Off The Rails
Page 12
Later, as we sat in a café, he broke the uneasy silence. ‘Last Thursday evening,’ he said, ‘Bruce and I planned a trip for this coming weekend. We told each other that, yes, we have to get out and spend more time in the mountains and stay away from the pubs. The mountains, that’s where he really enjoyed life.’
From Aviemore we drove across the empty wind-beaten moors to Elgin, Bruce’s hometown. Peering out at the bleak landscape, I recalled battling along this road with Bruce. We’d been cycling and the rains had come, drenching us to the skin.
When the car came to a halt in Duff Avenue, I approached the house feeling numb and tired. In the past I had savoured every moment spent with the Coopers. My arrivals had always been greeted with warm hugs and a celebratory shot of whiskey. Being around Bruce, no matter what was happening in life, was an uplifting experience.
Bruce’s father Sandy greeted us at the door. Almost instantly he broke down and I went pale.
Inside, Bruce’s three-year-old niece, Alexa, giggled and played about in the lounge room.
Bruce’s room stood empty. I walked in and read the famous words of Martin Luther King stuck to the wall. A pen sat idly next to a notepad with the lid off, still waiting for Bruce.
‘Bruce had fought such a long battle … and he lost,’ Neil said softly. It was a relief to finally give in to tears.
———
I’d met Bruce while working in a children’s adventure camp in England. We had been working for a lousy forty pounds a week and sleeping on beds made out of stolen bread crates. Bruce lived in a leaky canvas tent, and I was crammed into a small room with three other young Australians.
He was a tall, athletically built Scot with bright ginger hair and a cheeky smile. We often spent our spare time discussing things over a beer, dreaming about places we’d rather be. On one of our days off, he introduced me to the mountains of Snowdonia, in northern Wales. As we made for the cloud-drenched distant peaks, the extraneous matter of life evaporated and we shared moments of pure joy. Over the following two years there were countless cycling, hiking and mountain trips. At one stage, I lived with the Coopers for three months while working in a shortbread factory in northern Scotland. Our last journey together had been eighteen months ago in the Cairngorm mountains during winter.
Over all this time, Bruce set an example for me. He demonstrated that there was a greater risk at stake than safety when climbing mountains: the risk of not trying something uncomfortable. That feeling of reaching the top and knowing that you had earned the view wasn’t worth throwing away in the face of fear.
But more than anything else, I admired Bruce’s humility, generosity, humour and ability to connect with people. His many years of working with the blind and the disadvantaged had given him a rare insight into people and society.
In the lounge room, Rita, Bruce’s mother, broke down. ‘We are just so bewildered, Tim,’ she sobbed. Neil moved over and held her in his arms; he was putting on a brave face. In a corner of the room, I saw a photo of two cheeky-looking, red-haired twins. A squeal of delight came from a far room as Alexa played with a soft toy.
When Bruce came home the next day he was in a coffin.
He’d spent his last evening in a local pub with Neil and a long-time friend, Robin. Around midnight Neil and Robin left, leaving Bruce with a school friend he hadn’t seen in years.
He had been suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder, a condition that often results in depression during the dark winter months in northerly latitudes. After receiving light therapy he seemed to be on the mend.
Perhaps the alcohol mixed with his anti-depressant tablets on that final night had been his undoing. At some point he would have come to Duff Avenue, perhaps even walked past his house, but the decision must have already been made. In any case, he didn’t make it home. There was no note when he was found in the morning, hanging from a tree in the front yard of a retirement home.
Was it a spur-of-the-moment thing, triggered by the mix of medication and alcohol? Or was it premeditated? We will never know. Some people may picture a frail, quietly spoken person who was driven to suicide by self-pity, as if he was predestined for such an end. But that wasn’t Bruce. He was strong, outgoing and had a zest for life and a humour that few are graced with.
‘There was just no fear in him when he did it. There can’t have been,’ Neil said. ‘He would have been feeling so alone. He knew how much it would hurt Mum and Dad. He knew it … We’ve just got to respect his decision. It’s selfish for us to think otherwise. He is gone now, released from the world that probably tormented him.’
———
Two days before the funeral I sat motionless in the car. Beside me, Neil’s face was expressionless, eyes staring blankly through the windscreen. He turned off the engine and there was only the rain drumming on the roof. A gusty wind whistled through tiny cracks and rocked the car violently. Outside, a cloud had all but enveloped the mountain before us. It was Ben Rinnes, Bruce’s favourite local peak.
‘I just can’t believe he did it, Tim … I’m going to miss him so much.’ Neil’s words were almost inaudible.
‘C’mon, Neil, you take my coat. We have to climb this mountain. That’s where Bruce will be, not moping around that coffin,’ I urged.
The car doors slammed shut and the raindrops pelted down hard. Leaning into the howling wind, we began to push upwards along a rough path. The horizontal rain lacerated the open wedges of rock and threatened to pulverise bracken and other plant life close to the ground. It cut into my body, but I felt nothing. After half an hour or so we stopped.
‘Bruce loved it up here. This is what he lived for,’ Neil said. ‘I don’t know about you but I am absolutely soaked. We can turn back now, but I guess it doesn’t make much difference anymore.’
I was shivering, but it wasn’t from the cold. Silently, we turned and trudged on.
Further on I removed my beanie. The wind caught the raindrops from my hair and sent them flying. For no particular reason, we stopped again and turned to face the direction we had come from.
‘Neil … Neil! Look!’ I shouted. But he was already transfixed.
Far below in the valley, the brilliant glow of a rainbow rose. It arched gracefully over our path and descended into the misty valley on the far side. The colours seemed to pulsate as they grew in intensity until they were viscous, almost solid.
Above, the clouds parted to reveal a misty blue sky. The rain cleared. I felt a warm sensation on my shoulder, like a hand, and the shivering ceased. The mist rolled away in great billowing swirls to reveal the rocky mountainside, which glistened like dew on a clear winter’s morning. In the distance, myriad peaks rose like emerald-green islands from a white sea.
‘It’s Bruce, Tim. It’s really Bruce!’ Neil cried, a smile erupting across his face. Tears flowed and I broke into a croaky, relentless laugh.
It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. And what’s more … I believed it. Bruce was far from gone. I am not religious or a believer in mysticism, but what I saw, whether contrived by our minds or not, will remain with me for the rest of my life. I promised myself in that moment that I would never view the world without the magical and enchanting perspective that Bruce had graced us with.
We turned to climb further up the slope and into a light veil of mist that curled over the ridge. The sun burnt through and appeared as a silvery disc in the sky above the peak. The wet rocks on the ridge reflected the glow like a series of glittering quartz.
‘This is it, Tim. The light, the walking up to greater things. Only that bugger Bruce up there, as usual, is striding ahead!’ Neil shouted.
The mist felt warm for a few minutes. Neil walked ahead and his silhouette melted into the glowing white. Now and then a thick plume of vapour rushed over the ridge and he was temporarily erased from sight. The sun had retreated behind thick cloud by the time we arrived on the summit, and the rocks appeared dull and lifeless.
‘Even though he has died
, I can feel him trying to make me happy,’ I said, after a long silence.
‘I know, Tim. I feel the same. Everyone is so sad, but it’s crazy. It’s not the end … it’s just the beginning. I just have to wait until it’s my turn and we are reunited,’ Neil replied.
The funeral passed like a celebration. Rita commented that it felt as if it should have been a wedding. When it was all over I sat up the back of a National Express bus as it pulled out of Glasgow. It was an overcast day and rain fell in light, random showers.
What will it be like as everyone trickled out of Elgin and back to their normal lives? Soon there would be just Rita, Sandy, Neil and an empty room. Today was the seventh day without Bruce.
One thought hit me before I sank into long-needed sleep. I hadn’t seen my family in more than two years. There was, after all, a very good reason to look forward to returning to Australia.
Bruce Gordon Cooper ended his life at the age of 26.
Finding Our Way
Omsk – Ishimka
Late Spring 2000
———
Chris
I kicked a stone along the pavement then hurried after it on my by now familiar path through the city. I passed tiny street-side booths overflowing with newspapers and swerved to avoid a crowd of well-dressed young people milling around the locked door of a student caféteria. I glanced at the sign on the door as I passed. It was supposed to have opened for lunch twenty-five minutes ago.
Two blocks on, I reached the glitzy electronics store where I would turn left off the main road and head towards the Internet café. On the steps outside sat what looked to be a pile of rags but, as I came closer, I realised that it was actually an old woman. She was wrapped from head to toe in ragged strips of dirty fabric and her head was down, sinking towards the gutter. The only sign of life that I could see was a shaking hand extended to the passers-by. Behind her, through the store window and through an unimaginable divide, an overweight, middle-aged Russian businessman with a red face and an imported suit negotiated with a shop assistant over the sale of what appeared to be a DVD player.
How could things have come to this? Like every other elderly Russian, this old woman was entitled to a pension, but looking at her, it was painfully obvious that she wasn’t receiving one.
I paused to drop a few roubles into her hand. It was enough, at least, to buy a loaf of bread, and she raised her head to thank me with a faint smile. She was clearly not a drug addict or an alcoholic, the most common excuse doled out about Russia’s homeless. I wrenched my gaze away from her watery eyes and looked through the window to see the man paying for his DVD from a thick wad of American bills. I clenched my teeth and walked away.
I quickened my step and soon reached the Internet café where I had come every day for the past week. I found a space next to some more newly rich citizens and logged on to spend a couple of calm and blissful hours chatting to Nat. As much as I lived for this contact, however, it was no longer enough to brighten my day.
As soon as I walked out the door, a familiar frustration returned. I kicked a stone and accidentally sent it whizzing into the gutter past yet another slick New-Russian. He turned and looked angrily at me from the door of his black Landcruiser and I scowled right back at him.
Tim was not due to return from Scotland for another three days, and I spent them waiting. My life was stagnating and I was repeating myself to Nat in ever-gloomier circles. I had nothing new to add and although I tried to be upbeat, I could tell that I wasn’t really succeeding. I knew that Nat loved me, but she was studying for exams and I was beginning to get the feeling that she could better spend her time elsewhere.
I hadn’t moved in ten days and the lack of exercise combined with a diet of greasy, unhealthy food had left me feeling unfit and sleeping badly. I couldn’t remember what it was like to have a clear thought and I’d forgotten the enjoyment of the simple cycling lifestyle that I loved. In ten days, I’d hardly learnt a thing about Russia or its people. The waiting was killing me. It was a waste, not only of time, but also of the life that was waiting for me back in Australia.
The day before Tim returned, I hit rock bottom. I seriously considered chucking it all in and flying home but in the end decided to delay the decision. As much as I wanted to be back with Nat, I knew that it would be hard for me to return to her knowing that I’d failed. Besides, Tim and I had long ago decided that we’d ride the next leg – 800 kilometres to Novosibirsk – alone. I’d decide whether to continue or not when we got there.
I thought about Tim and what he would have gone through in Scotland. How would he be dealing with the death of a close friend? I tried to empathise but found it hard. The friends I’d had in high school had mostly drifted away. And what about facing up to the idea that it was suicide? Did that change everything, too?
When Tim returned I could see immediately that his thoughts were far away. We went through the greetings and catching up, but his replies were stilted and automatic. He was looking blank, tired and uninspired.
He told us about the experience of Bruce’s funeral while Misha helped himself to a large bottle of expensive whiskey that Tim had bought in Scotland. It was only eight in the morning, but he got rolling drunk and soon lost interest in listening to Tim. He turned his attention to his wife and started abusing her, instead.
We decided that we’d leave early the next day and that we’d think about splitting up later on. But early, when it came around, turned out to be 4.30 p.m. Tim, who was easily distracted at the best of times, was in another world and he could only do one thing at a time. If he was drawn into a conversation during a meal, even as a listener, he would hold a forkful of food hovering in mid-air until the talk stopped. Then he would return his attention to eating. I knew that I should be tolerant and understanding; I wanted to be, but after half an hour my best efforts were exhausted and I was back to being pissed off with him.
Finally, we said goodbye. I was grateful to my hosts, Natasha and Dima, for their hospitality and sorry that I’d probably been a less-than-ideal guest, but I had no regrets whatsoever about leaving Omsk. Once we made it out onto the road, I pedalled faster and faster. Tim was somewhere behind and I knew he was going to be angry that I’d raced ahead, but somehow I couldn’t help myself. I felt a desperate need to get away from the city. It was a place where I’d felt more trapped and frustrated than ever before in my life, and I didn’t stop to wait for Tim until the last of the tall apartment blocks had passed and I was well and truly into the countryside.
———
Away from the city, the black cloud that had been hovering over me lifted a little, but there was still no room for enthusiasm. Tim was dragging a chain of low morale too; and after riding in silence for an hour, he tried to explain how he was feeling.
‘Bruce’s death … it was so pointless and he threw so much away. But somehow I can feel that he’s still there and that he’s telling me to cheer up and enjoy it because there’s just so much here to live for. It’s what he’s always said, that’s how he lived life himself. And now …’
I could understand up to a point, but as I’d never known Bruce I could only dredge a little bit of consolation from my own dispirited gloom.
We camped late in a small birch forest and the sky, which had been grey and threatening all day, now let forth a steady downpour of soaking, humid rain. Tim wasn’t interested in food, and I decided that I couldn’t be stuffed cooking dinner just for myself. Instead, we lay in the tent, sweating and exhausted. We were way too close and well inside each other’s personal space when, ideally, we should have been alone. I mentioned my thoughts about chucking it in and flying home and Tim, after thinking about it for a minute, told me what I should have known all along.
‘You’re here, mate, so you’re obviously riding this next stage. And I’m sorry, but just at the moment I’ve got too much else on my mind to really get my head around that sort of thing and talk sensibly about it. Can’t we talk about it later?’
‘I hate it that you always disagree with just about everything I bloody say!’ Tim told me.
I conceded that he had a point, but explained that this was because I felt that most of his opinions were couched in sweeping generalisations and were said in a tone that really offended me.
Tim told me he understood that my regular stormy moods were a result of missing Nat, but criticised me for almost always letting them spill over onto him. There was something to that and it worried me. I knew it really wasn’t fair on Tim and I tried to explain.
‘I really am sorry that it seems like that, mate, but it’s when I constantly have to stuff around waiting for you that I miss Nat the most. And that’s when I wish like hell that I was back home!’
We carried on, until the early hours of the morning, when we simply ran out of things to say. We agreed to work on things and to try to compromise, then slumped into bed. After two emotionally draining weeks, things had come to a definite head. The argument had been civilised, but the personal criticisms we’d levelled at each other had been honest and we’d covered topics that had previously been taboo. The steady disintegration of our friendship had been checked. Hopefully, the journey could still be rescued. We slept late the next day and didn’t get going till the middle of the afternoon. Tim was subdued and I was still feeling brain dead, but at the same time I was more enthusiastic about the journey than I had been for a long time. We struggled back onto the road, then set off along the bitumen under a clear summer sky.
We were taking the back route to Novosibirsk, which meant over two weeks of cycling along minor roads from one out-of-the-way village to the next. The map showed a myriad of place names and connecting lanes scattered evenly across a vast flat plain. It soon became obvious that the author of the map (which screamed ‘reliable’ in big red letters) had never set foot in the region and had been indulging in a bit of make-believe. Occasionally, we tried to follow roads that were marked but had never been built, and sometimes vice versa. Mostly, we were simply baffled by villages either inaccurately named or marked. This, together with the fact that none of the minor roads were signposted, made navigating a frustrating challenge.