I look across at my mother, taking a moment to observe the older woman in this rare, unguarded state. I am taken aback at the love and softness in my mother’s expression as she looks down at her husband. I don’t believe I have ever before seen my mother look that way at Dad. The Scottish termagant has a soft side.
Mum and Dad had been childhood friends since the Second World War, when my paternal grandmother rented a room in the house owned by my maternal grandmother for herself and her three sons, Dad and his two brothers. Their friendship blossomed over the years, and on Christmas Eve 1954, they were married and became Mr. and Mrs. Denny. Mum was a strong woman and had been the boss in their marriage, often joking at Dad’s expense. More often than not, he was referred to as “Eejit!” Not Ian. Typical man, he never did anything right! And Mum didn’t care who she told. In contrast, my father was a quiet man. I never heard him say a bad thing about anyone. He rarely complained about anything. He met his wife’s comments and bossiness with a resigned but good-natured silence.
author’s mum and dad
As I now study my mother, I think that the woman’s soft expression makes her look much younger. For a moment, I see a glimpse of the young woman I knew as a child. I can’t help but smile to myself. Despite her routine castigation of Dad, my mother really does love him. Poor Mum, sixty-two years with this man. He has always been there for her, with her. What will she do now? Is she thinking about life alone? Is she reliving their moments together from the past? Is she silently talking to him, sharing the private thoughts of a woman to her man in the last moments of his life? I don’t know, and I am not going to ask. It is not for me to intrude on Mum’s private thoughts.
My sister, Loretta, is sitting on my right side, and I turn to look at her. Her head rests on her arm, which lies atop the metal side rail of the bed. Loretta, sensing my gaze, turns toward me and smiles sadly. Poor baby, I think. Diabetes has plagued Loretta since she was twelve years old, forcing her to battle so many episodes of illness, numerous blood transfusions, diabetic comas, and eventually leaving her an amputee. She walks with a prosthetic limb and a cane. She relies on Dad to help her with odd jobs, to help drive her to the shops, or to doctors’ appointments. Life will be more complicated for her without him. But Loretta is resilient. She has spent much of her adult life in hospitals, battling one illness and setback after another, and all the doctors, nurses, and staff know her on sight. People love her. Everyone admires her spirit. If the roles had been reversed and I had been the diabetic, losing a leg and always ill, I am certain I would not have been as strong as Loretta, or as gracious in accepting the circumstances of my difficult life.
Diabetes has been mean to Loretta. Fortunately, countless family members and friends are there for her, but I’m not one of them. Being honest with myself, it is only these circumstances, this time of vigil for Dad, that has brought me home. I guiltily acknowledge that I would not have come otherwise. I would not have made the time or effort to come and see my family, were it not for my father’s imminent passing.
I look to my left at my adult son. Some time ago, a nurse came into the room to check on Dad and, seeing Mark asleep on the floor, she found a large, comfy chaise for him. He has somehow contracted his tall frame to allow himself to curl up on the chaise asleep with his dreams, still oblivious to the moment. I wonder if I should wake him. Will he resent sleeping through his grandfather’s final hours? Does he want to be awake? I honestly don’t know, so I let him sleep on.
The minute hand of the wall clock clicks past the number twelve, and a new day begins. Dad’s breathing has been more labored over the past couple of hours. The rattling sound of mucus in his throat as he struggles to breathe is harsh and painful to listen to. Shamefully I admit to myself that part of me wants my father to die now, to get his suffering over with, to be at peace. Part of me never wants to let go. A couple of times his breathing halts, and I look at his face expectantly, but they are false alarms. His breathing continues on.
At five minutes after one on Saturday morning, my father takes his final breath, a soft, peaceful sigh of farewell to us all. I wait for his breathing to continue, but it doesn’t. I realize then that he is gone. I whisper, “Mum, he’s stopped breathing!” I hear a whimper, but I don’t know if it is mine. My mother says nothing, but the pain in her eyes and cheerless expression acknowledges her husband’s death. Beside me, Loretta weeps.
I go over to my sleeping son and gently prod him. “Mark. Mark, wake up, son.” Startled he jumps up. “Mark, your grandfather is gone.”
Mark uncurls his frame, stretches his arms out above him, and gets up out of the chaise, wiping the blur from his eyes. He stands at the end of his grandfather’s bed, completing the family circle. We all look down at the shell of our loved one. My father’s face is calm, serene. He is finally at peace. In the briefest of instances, he had been alive, here with us in this room, a survivor of a long and challenging life, full of contributions, love, and memories shared with these members of his intimate family, but then less than a moment later he is forever gone. His life’s finale concluded. No one moves to get the nurse. No one speaks. This is our moment.
Standing at my father’s bedside, looking down at what remained of my father’s tangible presence on earth, I feel a stark emptiness. A part of my existence, something that had always been with me, has been taken, leaving an ethereal void. My father is gone. Forever. Twenty-one hours I had sat by his bedside, holding his hand, keeping vigil. Twenty-one hours for a life extending seventy-six years. One by one, we kiss him goodbye.
It is three o’clock in the morning by the time the rest of the family and I return home from the hospital. Saying nothing, oblivious to the people around her, my mother retires to her own bedroom to lie alone in the bed next to the void in her life. Loretta goes to the spare bedroom, choosing to spend the night at our mother’s house rather than start the grieving process alone in her flat. Mark goes to his own room, no doubt to resume the sleep interrupted by his grandfather’s death. I hear the doors closing around me, wooden requests respectfully seeking solitude for the rooms’ occupants.
Going to my own room, I close the door behind me, securing my own solitude. Too tired to undress, I flop onto the bed and close my eyes, yearning, hoping to escape from this unwanted reality; but even with the jet lag and the fatigue from the long vigil at my father’s side, I can’t sleep. My mind won’t stop thinking, remembering.
CHAPTER
TWO
The wallpaper is about six inches from the end of my nose, so close that it is making my eyes cross and giving me a headache. I close my eyes to alleviate the discomfort that these seemingly innocuous blue-and-silver flowers decorating the wall can create. But by closing my eyes and shutting down one sense, I heighten another, and my nostrils are attacked by the close chemical odor of the dyed and pasted wallpaper. I cannot move away. I am not allowed to move. My confinement in this corner is mandatory. My punishment—to stand and face the corner for an hour—is the result of my egregious crime of playing records on my parents’ record player.
My head falls forward until my brow rests on the cool surface of the wall. I sigh deeply, unconsciously exhaling the disagreeable artificial particles which try so hard to invade my senses and make me dizzy. I crave fresh air and turn to my imagination for help.
I visualize the ocean, as blue as the flowers on the wallpaper. I see a shimmer of silver as the sun shines her beams on the tips of the waves. The blue water cheekily runs up to the sand at the edge of a beach, taps it with watery fingers, and then turns and runs away, as if taunting the pristine, peachy-beige sand to come play. The sand ignores the invitation, preferring instead to lie basking in the tropical warmth beneath the umbrellas of the palm trees standing guard along the beach. The palms ignore the childish antics of the ocean below them, instead embracing the wind, which acts as puppet master as it artfully moves their fronds in unison, creating a ballet against the blue sky. I imagine I can smell the fresh, salty
sea air, and I inhale deeply, welcoming my vision.
“Laraine! Stand up straight!”
Quicker than an instant, my eyes open wide, my head snaps up, and my back stiffens as I instinctively respond to the terse admonition shouted from the space behind me. Pulled back into reality, I stand to attention, arms straight down at my sides, facing the angle of the blue-and-silver flowers. I have been well conditioned by my career-navy father to assume the stance and not move or speak. I dread my father’s next words, praying he doesn’t extend my punishment.
“You’re not there to fall asleep! You are being punished, so stand up straight. You have another thirty minutes to think about what you did.”
I hear my dad’s footsteps walking away from me, his purposeful gait muffled by the carpet as he moves out of the room and down the hallway. Thankful to be alone again, I allow a rush of air to escape from my mouth, and my shoulders relax with relief. Only another thirty minutes. Thirty minutes to think about what I did, about why I am being punished.
It’s the school holidays. As an only child, I face day after day of being left alone in the house, responsible for finding ways to alleviate the hours and hours and more hours of boredom. Mum and Dad go to work during the day. Dad leaves early, cycling to work on his ship at the navy dockyard while it is still dark. Mum leaves at about eight thirty in the morning. She’ll be home a little after five o’clock this evening. I am only seven years old and not allowed out of the house. My friends all live a distance away, and I am not allowed to use the telephone, because even local calls cost money. There are no television programs until later in the day.
My days are a routine of sheer boredom, usually beginning with me sitting on the couch in the living room staring out the window, up at the sky as endless as my day. I wonder what to do. My dolls are somewhere at the back of my wardrobe, having been tossed there with disinterest after being dressed, undressed, and redressed ad nauseam. My books, read and reread, have nothing new to offer. I have pencils and crayons but no interest in drawing something that will never be seen by anyone else and has no purpose outside the cover of my sketchbook. Inevitably I get up from the couch, go over to a drawer in the side cabinet, and pull out a pack of playing cards. I sit down cross-legged on the floor and begin laying out the cards in an organized formation on the carpet. Most mornings, I play solitaire.
Life suddenly becomes more interesting when my parents buy a radiogram with a record player. The new technology heralds a fresh era into the family home, with music now competing with the television to provide our entertainment. I am fascinated by the transformation, particularly in my mother, as I catch her singing and even dancing in the living room to her favorite records. Her eyes are closed and she smiles mysteriously. She is somewhere in a different world. I find myself itching to get my hands on this wondrous machine and to control the music for myself. I want to dance and sing and give my mind a new array of wonderful, imaginative moments.
The next Monday morning, I wait a full five minutes after Mum leaves the house for work before I commandeer the record player. My new favorite thing to do is listen to music. I don’t have my own records, so I play my favorites from Mum and Dad’s collection. They have songs and music performed by Dean Martin, Buddy Holly, and Roger Miller; the Jimmy Shand Band and the Glasgow Police Pipe Band. I like to sing and dance around the living room to such classics as “King of the Road” and “The Muckin’ o’ Geordie’s Byre.” Two evenings a week and on Saturday mornings, I have dance classes, and now I use my dance education to choreograph dances to each song.
author in tutu, photo © Ian Denny
I move the living room furniture to the side of the room, move my chair next to the record player, and get ready to fantasize about being a famous performer. I know how to turn on the record player, put records on the changer, select the right speed for the size of the record, and make sure the needle gently traces the grooves to read the music as the record rotates on the turntable. This morning I have selected a variety of Glenn Miller and Andy Stewart songs to sing and dance to. I know the words to “King of the Road” and “A Scottish Soldier” and “Tunes of Glory.” Sometimes there is a program on the telly called The White Heather Club with a band that plays Scottish music while Scottish dancers perform reels and the Gay Gordons. This morning, I am a Scottish dancer performing before an appreciative audience. I jump on one foot, placing the other foot with pointed toes behind and then in front of my supporting leg. One hand is raised above my head and the other on my hip.
I dance for about an hour until I am hot and sweaty. I go into the kitchen and get a glass of tap water and chug it down. The kitchen clock tells me it isn’t even ten o’clock yet. I have hours before Mum and Dad come home.
To give myself a rest, I turn to singing. I really want to be a singer. I think I can be a better singer than a dancer. I know how to express the words of a song. I have deep down feelings that I can use to perform the song well. I have been told by adjudicators at dance competitions that I have “stage presence,” which makes people pay attention to me when I am on stage. If I could have singing lessons, I could use my emotions and be a brilliant singer. Mum says there isn’t enough money for singing lessons, and besides there are no singing teachers in Portsmouth. I looked through the phone book and couldn’t find a single singing teacher. I shall just have to teach myself and practice a lot.
I put a Shirley Bassey record on the turntable, gently placing the stylus on the groove for the song “As Long As He Needs Me.” I close my eyes, listen to the musical introduction, and see myself standing alone on the unlit stage. The spotlight gently emerges, and I take a deep breath, drawing in every ounce of emotion I can muster. I look out at the blackness of the auditorium as I sing the first words of the song, slowly, stretching them out, “As . . . long . . . as . . . he . . . needs . . . me . . .” My voice is perfect and haunting. My chest muscles tighten as I push out word by word, note by note, the pure passion I feel as I lure the audience into my performance, wanting them to feel the love I feel for this lyrical man. My choreographed movements take me around the stage to each section of the audience, ensuring that everyone is captivated by my words. I pause center stage, close my eyes, and clench my fists as I dramatically push my top note into the heavens and then slowly sing the final notes as my voice softens, tears running down my cheeks as I make my final plea to the audience to understand my story and to feel the emotion I feel. Finally, my head bows as the last note is played. The brief moment of silence after the final note is replaced by the thunderous applause of the audience hidden from my view. I remain motionless, bathed in the aura of the moment.
With the performance over, I return to reality and take the stylus off the record. I wipe the tears from my eyes and sit alone in the silence, my mind lingering in the imaginary auditorium. I feel mentally and physically drained from my performance, but at the same time, I feel oddly fulfilled. Today, just for a moment, and even though only in my imagination, I was a true performer, the person I believe I can be, the person full of passion and emotion I know lives within me, but who has yet to be released out into the world.
I take a deep breath and ready my emotions for another performance. I place the stylus on the record for the song “I (Who Have Nothing),” another favorite of mine and my imaginary audience.
I am able to amuse myself for over two hours by combining music and my theatrical imagination. Deciding to take a break, I make myself beans on toast for lunch and pour some orange squash. After lunch I decide I have had enough of the melodramatic music and it is time for something more rousing to get me through the afternoon.
I put a Scots favorite, “Campbeltown Loch,” on the turntable and set the record in motion. I move to the center of the room, ready to sing my heart out.
“Ohhhh . . .
Campbeltown Loch, I wish you were whiskey
Campbeltown Loch, och-aye
Oh Campbeltown Loch, I wish you were whiskey
Then I wou
ld drink you dry.”
I have played Mum and Dad’s records so often that they are scratched, and some songs have become unplayable. Dean Martin’s voice sounds rough and hoarse like a ten-pack-a-day smoker. The bagpipes from the Scottish Pipe Band are accompanied by a rhythmic “thump” as again and again the needle travels across the gouges scratched into the vinyl. I tell myself that scratches are normal for vinyl records. Scratches are not my fault. Everybody scratches records.
The weekend comes, and Mum decides she is going to play her favorite Dean Martin records on the new radiogram. She is a huge fan of Dean Martin and often asks Dad the question that cannot be answered: “Why are you not Dean Martin? How come I didn’t marry Dean Martin?” Dad simply shakes his head, unable to answer the unanswerable, and gets on with whatever it is he is doing.
I watch Mum put a record on the turntable and decide to disappear upstairs out of the way. From the distance of my bedroom I hear “That’s Amore” playing, but the needle skips the occasional beat, making it sound as though Mr. Martin has hiccups. Then I hear a definitive complaint from my mum projecting its way upstairs, “Laraine! Have you been playing my records?”
I am not sure how to answer. Of course I have been playing Mum’s records. I cannot lie about that. I go downstairs to face Mum. I say nothing. No admission. No denial. Mum’s finger pointedly jabs toward my face. “You are not to play my records! You have scratched them and I cannae play them! You are ruining my lovely Dean Martin records!”
“Yes, Mum. Sorry, Mum.” I disappear back upstairs to my bedroom, thinking I have got off easy.
Later, however, after Mum has finished playing her records, Dad comes up to my room and points his own finger at me. “You are not to play your mother’s records! You are scratching them and ruining them!”
Our Grand Finale Page 2