Another photograph is Mark and me standing outside the pensione in Moderno, Italy. I did remember that this photo was taken by Lena, one of the ladies who also lived in the pensione. Lena had a Polaroid instant camera and was always taking photographs of Mark and me. I also find a photograph of me posing by the dusty roadside in Senegal, another of me riding my horse in Egypt, a picture of the River Kwai in Thailand, and one of me riding a horse over an upright show-jumping fence in the Bahamas. Here are tangible images of the memories I have been visiting these past couple of weeks as I reflect on the decades of my life and the choices, good or bad, that I made.
I pull out another handful of photographs and see they are pictures of myself and other cast members from Hello Hollywood Hello. I smile, recognizing the costumes and sets, and scan the familiar faces, trying to remember names, but then realize with sadness that many of these bright, talented people were long gone, lost to the scourge of the 1980s, AIDS. “Such a shame,” I whisper to the attic.
As I see my own photographs mixed in with those of the family, I realize that in spirit I have never really left. My life is, and always has been, an integral part of the family unit. Like these photographs, the events of my life naturally fit between the affairs and experiences of my parents and sister. My recent overthinking and worrying that I had abandoned my family were one directional. To my family, I am, and always have been, a part of them. I realize that no matter where I went, or how long I was away, my family readily embraced my return as if I had never left. The thought sends a warmth flowing through me, melting the burden I had been carrying.
Immersed in a renewed sense of well-being, I continue my review of the family photographic archives. I pull out a photo of Schickrys. I remember him as a sweet, docile animal. As was typical for his Manx breed, he didn’t have a tail. A student from the Royal Academy of Art was commissioned to design his pedigree certificate, which resulted in the creation of a large, colorful piece with drawings of the cat and a castle, and with the text handwritten in an artistic font. It grandly proclaimed that the cat’s owner was Her Majesty, The Queen Mother. For a while, the pedigree certificate hung in a passageway on the royal yacht, sailing across the globe, on display to the numerous visitors who were given tours onboard. Later this pedigree hung in my childhood bedroom, and I would stare at it as I fell asleep. Today this pedigree certificate hangs in my home office, a reminder of so many things, not the least of which was that sunny summer day when Schickrys came into my life.
photo of Schickrys’ Pedigree, photo © Laraine Denny Burrell
More recently, historian Richard Johnston-Bryden wrote a book on the royal yacht. Page 104 shows a picture of Schickrys in a little basket being carried by the Queen Mother on that day in 1963 when he was first presented to Her Majesty. I now reach down into the photographs in front of me, find the original of that photograph, and stare at it intently. I will put this in a frame and keep it in a cabinet, right beside my own copy of the book opened to the page showing the same photograph. The book also has a photograph of my father celebrating the yacht’s twenty-first birthday. He is leaning over a large birthday cake made for the occasion and surrounded by other yachtsmen. The book also mentions my father by name, as a yachtsman, and for having stewardship of Schickrys. I take a moment to reflect on the significance of the book and its contents. My father is memorialized in a book by both his photograph and name. How many people can say that?
photograph of stamps showing author’s father’s signature, photo © Laraine Denny Burrell
I pull more naval photographs from the box, all black and white, all showing the yacht, the crew, my father. My father’s naval career was linked to other interesting facets of his life. When the royal yacht was decommissioned in December 1997, commemorative stamps were issued, and the first day edition envelopes included the signature of three yotties chosen to represent the ship. Out of the many hundreds of men who had served on the yacht over the years since 1954, my dad was one of the three chosen, and his neat signature—the result of his efforts of self-improvement—graces the envelope of these special first edition stamps, another way in which this boy from Glasgow is forever memorialized. My parents had given me a set of the first edition stamps, and I make a mental note to put the set on display in my home as it deserves. Today the royal yacht is a museum located near Edinburgh in Scotland, and my father’s photo and information is displayed as an eternal reminder to the public of his life given for Queen and country. To me, it is a personal reminder of his extraordinary achievements. I have never been to the museum. I will go one day, I promise myself.
Dad’s long naval career and service to the Queen did not go unrecognized. He was honored on the New Year’s Honor list in 1976. He was awarded the Royal Victorian Medal for his services to the Queen, and I recall the memory of that visit to Buckingham Palace. I find a photograph in the box of my dad in his uniform, proudly showing off his medal.
One of the last royal events my parents attended was the Queen’s eightieth birthday party held in a garden at Buckingham Palace. I think it a testament to us as people, and what we can do with our lives, that ordinary, unassuming people like my parents could get dressed up a couple of times a year and go to balls and important events at the palace or at Windsor Castle. Who would think looking at Dad pottering around his garden in shabby overalls, or Mum sitting with her feet up, having a cuppa in front of the telly and watching her westerns, that they would be invited to royal balls and tea at palaces and castles? For Mum, each event required a new outfit, but it was always about the hat and the drama of finding something suitable for the event, with this pre-event preparation often taking months to finalize. The royal family didn’t forget the ordinary citizen, and I appreciate the fact that an invitation to an auxiliary nurse, such as my mother, or a factory worker, which Dad became after retiring from the navy, marks a person’s life as notable. I am pleased that my parents had experiences that few others could share.
photograph of invitation to Palace to author’s mum and dad, photo © Laraine Denny Burrell
I had found an envelope among my father’s belongings and inside was a letter dated August 11, 1976. It was on Royal Yacht Britannia letterhead and was written by the rear admiral. It was a recommendation letter for my father for when he left the yacht and naval service in November of that year. A few sentences summed up my dad perfectly:
“. . . he was a most efficient, smart and above all loyal and trusted royal yachtsman . . . He has a quiet personality, a fine sense of humour and is respected by all on board, his superiors and subordinates alike. He is very tactful and a man with a calm temperament which is rarely disturbed even when under intense pressure.”
My father was loyal, to the royal yacht, to the navy and his country. He lost two fingers in an engine room accident on HMS Bermuda in 1950, but never complained about the loss, or the risks of his job. In later years it was discovered that the old engine rooms were coated with asbestos, and as asbestos litigation hit a fervor in the United Kingdom, Dad was interviewed by prominent lawyers from London and asked to testify about the asbestos use in the navy. Even though he might have been entitled to monetary compensation, Dad refused. He didn’t want to say a bad word against the navy, or against the royal yacht. For him it simply wasn’t the right thing to do. Such was my dad’s loyalty and integrity.
Looking through the photographs, I find more photos of the royal family, the Duke of Edinburgh and Princess Anne on the deck of the yacht, leaning casually against the ship’s rail, having a chat. Another one is of Prince Charles as a young man dressed in a tuxedo and blowing bubbles through a plastic ring, and another is a picture of the Duke of Edinburgh putting on a silly hat as part of the Crossing the Equator ceremony being held on board the yacht. There is a picture of the Queen in a long ball gown, and another of the Queen and the duke with Eisenhower standing casually on the deck of the royal yacht. These are all modestly tucked away among my dad’s possessions, as if everyone has photograph
s of royals or American presidents in their attic.
The final photograph in this group is one that was published in the local Portsmouth Evening News. It is of my father standing on the quay at the side of the yacht on the day he was paid off, leaving the navy. Behind him, the decks of the yacht are lined with yachtsmen, all with their caps in the air, cheering him. It was the end of an era for him, although the yachtsmen always remain in contact through their organization. My mother has heard from numerous yotties sending their condolences on Dad’s passing. It is expected that some will attend Dad’s funeral.
In with the photographs are some old pieces of paper, and opening each folded leaf, I find sheet music with old Scots songs, and a book called 51 Beauties of Scottish Song, priced sixpence. Dad loved his Scots music and songs, and that is why we have arranged for a Scots piper to play some of Dad’s favorite ballads at his funeral. I also find an old piece of paper with the typewritten words of a prayer. It is by Winifred Holtby and reads: “God give me work ’til my life shall end, and life ’til my work is done.” I read those words over and over. I absorb them. It is providence that I have found this paper. The prayer epitomizes Dad’s life and work. I will use it in his eulogy.
Smiling, I gather up the photographs. Dad was a quiet, humble man, with no hint of an extraordinary life. Yet, the wee lad from Glasgow had “gone to sea” as a boy and been given the opportunity to join the royal yacht family, travel the world with the royal family, attend many significant events both on the ship and in palaces and castles, and have his services recognized by the monarch. He had been given the responsibility of caring for a royal cat. There is a photograph of him and he is mentioned by name in a book, as well as being memorialized in a first edition stamp collection. His name and photograph are displayed in a museum in recognition for his contribution to Queen and country. I think my dad’s life was very extraordinary indeed.
I take a final look around the attic, at all the things I have seen and learned over the past few days, Dad’s treasures, his keepsakes, the images all capturing parts of his life. They tell his story in a way that he had been too quiet to tell himself. I will use all of these things to tell my dad’s story at his funeral because they relate to him, and to the people who have been part of his life. He had led an extraordinary life. But because of his quiet and humble demeanor, and modest reporting of his accomplishments, it is unlikely that people will understand, or even recognize all that he had done. The one thing I can do for him is to put all of his life events and achievements together and make sure they are memorialized at his funeral so everyone can see what I see in these photographs, documents, and treasures. I can make sure that my dad’s life, his achievements, and his journey are not forgotten.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
I find my seat, one of a few hundred in the large exam hall. I unpack my computer, plug it into the grid of electrical outlets and surge protectors criss-crossing across the floor below my desk and beyond. I check that the plug connection is good, the computer on, and set it up on the desk allotted to me. I lay out my permitted pens and pencils on the desk, and then remove any impermissible objects, including my computer bag, to an area at the side of the room. Around me the other bar exam takers are doing the same. Some chatting amicably, nervously, excitedly. Some like me: silent, contemplative, serious.
Today is the last day of the three-day bar exam. It is my birthday, but I am not celebrating. Not yet. I need to get through the next few hours and the final tests designed to challenge my worthiness to become a lawyer before I can exhale the breath I have been holding for what seems like days.
The proctor brings around computer discs for us to insert into our drives. I write my exam identification number on the disc and insert it into the computer. The program will lock access to anything other than the exam: no Internet, no saved files, no cheat sheets. I have only my brain to rely on. My brain is in top form. Studying for the bar exam has been my full-time job, with overtime, for the last six weeks. My brain is now the fittest it has ever been. I am prompted by the computer program to log in. I do so.
Booklets of the exam questions are distributed and placed face down next to each examinee. I notice it is quite thick. I will have four hours to answer all of the four essay questions. I look toward the clock at the front of the hall. Almost nine o’clock.
After giving us general instructions, the proctor says to the quiet room, “You may begin.” There is a “wooshing” sound as hundreds of paper booklets are turned and opened.
I open my booklet, do a quick assessment of the length of the questions, and the subject areas, and then do a quick calculation of the time I have to spend on each question. That done, I turn back to the first question. It is on contract law. The first thing I do is grab the scratch paper provided for notes and write out my contracts outline, a well-prepared series of orderly abbreviations setting out every element of every contract and Uniform Commercial Code issue garnered from my law school classes, exam preparation classes, and my own studies. I have prepared and practiced this outline as much as any other part of my bar preparation, and now, in less than thirty seconds, I write my checklist of everything that could be relevant to a contracts question. Feeling confident the extra time spent on writing the outline will save me time later on by helping me quickly order and draft my answer, I now turn to the question.
The next four hours are a mental race between the pages of the booklet, the clock, and my brain. Not one will cede to the others as I methodically make my way through the questions, identify the issues, and draft analysis after analysis of the issues, the elements of each issue, the facts to support or rebut an issue, and my final conclusion. With one eye always on the clock, I master my time management. I am confident I am winning the race.
“Two minutes.” The proctor warns of the time remaining.
I do a quick check of my exam booklet, and my answers typed into the computer, and confirm there is nothing I have missed and nothing more I can add. I sit back in my seat, waiting for the final call.
“Time! Please stand and step away from your computers.”
There is a scraping of chairs as we examinees stand up and back away from our computers and raise our hands into the air. The proctor and assistants scan the room for compliance. I look around the room at all the would-be lawyers standing with hands in the air, looking like criminals. I smile, finding some irony in that. I inhale deeply, and exhale sharply. It’s over. I wait patiently as the proctor and assistants systematically gather first the computer discs and then the booklets and scratch paper.
Knowing the last day of the exam was my birthday, I thought it would be the perfect day to celebrate my completion of the many years of metamorphosis from feather- and diamond-wearing dancer, to advocate. My fellow law students and I often discussed how we will celebrate that moment after the bar exam is over and we are finally released from that cell of study we have locked ourselves into for too many years. I anticipated that I would dance out of the room, along the hallway to the parking lot and my car, getting away from the exam, the other students, and all memories of the arduous challenges I have been adhered to for the past four years. I will go home and celebrate all night long, the bottle of Veuve Cliquot already chilling nicely in my fridge. I will talk to no one; I don’t want to see a soul. It is to be my moment of self-celebration; my eight years of sacrifice are over. I have done all I can to succeed, and I have exceeded my own expectations. I have amazed myself.
It takes about twenty minutes for the examination materials to be retrieved from the two hundred or so examinees in the large ballroom. Finally, it is all over, and the proctor tells us we can go.
My desk is next to the right-hand wall of the room, near the exit doors. I am the first to grab my bag left on the floor at the side of the room, bundle my computer into it, and exit the side door to the hallway outside. I walk slowly to the exit and into the hallway; it is still quiet, the chatter of the other examinees yet to come.
I’m not dancing. My brow furrows. I don’t feel right. I don’t feel happy. Where is the ecstatic sense that it is all over and that I am free? Why is my mind not doing cartwheels and shouting hallelujahs? Instead, an unmistakable sadness infiltrates my whole body. It follows me to the car; it drives home with me. It stays with me all night. The Veuve Clicquot is ignored.
I sit on the couch in my living room, doing nothing but staring outside the window at the fading light. As the room darkens, so does my mood. I don’t understand it. I try self-diagnosis. I feel as though I have suffered a terrible loss. Perhaps it is simply fatigue from eight long years of sacrifices, and that I am no longer compelled to spend hours studying, and that I now have my life back. Perhaps it is the stress of the bar exam itself, the last two months of intense studying and taking extra bar courses at nights and on the weekends. I have not chosen an easy profession. I ignore phone calls from my boss and friends, no doubt wanting to ask how I am, how the exam went.
Still sitting on the couch, I retreat into my mind, my memories, and the eight long years of reinventing myself, starting when Stuart walked out of my life, which left me trying to find work with no job skills. Eight years of what it took to bring me to this point, my completion of the bar exam . . .
“Variety! Variety!” I shout as I am standing at the door of the Bally’s Las Vegas Convention Hall, holding copies of the Variety newspaper in my left hand, ready to distribute them to passersby with my right hand. I have a two-day temp job at minimum wage handing out newspapers to the attendees of ShoWest. It is all I am qualified to do. I’ve lost my marriage, my career, and because of my injury, I am unable to do the one thing I am skilled at, dancing.
“Good to see you doing something useful.” The sarcasm from the familiar voice makes me involuntarily shudder. It is Stuart. “Not the star of the show now, are you?”
Our Grand Finale Page 23