting in my hair. He mumbled my name, then said something about taking good care of myself before he wheeled away and walked out of the door without another word.
At the time, I was completely taken aback. I had no idea what had just happened. It was as if he’d forgotten his lines for a moment, stepped out of his role and allowed a glimpse of the real person underneath. Even now I can’t know for certain what was going through his mind, but what I was to learn in the coming weeks helped to put it into some sort of context. It’s difficult to shake the feeling that he was trying out a sliding door of his own.
I remember very little of the rest of that day. I assume I went to the cinema in the evening, as that’s what I generally did on a Saturday, but other than that nothing comes to mind. I do remember having great difficulty in getting off to sleep and I don’t suppose I’d dozed for more than an hour or two before I was disturbed by the sound of a car drawing to a halt. I rolled over and pressed the illumination button on the alarm clock to check the time. It was 5.30.
My first impression was that the car had pulled into our driveway. I did think of getting out of bed to peer through the window but knew that would almost certainly wake me completely and I was still in desperate need of sleep. Instead I reasoned it must be our young neighbours who were accustomed to keeping bizarre hours. Telling myself they’d probably just returned from some all-night party, I rolled back over and must have gone off again in seconds.
The next thing I remember is the alarm dragging me out of my slumber. I’d set it for 7.30 because I planned to go to nine o’clock communion but it took every ounce of commitment for me to throw back the sheets and drag myself out of bed. I slid my feet into my slippers, pulled on my dressing gown and drew back the curtains to a blur of white falling from the darkened skies. But for that, I would almost certainly have turned away immediately and not noticed the car in the driveway until much later. As I rubbed at the frosted window though and peered through it to check on how deep the snowfall had been overnight, I could just about make out a dark shape below me, parked at an awkward angle to the fence. The car was definitely Josef’s.
A number of thoughts raced through my mind. I remember thinking first of all that he must have been very quiet coming up the stairs because I hadn’t heard a sound. Then my scrambled mind managed to fasten on to the more obvious question of what exactly he was doing here. What had made him leave Manchester and return a day early? Not only that, what had possessed him to leave in the early hours of the morning and drive home in the dark? The only answer that came to mind was that he must have felt too unwell during the day to stay there any longer. Maybe the coach journey and the excitement of visiting an air base with his old friends had taken its toll and he’d decided he wouldn’t be able to continue with the rest of the tour. Even so, surely he would have been better off spending the night there and travelling back in the morning.
I checked the alarm clock again and realised he couldn’t have had more than two hours sleep at the outside. Deciding it would be better to give him a while longer to recover, I collected my things as quietly as possible from the bathroom and, tiptoeing past his room, I took them downstairs with me in order not to disturb him.
While I was filling the kettle from the kitchen tap, I glanced out of the window and noticed again the strange angle at which the car was parked. That in itself suggested Josef must have been in a hurry to get inside. Normally his s
ense of order would never have allowed him to leave the car with one wheel resting in the flower border. No matter how late the hour, he would have reversed and straightened the car rather than invite puzzled stares from neighbours taking their dogs for an early-morning walk.
I’m not sure why I went to the front door. It certainly wasn’t because I intended to go out and park the car for him, because I was still in my dressing gown and slippers. But something made me unlock the door and peer out into the drifting snowfall – again, call it fate, if you will. Because if I hadn’t done so, I wouldn’t have seen the shadow just beyond the frozen windscreen.
I hurried out to the car, forgetting that the path was iced up. I caught hold of the door to stop myself from falling and yanked it open to find Josef slumped over the steering wheel, his head resting on the dashboard. He looked for all the world as if he was gone but as the door flew open, he slowly raised his head and turned to face me, his eyes vacant. In my panic, I’m sure I shouted at him, asked him what on earth he thought he was doing but the moment my hands came into contact with his, I knew I was wasting valuable time. They were icy to the touch, seemingly frozen to the steering wheel, and I had to prise his fingers loose one by one. He still hadn’t said a word. The fact that he’d raised his head was the only indication that he was still alive.
I kept talking to him as I tried to get him out of the car, which was every bit as cold as the air outside. I knew there was no way I’d be able to carry him but fortunately he seemed to respond a little as I rubbed vigorously at his hands to try to get some semblance of warmth back into them. He mumbled my name, just as he’d done immediately before leaving, only this time with an upward tilt to his voice as if seeking reassurance it was really me. Then he shifted his weight slightly to help me manoeuvre his legs through the open car door.