There cannot be a funeral for my father until some of the necessary paperwork and processes have been completed. Bureaucratic red tape, forms expressing the intimate details of the death in cold black type, making sure there is no doubt that a loved one is gone, uncaring that they are enforcing the grief and prolonging the healing process. I take Mum back to the hospital to talk to the grievance counselor, then to the doctor to get the death certificate and to discuss releasing the body for burial. I am adamant that Mark and Loretta go with us. I insist they be part of the process. They need to understand and learn about responsibilities; rather than evade the disagreeable, they must learn to accept it as part of life and do their part for the family when needed.
It is strange, all of us sitting in the little consulting room at the hospital with its bright, cheery, painted walls and yellow plastic flower arrangement on the small table in the middle of the room, as though this will help to mitigate our grief. It doesn’t. On a side table are pamphlets on the grieving process. Four pages devoted to all you need to know, including bullet points, as if it were a simple five-step program: follow the steps and your grief will be gone, like some television infomercial. “For nineteen ninety-five, you too can get over the death of a loved one!” Likely written by someone who has never lost anyone close, who has no idea that it takes more than four cheery pages of cheerleading rhetoric to come to terms with the loss, the regrets, the self-recrimination.
In time, both the doctor and the grief counselor stop by the room to speak with us, giving the speeches that are no doubt well rehearsed by now, with the appropriate words of condolences and with facial expressions suitable for the circumstances. We sit and listen, reading forms, taking in information, all the while knowing that somewhere in the hospital, Dad is still there too, lying cold, without visitors, and that we arrive and leave without even acknowledging that he is still in the building.
Mum sits through the processes like an anxious, confused child, uncomprehending. When the doctor mentions an autopsy, she begins to cry and shouts vehemently at the doctor, “I don’t want you to do an autopsy! I am no’ going tae allow them tae do one tae him. They cannae do that tae my husband. I won’t allow it! No one is going tae cut open Ian. He doesn’t deserve that. He doesn’t need that. Leave him alone!” Mum is weeping, tears running down her face, her head shaking, crying, “No! No!”
I put my arms around my mum. Loretta hands her a tissue. Mark sits stoically, the typical male reaction to emotional women. The doctor stands awkwardly, her mouth opening and closing but not having the right words for this unexpected outburst.
But as a lawyer, I understand that sometimes the law unilaterally takes over our lives, even when we don’t want it to, such as now when an autopsy might be required by law. When my father was in the navy, he worked in the ship’s engine room in the days when asbestos was routinely used on ships. I know if there is any sign of asbestosis, an autopsy might be required, and Mum has no say in the matter. The moment is tense. Tears stream down my mother’s face, guided by the wrinkles made more pronounced by her furrowed brow and pursed lips. The doctor excuses herself to check my father’s medical records, and I pray that she will find no need for the intrusive investigation. We are fortunate. The doctor returns with good news. She has determined an autopsy is not needed. I sigh, thankful that particular unpleasantness has been averted and that Mum does not have to face that indignity to the body of her husband.
Once the body can be released, the funeral arrangements have to be made. It becomes apparent that Mum and Dad had not discussed this matter. Mum knew Dad wanted to be cremated, that much was written into his will, but no one had thought about what to do with his ashes. I mention that there must be some nice memorial garden or similar place where those who are cremated are laid to rest, somewhere they can be visited by family and friends rather than spending eternity in an urn and, knowing Mum, stored in a box at the bottom of a cupboard somewhere. She isn’t the type to have her dead husband in an urn on display on her mantel, being a nuisance and gathering dust, creating more housework for her. I am surprised that Mum and Dad hadn’t thought more about what to do with each other’s remains and that they hadn’t considered a memorial garden. Perhaps they had simply chosen to ignore that unwelcome specter, preferring instead to focus on being alive.
I recognize a connection between this selective ignorance of death and Mum’s failure to acknowledge Dad’s illness to anyone. I have heard from other family members that they did not know how ill Dad really was, and that they would have visited him more often in the hospital, only Mum had said that was not necessary. They had been told that Dad would be home soon. I understood that Mum would have her reasons. Perhaps like me now, she was pushing away the fear, the uncertainty, the insecurity that the death of a loved one can bring. It is easier to stay focused on the moment than to worry about what will come. By not telling people how ill her husband was, Mum did not have to face their questions or concerns. Until she acknowledged out loud that his illness was terminal, it could not happen.
I go through the phone book to see if there are any local memorial gardens and find that the local crematorium has a chapel and memorial garden and is in Portchester, not too far away. This small town, now more a suburb of Portsmouth, is named for Portchester Castle, which was originally an old Roman fortification dating back to the late third century. The castle stands at the northern edge of Portsmouth Harbor, looking across the water to the city on the other side. The nearby crematorium and memorial park have a series of beautiful gardens where loved ones can be laid to rest. Dad had sailed in and out of the harbor during his naval career, and he had been an avid gardener who loved his flowers. The location and setting is perfect. Mum doesn’t like grass and flowers. She would have been happy with concrete slabs out in the back garden. But placing Dad in a beautiful garden with a peaceful environment where family and friends can visit is ideal. Thankfully, Mum agrees, and we make arrangements. The garden has just opened a new section on the side of a hill. Nearby is a wooden shed. Mum thinks it will be nice to place Dad near the shed, as it represents so many aspects of his life. She also buys a plot there next to Dad for herself.
view from atop Portchester Castle looking across Portsmouth Harbor toward Portsmouth, photo © Laraine Denny Burrell
Mum wants the local coop to do the funeral arrangements. At least that much has been decided, but sitting in the too-warm and cloying atmosphere of the visitor’s room with the funeral home’s representative and going through the books of caskets, flowers, and other arrangements, perspiration begins forming on my brow, and my clothes are now sticking uncomfortably to my skin. I feel nauseous and unfocused and reluctantly take a back seat in the arrangements. Mum knows Dad’s favorite flowers. Mum knows precisely what kind of floral arrangements she wants for him. She hates lilies; they are death flowers. She wants something bright and cheerful: thistles, Scottish flowers from the homeland. She also wants a piper in a kilt to play the bagpipes as Dad’s coffin makes its way to the chapel.
Loretta knows Dad’s favorite songs and from memory gives the funeral representative a list of Scottish songs to be played by the piper. I sit mute, feeling dazed by the decisiveness of the arrangements. I know none of this. He was my father, he loved his garden, and yet I did not know what his favorite flowers were. My father loved his Scots music, but I do not recognize the songs my sister names. I feel like an interloper, watching Mum and Loretta make decisions as to what my father would want for his tribute. And I have nothing to offer. I sink back into the chair and look down at the floor, away from the photographs of caskets and flowers, pretty ornate things intended to mitigate the unbearable, but nonetheless reminding me that my father is gone, and I know so little about him. Overriding my sadness is the consistent reminder that I had spent so little time with Dad in the past years. I become determined to find something to offer; I must make up for my neglect in some way. But how?
CHAPTER
FIVE
> Dad and I walk along the floating jetty, a series of metal platforms linked together which allow us to walk out over the water from the naval base at Whale Island to where my dad’s ship is anchored in the harbor. The jetty is uneven, and each platform has a life of its own as it moves up and down or sways from side to side, pushed by the movement of the surrounding water. I am not scared. I am a navy brat. I have walked this and other jetties many times. I have been on my dad’s ship many times, even sailing onboard her one time when the navy had maneuvers out in the Solent and English Channel, and families were allowed to join in and experience the exercise firsthand.
Almost at the ship, I pause in my tracks and take a moment to look up at the vessel. Navy ships are typically painted the same gray color. But my dad’s ship is different. She has a stunning navy blue hull, with a bright red band running along the bottom of the hull at the waterline. Along and around the top of the hull is painted an elegant gold ribbon, and on the point of the bow is a round, colorful heraldic crest. The gold ribbon and crest look like a dainty pendant on the ship’s décolletage. The bulkheads and superstructure above the rail running along the main deck are painted white, while the one funnel and three masts are a cream color. To me, she is the most beautiful ship in the Royal Navy.
Of course, I am not being completely honest. This isn’t really my dad’s ship. It is just the ship he works on. The ship is called the Royal Yacht Britannia and actually belongs to Her Majesty, the Queen. Her crew are referred to as royal yachtsmen or “Yotties.” I don’t think the Queen will mind me referring to it as “my dad’s ship.”
“Come on, love,” Dad calls for me to catch up.
“Coming,” I call back as I jump from platform to platform until I am standing beside Dad at the gangplank. We climb up to the main deck of the yacht where we are greeted by the duty seaman. Immediately I hear the low but familiar hum I associate with the ship—the air conditioning, the electronics, and the metal hull housing its own community. The vessel is never asleep.
Mum isn’t with us today. She stayed at home. Apparently Dad only wanted me to come onboard with him today. I don’t know why. I don’t really care why. I love visiting the ship. I feel at home on the ship. Being in the navy and sailing the seven seas is on my “To Do” list for when I grow up.
Sometimes when we bring visitors onboard on Sundays, the other kids and I are allowed to play outside on the decks, and we play chase and hide-and-seek, provided we are not too rambunctious or noisy. Sometimes, just to be silly, we watch the ferryboat sail around the harbor with tourists. When the ferry sails near the yacht, the other children and I wave regally to the tourists, who take photographs of us, thinking perhaps we are important when really we are not. I know my way around the ship inside and out. I like to visit the galley, which always has lots of lovely hot, smooshy chips, and sometimes the cook gives me a large plate of them.
Today Dad and I are going straight down to the mess. I follow my dad along the passageways with their riveted metal bulkheads, through rounded hatches or doors, and down steep narrow ladders or stairs. I don’t have to follow Dad. I know the way to the mess by myself.
As we enter the mess, some of Dad’s shipmate friends are there having a drink and a good laugh. I like sitting in the mess with my dad and his friends; it is a warm, cozy place. The sailors like to make jokes, and I get to drink Coca-Cola. The mess bar is called The Verge Inn. People laugh at the name. I don’t understand why.
I sit on a stool at the bar, and Frank, my dad’s friend who is pulling duty behind the bar, pours me a glass of Coca-Cola. People in the mess are laughing and having a good time. I like being on the ship; I enjoy the atmosphere. I wish the Royal Navy let girls sail on ships, because I want to be a sailor on a ship like my dad. He travels the world going to lots of interesting places and meeting fascinating people. One day I want to live on a big ship and travel around the world to foreign places. I look around at the naval décor, the pictures of royal family members, the plaques and pennants of naval insignia, and some photographs of the yotties themselves.
I turn back to take a sip of my drink when I notice my dad has gone. Frank sees me looking around and says, “Your dad has just stepped out to get something for you. He’ll be right back.”
“Okay.”
What has Dad gone to get for me? I wonder. Why did I have to come onboard the yacht to get whatever it is? Hmmm. My brow furrows. I am curious.
A few minutes later, Dad returns with a square, brown cardboard box. He puts it on the bar in front of me. I look at the cardboard box, which has a round hole cut in the top. It doesn’t look like anything much. Suddenly a little head pops up from the hole in the box. It is a stripy kitten. The kitten head looks around and then pops back down into the box.
“Oh!” I am surprised. The kitten peeks out again. “Aww, he’s so cute!”
Frank nods toward the box. “You get to take him home with you.”
I look behind me at my dad. I frown. “Dad?”
“That’s right,” Dad says. “This is Schickrys. He was given to Her Majesty, the Queen Mother, and he’s the yacht’s mascot. We get to take him home and look after him.”
“Gosh!” At first I am shocked that this is a royal cat, the yacht’s mascot, and he is sitting on the bar in front of me. Once I get over the shock, I smile with delight at the thought that I have a kitten, and I get to take him home with me. I have to share him with the Queen Mum, but he gets to live at my house. Carefully I put my hand into the hole until I can feel the warm, soft fur.
“He’s a special cat,” my dad tells me. “He’s Manx. He doesn’t have a tail.”
I don’t understand until my dad takes the lid off the box, lifts out the kitten, and places him gently on my lap. I hold the kitten carefully and peer round at his bum. I am surprised. Dad is right. The kitten doesn’t have a tail!
“He’s from a place called the Isle of Man, and the cats there are special because they don’t have tails,” my dad explains to alleviate my confusion.
“What’s his name, Dad?” I didn’t understand the first time Dad told me. The name sounded funny.
“His full name is Mannanagh Schickrys, but we’ll call him Schickrys.”
“Shick-riss,” I repeat. “Shick-riss. Shick-riss. Mancks.” “M-a-n-x,” my dad spells out to me. “Anything from the Isle of Man is Manx.”
“M-a-n-x, Manx,” I say to paste it into my brain.
Dad educates me on the history of Schickrys. I learn that earlier this year, 1963, Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother went on a royal visit to the Isle of Man where she was presented with this Manx kitten. The kitten is a pedigree cat, which makes it important, and it has its own hand-painted pedigree certificate. The Queen Mum presented the kitten to the royal yacht as its mascot. Because the ship sails abroad, for quarantine reasons, the kitten cannot be kept on board the ship. So an investigation was conducted to find a suitable family to take care of the cat; a family with not too many children to annoy the cat, but a responsible family who can take good care of him. As fate has it, my family was chosen. I feel very important. I like the idea that someone thinks I am a responsible person. This is Mannanagh Schickrys, a pedigree Manx kitten, a present to the Queen Mum, the yacht’s mascot, and he is coming home with me. What a glorious thing!
Dad and I take the bus home. I sit with the cardboard box on my lap, holding it like the precious treasure it is, loving every time the little tiger-striped head pops up to see what is going on with the world. I stroke his little head, softly wanting him to get to know me and get used to me. I know that I will now be in love with cats forever.
Dad hasn’t told Mum we are bringing the cat home. Mum is not much of an animal lover, or at least not since our budgie, Chris, flew into her cup of tea and scalded himself and died. That was when I was two years old. But here we are with a kitten, and a royal one at that. Mum can’t say no. She can’t turn down the Queen Mum’s cat. “Schickrys,” I remind myself.
Dad enters th
e house first. “Cath, we’re home!”
I cautiously enter through the doorway behind my dad, clutching the box to my chest with one hand, my other hand over the hole in the top, keeping the furry resident from popping up and scaring Mum before Dad has a chance to explain.
“Cath, we have a wee surprise.”
Along the passageway, Mum’s head peers round from the kitchen door. “What surprise?”
“It’s fer the wean.”
“Just what did you get her now?” Mum’s head disappears back into the kitchen. “I’m putting the kettle on.”
My dad pushes me by my shoulder toward the kitchen door. “Best show yer mum what we have.” He sounds uncertain, making me hesitate.
Pushed by my dad, I lurch toward the kitchen and pause at the door. I grin broadly at Mum. “Look what we have.” I extend the box toward Mum, just as a little stripy head pops up and stares at her.
“Aaaargh! What is that? Is that a rat?” A metal clatter follows as Mum drops the kettle she is holding, and it bounces off the tiled kitchen floor. Mum takes two steps away from the box, her screech causing the furry head to disappear back into the box.
“Ian! What is that? Is that a rat?”
“Haud yer weescht woman! It’s a wee cat. A kitten for the wean. It’s time Laraine had a pet.”
“A cat? A cat!” Mum’s posture changes from frightened victim in a horror movie, holding her hands up to her face to ward off the terrible beast, to standing with hands on hip, scowl on face, ready to do battle with Dad for bringing an animal into her house. “What did ye bring that home fer?”
I stand between Mum and Dad, my arms around the box, trying to shield the kitten from this less than welcoming introduction into the family home. “He’s really little, and so cute,” I offer, feeling a need to defend the little guy.
“We were chosen, Cath. It’s the yacht’s mascot that was presented to the Queen Mum, and we were asked to look after it, to keep it here in our home.” Dad’s tone appears to placate Mum, but she still has questions.
Our Grand Finale Page 5