I decide to let the horses go up the lane and out of sight, and then I follow them. I want to know where they are going. At the end of the lane is a dirt path leading off to the right which goes alongside a field. I see a wooden signpost at the side of the path which says CLANFIELD RIDING STABLES. I am excited to find a riding stable, but I won’t go up the path. I don’t have the money for a ride, and they probably won’t like strangers intruding. I decide I will save my pocket money and come back to this stable to ride horses. With that future plan of action in place, I turn back and head toward the village. I look at my Cinderella watch. I have about thirty minutes until the next bus back to Portsmouth.
My return journey is uneventful. I have planned my trip well. I arrive home and go into the house the way I left, through the back garden, shutting the garden gate and the back door of the house. I put away my things and turn the telly on. I sit innocently on the couch watching television as though my great adventure had never happened. It is four thirty. Mum will be home soon.
“How was your day, love?” Mum is home. “What did you do?”
“Day was okay. I just played with my toys and watched some telly.” I can’t tell her about my adventure. It is my secret, and I am pleased with it. I went to the country and saw real horses. I didn’t get caught, and I didn’t end up in the corner.
That night as I lie in bed, I cannot sleep. I feel I am walking, not lying down. My mind sees images of horses and riders and country lanes. I close my eyes and take in deep breaths. I smile. I smell sweaty horses, leather, and horse poop.
I continue to save my pocket money. I know it will cost about a pound for an hour’s ride, and I am diligent in trying to be good and earn my shillings. I also know I will have to convince my dad to drive me out to the stable in his car. I lie in bed at night and think of a good way to convince him. I get money from my grannies for my birthday, and with my saved pocket money, I soon have more than enough for a ride.
Dad has just picked me up from dance class in his car, and we are driving home, when I make my move.
“Dad?”
“What, love?”
“I have been saving my pocket money really hard because there is something special that I have always wanted to do.”
“What’s that, love?”
“Well, I want to go horse riding. I love horses, and I think it would be good for me to learn something new, and not only that, but being in the fresh country air would be good and healthy for me.”
Dad says nothing.
I want Dad to understand that I have thought it through. “There is a stable in Clanfield, and I can get a bus there and back. I have enough money. I am old enough I can go on my own.”
“You can’t get a bus to Clanfield by yourself! You’re not old enough!” Dad’s tone is firm.
I sigh deeply. Dad doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know— and I cannot tell him—that I have already taken the bus to Clan-field and back. I am disappointed by his response and don’t know how else to convince him to let me go riding.
“You said you’ve already saved money for a ride?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“I will drive you to the stable. Make it Sunday afternoon, and I can drive you. I will wait for you to have your ride and then bring you back.”
“Really, Dad?” I smile. My ploy has worked. Dad doesn’t want me taking the bus alone, so he thinks he should drive me up there.
“Yes.” I hear the soft sigh of resignation in my dad’s voice.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
I call and book a ride. I learn I have to wear sensible shoes with a small heel, and the stable has hard hats I can borrow. Dad keeps his word, and early Sunday afternoon he drives me to the stable in Clanfield. Now, for the first time in my life, I am astride a real horse. Sally, the stable owner, will lead the ride. She adjusts my stirrups, shows me how to hold the reins, and gives me some tips on using my legs to encourage the horse to move and how to use the reins to steer him.
I learn my horse’s name is Oppo, which is navy slang for buddy or mate. He is a brown gelding fifteen hands high, and I feel as if I am on top of the world. I look around the stable yard, seeing the world from my new perspective way above the ground. It is a perfect sunny day, and I inhale the smell of grass and horse. I feel giddily happy as I wave goodbye to my dad, who sits patiently in his car as the ride moves out.
I am in the middle of the pack of a dozen horses and riders as we make our way out of the stable yard, down the lane I have already visited on my solo journey to Clanfield, through the village, and into the countryside. I ride along country lanes, up a dirt trail, and across a field. Everywhere is the fragrant scent of foliage. I duck under low-hanging tree branches and guide Oppo along, making sure we keep up with the other riders. I put my hours of reading horse books into practice as I check the saddle, the connection of the bridle and reins with Oppo’s mouth, the horse’s gait, and my own position in the saddle. I enjoy the feel of Oppo’s steady gait beneath me, the way horse and rider move together, the rhythm of my body in the saddle making it easier for him to walk, which in turn makes my position in the saddle more comfortable. I feel at home on horseback, as I knew I would. My whole being is smiling, enjoying this wonderful experience.
From time to time Sally pulls her horse back to check on me, to see how my ride is going. “You have a nice position in the saddle and seem to know what you are doing,” she says to me. “Have you been riding long?”
“This is my first time on a horse.”
“Your first time?” Sally’s surprise is evident by her raised eyebrows and open mouth. “You look good on horseback. You are a natural. Good job.” Sally smiles at me and pushes her mount back to the front of the ride.
She says I am a natural! A huge grin commandeers my face. I cannot stop smiling. My posture straightens, and I sit taller in the saddle. I look around me at the other riders, the countryside, and feel a new affinity with the horsey set. I am going to be an equestrian. My life is going in a new direction. I can’t wait to tell my dad.
After an hour of bliss, the ride ends back at the stable yard, and I dismount just as Sally shows me. I suddenly feel very small with two feet back on the ground. I pull the reins over Oppo’s head as directed and lead him to a groom. I say goodbye and thank you to Sally and make my way back to Dad’s car.
On the drive home, I can’t stop talking as I excitedly share my ride with Dad. I tell him about the horse, his name, the lanes we rode along, the new things about horses and riding I have learned.
“Guess what Sally said?” I didn’t wait for Dad to answer. “She said I am a good rider. I am a natural.” I ignore the lack of response from Dad. I keep talking about the ride, about horses, and how it was the best time I have ever had, barely taking a breath before continuing on with my excited narration. I want to go back and ride again and again.
“Dad. Can I go again next week? I have the money. Please?”
“No. You’ve done it once. That’s enough. There’s better things to spend money on than horses. Your mum and I spend a fortune on your dancing. You get enough.”
“But, Dad!”
“No!”
I glance sideways at my dad and see his stoic face focusing on the road ahead. I say nothing. The finality in my dad’s voice shocks me into silence. He said no! I can’t believe it. He said no! The exuberance I felt from the ride is suddenly dampened by the cold splash of my father’s unfair conclusion that once is enough.
I turn to look to my other side, out the passenger window. The view of the passing trees and fields is blurred by my tears. I know better than to argue with my dad. He has given me my moment with horses, and I must accept it and be thankful for what I have been given. But I don’t feel very thankful. I feel that life can be so unfair, especially when I have parents who just don’t understand, and if something gives me such pleasure, why wouldn’t my parents want me to enjoy it more?
I think of the hours of entertainment
I have enjoyed watching the horse races, the passion I felt when reading and thinking about horses. I relive the exhilaration of riding Oppo on a beautiful Sunday afternoon in the pretty English countryside. I know Mum and Dad grew up very poor during the World War; they tell me about it often enough, and about how I am lucky to have more than they ever dreamed of. I am astute enough to realize that this is not an argument to be won today, and I have to let it go. For the rest of the drive home, I silently stare out of the window, reluctantly allowing melancholy instead of exuberance to come home with me.
Slowly and with a dejected spirit, as if saying a final farewell to an integral part of my hopes and dreams, I put all my pictures of horses and my horse books in a box and put the box into the toy graveyard at the back of my wardrobe. They all seem pointless now. I no longer turn on the television for the afternoon races. I have to find something else to amuse myself. Inside my chest, my internal clock takes a prominent step forward and starts counting; counting the years, the months, the days until I am old enough to take control of my own life, leave home, and do what I want to do. I want to ride horses. I want to dance, visit tropical beaches, and ride horses.
CHAPTER
FOUR
“Hey, Mum,” I call from the kitchen. “We should go soon. It’s nine thirty, and you can use your bus pass now.” I have finished drying the breakfast dishes and now lay out the dishtowel to dry. Not hearing a response from my mother, I walk into the living room and find Mum sitting as expected in her favorite chair, nursing an empty teacup, staring out the window at some imaginary scene. I pause at the doorway, sad at what has become a familiar sight in recent days—my mum worlds away in her thoughts, a shimmer of moisture in her eyes. I don’t move. I hate to interrupt my mother’s thoughts, thinking that wherever her mind has taken her is better than this grueling reality.
The days following my father’s passing seem interminably slow, the overlong hours unkindly prolonging the healing process, cruelly forcing the family to endure long days of heartbreak, sorrow, and sad reflection of happier times. Solemnity pervades the family house, taking charge of the grave duty of banishing cheer, optimism, and levity from the premises and ensuring instead that a shroud of somber reflection resides within. The wooden furniture, dressed in its darker mourning polish, pulls sentry duty around the perimeter of the rooms. The brighter colors in the carpet and wallpaper respectfully blend back into the darker shades, becoming properly subdued in deference to the occasion. The cloud-gray daylight is permitted to provide illumination but cannot reach some corners and the more secluded areas of the house. Noise is censored, leaving a cathedral-like atmosphere in which the house’s occupants can meditate. This environment is unknown to me. Never before have I experienced this sadness in the family home.
author’s mother in reflection, photo © Laraine Denny Burrell
As expected, my mother is morose. Her words and calm expression as she exists through each day—conversing with visitors in a subdued Scots brogue, engaging in the mundane—cannot conceal the sadness in her eyes or the dejection in her body language, which diminishes her already tiny frame even more.
Loretta, too, is unusually quiet, sitting in the leather chair in the living room, sometimes with her leg on, sometimes with it lying on the floor beside her. Her walking cane is always by her side, ready to offer support when needed. Sometimes she reads her paperbacks, staring at the pages for hours on end, and sometimes she vacantly watches television, offering no reaction to the words on the page or on the screen. Her conversation is monosyllabic; her tone is abrupt, disinterested, and sometimes mean. She offers no help. Her only routine is to take care of her insulin needs and eat when necessary, and then sit in the center of her own secluded world.
I don’t know what to do with or say to my sister; I am unused to Loretta’s disability and do not want to offend her, but I could use some help, particularly as Loretta has constantly been with Mum and Dad over the years and will know best what needs to be done and where everything is. Then I have second thoughts. Perhaps it is easier for me to take on the work that needs to be done, and just let my sister be.
The family’s happy days appear to have gone, at least for a while. The only person immune to the loss is Mark. He spends most of his time away from the house, out and about with his cousins, familiarizing himself with this town of his birth, enjoying things that young people like to do, even taking himself off to the local pub in the evenings. Youth’s natural exuberance simply refuses to be extinguished.
For the rest of us, we are all marking time in our lives, knowing that this healing process cannot be rushed, that there is no shortcut to one’s reconciliation with the loss of a loved one. For me, the time spent in contemplation of the twists and turns in my own life, and life in general, forces me to reach one definitive conclusion. Even though death is inevitable, the one event in life that can be guaranteed to happen, we are never really ready for it when it comes.
It is one thing for me not to have my father around because he is in the hospital; it is another thing not to have him around because he has passed away. The thought of never seeing Dad sitting in his leather chair again, never having him there to greet me when I come in the front door, and never seeing him pottering around the garden or in the shed in his overalls is difficult to accept. But the simple fact is that we have no choice in the matter. Life must go on for the living. I deal with my grief by pushing it aside, making it secondary to my daily responsibilities.
My father’s affairs have to be organized, but where do we begin? My mother is lost, not knowing what needs to be done for her husband, not knowing the extent of his affairs or the order in which they have to be conducted. By default, I take charge, putting aside my own array of indeterminate feelings—my anger, my grief, my shock—to take care of Mum and Loretta.
Instinctively, I know certain basic things have to be taken care of immediately, and whether we want to do them or not, the law dictates they must be done. Only Mum has the authority to take care of most of them, including recording Dad’s death and signing the documents to take over his bank accounts. But a malaise has consumed my mother, sapping her person and her personality. I will find my mother as I do now, sitting in her chair in the living room, just staring out the window, her thoughts elsewhere, oblivious to what is going on around her. Her mind is suspended somewhere in the past. Is she seeing images in her mind, the scenes of happier times and memories of life with her best friend and partner?
I focus on my mother and attempt to keep her busy, to make sure that someone is always with her, engaging her in conversation, keeping her mind occupied, keeping her from dwelling on the sadness she must feel. Family and friends dutifully call throughout the day, respectfully leaving prayers and condolences with the new widow, and this helps. I am heartened by the number of people who come to pay their respects and pledge to do whatever my mother needs and to take care of her once I go home. Cards and flowers are delivered, compelling my mother to set aside her reflection as each card is carefully read, as it should be, and then placed in deference on the mantel or sideboard. The flowers are put into vases and positioned at various intervals around the living room. The beauty of the flowers and their fragrant scent permeate the house, sweetening the somber mood.
I am chagrined by the written notes in the cards, messages to my mother and sister. I am not mentioned by name, and part of me silently cries out, But what about me? He was my father too! I am grieving too. It is just as much my loss. But it is natural that people don’t think of me. I rarely visit England. Many have never met me. When visitors come to see Mum, I politely remove myself from the room, preferring solitude elsewhere to sitting on the sidelines listening to the unfamiliar memories of other people, knowing they shared moments with my father that I did not. It would have been a good way for me to learn more about my father, about what others thought of him and how they remember him, but that doesn’t enter my mind. I prefer to be alone to sulk.
The atten
tion to my mother is all well and good during the day, but I know that I cannot prevent the loneliness that must inevitably come to her as she lies alone in her bed at night. I can’t help but wonder if Mum cries when she is alone in her room, finally allowing the tears that are stoically kept in check during the day to surface. Does she talk to her husband as if he were still there with her in the dark shadows of her bedroom? Does she tell him that she misses him? Is the love of a seventy-three-year-old woman for her mate still alive in her heart? Poor Mum. I pay extra attention to her, giving her more hugs and kisses and telling her she is loved, hoping the love of a daughter can compensate for the missing love of a husband.
Leaning down, I put an arm around my mother’s shoulder. I gently bring her back to the present, urging her to get ready to face the day. “Can I get you anything? Do anything for you?”
“No, love. I’m fine.”
“Let me take that for you.” I reach out to take the empty teacup from my mother’s hand, smiling cheerily at her, feigning bravado, but Mum doesn’t notice. She isn’t looking at me, isn’t looking at anything in particular.
“I’ll go get my shoes and coat.”
Mum stands up, sighs after the effort, and then shuffles her way toward the door, her pink fluffy slippers laboriously stroking along the carpet. My gaze follows my mother. I see the rounded shoulders and the downward tilt of my mum’s head. Mum is on automatic, knowing what needs to be done without having to think it through. Doing what she is told to do as I usher her through what will be another long day. I can’t wait for the healing to begin, for the time when the hurt is a little less stabbing, when there are moments when we actually forget my father has died, when we remember to laugh. In the meantime, we can only go through the processes.
Our Grand Finale Page 4