Twenty Something

by Iain Hollingshead

  And I think: No, wretched be the name of the Lord. This invisible, omnipotent deity who strikes with jealous randomness. Cursed be his wretched fiction.

  I wait in vain to be struck down by a thunderbolt.

  The service drifts on. Uncle James — Daddy’s brother — reads from Ecclesiastes: ‘Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was.’

  And I think: He’s not dust. He never was. He never will be. He’s my father.

  And then Brother Ben is on his feet reading in clear, confident tones the poem that they chose together:

  Do not stand at my grave and weep,

  I am not there, I do not sleep.

  I am a thousand winds that blow.

  I am the diamond glint on snow.

  I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

  I am the gentle Autumn rain.

  When you wake in the morning hush,

  I am the swift, uplifting rush

  Of quiet birds in circling flight.

  I am the soft stars that shine at night.

  Do not stand at my grave and weep.

  I am not there, I do not sleep.

  Do not stand at my grave and cry.

  I am not there, I did not die!

  But how can you not weep to words as beautiful and brave as those? I know they’ve become clichés. I realise that they’re probably said 1500 times per day in Britain. But they hit me to the very core of my being. They achieve the exact opposite of their message. I am weeping openly and unashamedly.

  We sing another hymn — ‘Guide Me, Oh Thou Great Redeemer’ — which was sung at my parents’ wedding. I try to pull myself together, to be strong for the family, to keep up a good show. I look sideways at my mother for inspiration. She is standing stock still and upright, not singing but letting the words wash over her, bathing herself in their nostalgia. She’s crying out of one eye and smiling out of the other. I give her hand a little squeeze, and she turns and says, ‘I love you.’ It’s the first time she’s said that to me since I reached double figures. No one at all has said it for months. I start to lose it again.

  But I have to regain my composure, as it’s my turn next. And as I walk up to the pulpit and open my notes I’m suddenly aware of a sea of faces, some familiar, many not — all sympathetic. I suddenly realise how haggard I must look. I wait for the final bars of the organ to die away and then I speak:

  ‘I am weak, but thou art mighty. Hold me with thy powerful hand.’

  My father was mighty in every sense of the word. In recent years, my Mother loved to tease him about his expanding girth. ‘You’ll just have to grow longer arms so that you can still cuddle me,’ was his typically affectionate reply.

  But he was also a man of mighty integrity, mighty patience and mighty love. He is not only the best father that I could have had; he is the best father that anyone could have had.

  I know that he touched the lives of thousands of pupils and hundreds of teaching staff who looked upon him as a father figure. There will be a memorial service at Morley Park — the school where he taught with so much love for twenty years — towards the end of this month.

  But, if you’ll forgive me, I want to talk for a short time today about the very personal relationship I enjoyed with him over a quarter of a century.

  In comparison to my dad, I have always felt weak. His is a hard act to follow. There is a poignant moment in The Lion King when Simba, crossing the veld in the shadow of Mufasa, compares his own tiny pawprints to the vast tracks of his father.

  I have approached much of my life with the same trepidation as Simba. But my father has always been there as a loving Mufasa to me — my man-mountain of bonhomie and integrity. From teaching me to ski and play cricket, to putting up with a brief period in my teens when I temporarily became subhuman, to listening to my recent dilemmas, he has always been there to hold me in his powerful hand. I deserved nothing. I owe him everything. I owe him the world.

  And I also owe this to him: Daddy, I will do everything I can to live up to you. I will honour your legacy. Your memories are my memories. You were the rock of my life; you will remain so. I will try to be a rock for the rest of the family. I love you. I always will.

  For, even after the sun has set over the horizon, its reflected beams continue to light the scene it’s left behind.

  The reflection of Charles Lancaster’s memory will continue to lighten all our lives for a very long time to come.

  Amen.

  I find my way back to my seat through the tears. We stand for the final hymn and then there’s a departing collect from John Donne: ‘Bring us, O Lord God, at our last awakening into the house and gate of heaven, to enter into that gate and dwell in that house, where there shall be no darkness nor dazzling, but one equal light; no noise nor silence, but one equal music; no fears nor hopes, but one equal possession; no ends nor beginnings, but one equal eternity; in the habitations of thy glory and dominion, world without end.’

  Ben and I stand at the front of the coffin. Uncle James and Uncle Tom take the back end. And, with slow, mournful steps, the tears flowing freely now, the Bach Fugue in E flat ringing in our ears, we process down the aisle; Ben and I linked by our inside arms, our dead father hoisted on to our shoulders, like a child lifted above the heads of a crowd, bearing him aloft towards a waiting hearse and a freshly dug grave.

  It’s all over. All over bar the cremation, the small talk, the unanswered letters and the long, lonely, dark nights of tormented rants against God, Man, and the fundamental meaningless of this nonsensical in-joke of a jamboree which we call existence.

  It’s all over bar the shouting.

  Friday 21st October

  I am still at home, helping to put Daddy’s affairs in order. It’s an extraordinarily drawn-out process. It’s the little things that you don’t think of — whether to give his clothes to charity shops, which photos to keep, etc.

  And, as for me, I’m finding it difficult to know what to think any more. I mean, how long are you meant to mourn? Should I feel guilty about enjoying myself again? How long should I stay around to look after my mother? What would he have wanted?

  A couple of things have helped to get me back on track.

  The first was a beautiful letter from Leila. It ended with a poem called ‘Conclusions’, which she claimed to have found somewhere (I rather suspect she wrote it herself). It’s not Shakespeare, but I quite like it:

  There have been tears and rejections, nights awake hitting pillows and days of listless boredom. I have known regrets and their waste, doubts and their selfish loneliness.

  Life, sometimes pointless, and when there suddenly is a point, worthless. And the end so ultimate. Death so final. Eternity as terrifying as nothing.

  Yet as long as there is laughter and friends to share it with. New mysteries, old places, eternal truths. Whilst music still sings and nature calms. Whilst words inspire, sleep soothes and people delight. As long as lips touch and hands caress, and events spur to action.

  Whilst tomorrow’s dreams excite as much as yesterday’s memories, whilst anything still means everything to me, until I no longer have breath, you will see me love and live and smile.

  Lips touch? Hands caress? That would be nice

  The second was a short letter from Daddy himself, which he wrote two days before he died.

  My darling Jack,

  I am writing this in the expectation that I won’t be seeing you again. I have suffered a sudden decline in my illness, and we have no idea how to get hold of you in South America. When I have finished this letter I will pass it on to your mother. I will ask her to keep it until a suitable time has passed after the funeral.

  I do not want you to be sad. Life is too short, too precious. I want you to go out and laugh in my name, love in my name, drink in my name.

  I do not believe in an afterlife, but I see myself in you and Ben. That is comfort enough for an old man who has enjoyed his life.

  Look after the family. I am proud of you.

/>   All my love, Daddy

  PS Don’t write any more letters for the Conservative

  Party.

  Strangely, we never spoke about death or religion together. For all our closeness, it was the one taboo subject between us. But I always had a suspicion that he didn’t believe in a fundamentalist Christian version of the world.

  And the more I think about it — and I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently — the more I embrace his doubts. I would really, really like to believe in the Bible. I would like to be a spiritual person. Perhaps more importantly, I am terrified by death. It has scared me into countless sleepless nights. And the concept of not existing any more frightens me far more than the fire and brimstone warnings of hell. At least you would still be able to feel something.

  But for me, the Bible just doesn’t measure up. I’m aware that I’m no theologian, but it seems to me that the Old Testament introduces us to a God who chooses certain people at the expense of others, sponsoring the bloodthirsty Israelites in their smiting and pillaging tours of the Middle East. It’s an accident of birth whether you’re chosen or not. It’s the ultimate old boys’ network; the final access issue. We are told to take an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. Goats are to be killed and sent out into the wilderness. Gays are condemned. A man with a discharging penis has to sacrifice two pigeons at the entrance of the tent.

  And then suddenly Jesus — a character whom I find inspirational in the extreme — turns up in the New Testament and says, ‘Actually, Dad made a bit of a mistake back then. He’d like you all now to turn the other cheek and forgive each other. And also, by the way, he’s decided to become all-inclusive and PC and welcome Gentiles as well.’

  And then we are left alone for two thousand years with a mountain of conflicting evidence. And for good measure someone also chucks in Islam, Judaism, Hinduism, Buddhism, Taoism and a Catholic vs. Protestant divide.

  We’ve gone from the God who talked directly to his people — albeit in burning bushes and columns of fire — to one who leaves us alone to figure it out for ourselves.

  I would love to believe. I really would. It would give me the ultimate sense of purpose in my drifting life. But it just doesn’t make sense.

  And what’s the point of heaven anyway? I mean, John Donne’s poem is beautiful. One equal music and all that. But imagine how boring that would become. What is anything without fears and hopes, ends and beginnings, light and dark, contrasts and distinctions? This concept of heaven scares me as much as hell.

  My problem with Christianity is not its basic message. It is a beautiful story of love and redemption. My gripe is its portrayal of God as a weak, needy figure who requires our worship and begging supplications.

  I’m aware that none of us is perfect. I know that we all do a great deal of wrong. But this emphasis on kow-towing in prostrate guilt before an unknown megalith seems very unhealthy to me.

  I think what really tipped it was the born-again acquaintance who rang me up today.

  ‘Did your father believe in God?’

  ‘In a vague sort of way, yes.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, he was a very spiritual man. He was in awe of the natural world. He believed in responsibility to his fellow man. He was a fundamentally good person.’

  ‘But did he believe that Jesus Christ, the only Son of God, a carpenter from Nazareth, came down from heaven two thousand years ago and died for his sins? Did he confess regularly? Did he say he was sorry for all the wrong he’s done?’

  ‘No, I don’t think he was that naive.’

  ‘Oh dear. I’m very sorry to tell you, Jack. Your father is going to hell.’

  And I thought, Go to hell yourself, you horrible little creep. I want nothing to do with a religion that selects its eternal holiday-trip winners on the basis of whether they remembered to say sorry just before they died, a religion that prefers a murdering, but apologetic, rapist to a good man whose mind is too complicated to embrace dogma.

  If heaven has no place for a man like my father, then I don’t want to go there, either.

  But then I read back over what I’ve just written and feel a horrendous sense of guilt that I could have been so blasphemous. And that’s why religion works. It’s the fear. It’s got a morbid monopoly on our one last unknown. It’s a safe bet-hedger.

  Does God find the time to read private diaries? I’m for the high jump if he does.

  Dear God, if you exist, I am very, very sorry.

  Saturday 29th October

  I was walking the dog this afternoon in the fields near the house, when I was suddenly aware of a huge sense of inner calm. I’m not sure why. I’m twenty-five and living at home in the middle of nowhere with my widowed mother. I have no girlfriend, no job and no prospect of sex within the next millennium.

  But then none of it seemed to matter any more. I can’t even begin to articulate this, but I wanted to throw off my clothes and run naked through the fields. I called the dog over and hugged him so hard he whined. This was it, this was life, with its shitty troughs and peaks, its inconsequential worries and concerns, its dark despairs and temporary elations. I embraced it all. I didn’t even care that I was still hurting. At least I could still feel something.

  A sense of overwhelming curiosity came over me. What would happen next — to me, to my friends, my family, the world in general? I wanted to live, to stay alive out of a simple, nosy interest in the course of events. I threw my head back, my arms spread wide, and laughed and thanked God, or god, or whatever other perverse, innate genius gave us the chance to think these thoughts and connect these emotions with other sentient beings.

  The death of my dad has turned me into something of a walking cliché. I have realised the fragility and futility of life, its utter irrelevance and its irresistible importance. I have understood the waste of regrets, of words unsaid, of actions undone, of emotions left to run cold and dry.

  I sat down under the old oak in the middle of the field. It’s been there since the Crimean War. It had seen my great-great-grandfather. It would outlive me. The dog came and shook dirty water from the horse trough over me and put his wet head in my lap.

  We’re going to be OK.

  Sunday 30th October

  Daddy’s memorial service at Morley Park.

  A beautiful day. The end of British Summer Time, but the start of something new. Hundreds of old boys, staff and parents turned up to celebrate his life. It was uplifting, with none of the fake religiosity of the funeral. It was the perfect end to the bleakest month.

  After the service Daddy’s replacement as headmaster — Stuart Ackland — comes up to chat.

  ‘Hello, Jack. You’re looking more like your father every day.’

  ‘What — fat and balding?’

  ‘Ha ha.’

  He looks at me a little uncertainly.

  ‘Jack, I know this is a bit off the cuff, but you know how Roddy Lewis had to leave suddenly’

  ‘The one who was caught with kiddy-fiddling images on his computer?’

  Stuart looks at me even more uncertainly.

  ‘Well, those are unsubstantiated rumours, but Roddy has taken a leave of absence to clear his name.’

  ‘I see,’ I reply.

  ‘Well, I was wondering whether you might like to step into his shoes after half term, see us through till Christmas. See how it goes?’

  ‘Stuart, I am a failed banker who has been sacked twice in the last six months. I have a mediocre degree in Classics and no teaching qualifications whatsoever.’

  ‘Jack, this is a private preparatory school. You’re perfect. You can start on Tuesday.’

  NOVEMBER

  Tuesday 1st November

  ‘Boys, welcome back to the second half of the Michaelmas term. I have a couple of notices before you go off to first period. The first eleven is playing our main rivals Summer Meadows this afternoon. It’s a half-holiday, so I would like as many of you as possible to come and watch. Tomorrow there
will be a nits inspection for all boys in West and South houses who don’t have chits signed by their mothers or by Matron. North and East, it will be your turn on Thursday, unless you’re in the away match at Brock Hill, in which case you should ask your form master what to do.’

  ‘And finally, I’m sorry to announce that Mr Lewis is unwell [sniggers from the staff] and won’t be returning for the rest of this term. Fortunately, we are very lucky to welcome Mr Lancaster’

  I feel a hundred and fifty pairs of beady little eyes turn round and stare at me. I’m wearing a battered corduroy jacket and chinos. I look like a tosspot. These little ankle-biters terrify me.

  ‘Turn back round, boys. As I was saying, we’re delighted to welcome Mr Lancaster, who will be taking over Mr Lewis’s responsibilities for Forms IV, V and VI French. He will also be helping out with the sport and music. Mr Lancaster is an old boy of Morley Park and he comes to us via Bristol University and a very successful career as a city banker.’

  I manage to catch Stuart Ackland on the way out of morning assembly.

  ‘Stuart, I haven’t done French since A level. I thought I was going to be teaching Latin. There’s not a chance that I will know how to teach French.’

  ‘Jack, they’re only ten years old, for God’s sake. How hard can it be? I did Sports Management at university — I’m now the head and teach Geography. Just take them through the textbook. Norris will show you the ropes.’

  ‘Norris?’

  ‘Yes, Norris Beaumont. He used to teach you, didn’t he?’

  He certainly did. Mr Beaumont had been a teacher at Morley Park for forty years. He was there as a boy himself. He hated leaving for secondary school, did his national service and then came right back to where he belonged. I assumed he’d retired long ago, but there he was storming down the corridor towards me, all tweed and paunch and eyebrows. And to think I used to be terrified of him!

  ‘Ah, Lanky, old boy. Bonjour. Or should I call you Mr Lanky now? Fancy having you back here. What fun. Right, French — bloody easy language. English has over 800,000 words; French has less than 100,000. I hear you’re a classical scholar these days. French is the same language as Latin, really — just a bit more modern. Don’t worry about teaching them a French accent. They’ll just speak English like everyone else when they go there on skiing holidays and booze cruises.’