by Helena Tym
How can someone who didn’t live here all the time, leave such a massive hole in our very being? Is it the fact that we will never hear his voice again - never again have to collect him from the airport or train station? Is it that we will never see those blue eyes, and hear his laugh or feel the pressure of his chest against us in a hug? It’s all those things and so much more - so very much more.
I think the numbness is wearing off. I’m finding myself having more and more bad days. I thought that they would decrease, not increase, as time went on. It’s the not sleeping and the nightmares that wear me down lately. I dream of him every night. Last night I dreamed that we were in Ireland and that the platoon was sitting in chairs in front of us, rather like they all used to do for the school class photo. Cyrus was there in the middle row, looking pale and his hair was all over the place, but he kept smiling at me, saying that it was all ok, that he would still get his medal. He was thin and slight, looked tired. I knew even in my dream that he was dead but he still kept smiling at me with tired blue eyes that had lost their sparkle. How can I be having conversations with the ghost of my dead son? Why is it him that’s telling me everything will be ok? The face in my dream was the face I saw in the coffin - only this time his eyes were open. I used to think that people who talked to the dead were delusional, and now I find I’m right there among them.
Our neighbour has cut the bottom of the Russian vine that was growing in an oak in the hedgerow at the bottom of our gardens. It has died off now, but when the sun catches it, it is exactly the same colour as Cyrus’s hair, red, golden and bronze, and maybe even a little dark brown or black. It’s unruly too, just as his was in the coffin. He was so particular when it came to his hair that it seems strange, the last time I saw him, that he’d let it get that way. He would spend ages with gel and wax trying to get his barely two-centimetre-long hair looking perfect. He was very proud of his looks - took great care of himself. Our local hair-dresser would understandably shudder as he walked in, with his hair already short and immaculate, expecting a haircut he could leave the shop with that would make him look even better. She knew what he was like as they had known each other for years, he and her son were very good friends, and had been at secondary school together - he too was very meticulous about his appearance.
1st May 2009 - Afghanistan
I think I’ve stopped burning, I’m slowly going brown and my hair is getting ridiculous - just wait till I come home I’ll look like a fucking Wooky!
I suppose when you’re fighting a war it doesn’t really seem relevant to make sure your hair looks good. Strange, but it makes me stop and catch my breath sometimes when I look out of the window at that vine. I feel the need to stuff my hands into my mouth again.
Chapter 6: Wootton Bassett
When Cyrus last came home on leave he brought with him a pair of khaki shorts and an Op Herrick 2008/9 T-shirt with The Rifles insignia on the front, and on the back, in large black letters, the word ‘Rifles’ where a picture of a sniper rifle is used as the letter ‘I’. Op Herrick is the codename under which all British operations in the war in Afghanistan have been conducted since 2002. The shorts he gave to Zac and the T-shirt to Rob. The first time Rob wore that T-shirt was the day after we were told Cyrus had been killed. He wore it for the newspaper photographs, he wore it when we went to Lyneham and he wore it when we went down to Wootton Bassett for the first time to join the masses and pay our respects on 16th June, when Lieutenant Paul Mervis of 2nd Battalion, The Rifles and Private Robert McLaren of The Black Watch, 3rd Battalion The Royal Regiment of Scotland were repatriated.
Captain Richard Sellars commented on the T-shirt when we first met him at the hotel the evening before Cyrus was repatriated, and it was how he recognised us among the crowds of mourners that lined the streets in that small town in Wiltshire.
It seemed as though thousands of people had turned up - many different uniforms worn by young and old - Riflemen from 1 Rifles, soldiers from The Black Watch with their black uniforms, the British Legion with their standards, bikers who were ex-servicemen and women all in their leathers, covered in badges. It was almost a carnival atmosphere - but not quite, these are people who want to show their support and sorrow; this amazing town gives them the chance to do just that. All are there for one reason and one reason only - to pay their final respects to fallen heroes; to throw flowers, shed tears and pray for those lost and those families who were now lost.
It is moving stuff, here on the main road through a small town. People are gathered who are proud to be British - and acutely proud of these young men and women who have made the ultimate sacrifice, in order that they can continue to live in peace, in a democratic society without fear. These people of Wootton Bassett have been honoured by the Queen in recognition of their selfless actions. I wonder how much grief one town can witness without feeling the need to let others share the burden. I get the feeling that they do this with immense pride, and I thank them all for being there when Cyrus came home. What a magnificent gesture - what magnificent people. They too will be forever in my thoughts.
My tears that day were not just for the men in those coffins, but for the families that will be forever broken - not able to hold their loved ones again, not able to share their lives with them. For all those whose faces are etched with the agony of loss - so many young people, people who do not really understand what they are witnessing, completely unable to comprehend why they are watching their brothers and friends coming home in boxes.
12th May 2009 - Afghanistan
On some much sadder news, one of our Rifleman died a few days back, we had a parade and a few minutes’ silence. It’s so strange how many emotions you go through living in these conditions - its like everything wants to beat you and re-win your day. Its about not letting it get to you and don’t worry nothing fucking gets to me. Well I’m off. I love you all loads and thanks for my parcels and letters. Lots of love xxx
The bell tolled and all fell silent. I don’t even remember hearing any birdsong - almost as though they know the significance of this. We stood with the Legion at the Memorial, craning our necks to catch a glimpse of the top-hatted procession leader walking in front of the cortege.
We could hear only-just-audible gasps and sobs as they came ever closer. My skin was covered in goose-bumps and my mouth took on its familiar dryness as my tears fell at the sight of the wave of complete misery coursing through the crowd. Then there they were - those hearses with their precious cargo, draped in Union Flags, the vehicles covered in roses thrown from the kerbside. It was almost unbearable. I felt as though I was being strangled. I don’t know how much suffering one person can take.
I used to have a brain that worked, but now the door has shut and I can’t find the way out. I forget things these days - mundane things, but not the painful things. The brain has a strange way of filing things away - all the painful thoughts are at the front, ready to jump out when you least expect it.
How am I? I wish I knew. I feel the need to write, and yet I’m not sure if it will lead anywhere or if it will ultimately help me - or anyone else for that matter. I just need to get the thoughts out of my head to relieve the pressure. If I write the words down, then they are preserved. If I just say them then they are gone once the sound stops. I know that even in this awfulness I don’t want to lose them - I’ve lost too much already.
I don’t really want to remember the horror of all this, but I do know that in the months to come I will re-read this and realise that I’ve come a long way - that hopefully I’ve not gone completely mad. How many women actually remember the exact pain of childbirth? We can’t, or surely we would only ever have one child. So in a way, if I don’t write this down, how will I know the exact pain of the death of a child? I don’t want to remember the pain - it’s just that I’m scared I’ll forget.
For the past four years I have worked as the coordinator for Headway South Bucks,
a small charity that runs a day centre and respite relief, in Bourne End Buckinghamshire, for people with acquired brain injuries, and their families and carers. One of our clients was a man from Sunderland called Kevin. He once told me the story of how he got his brain injury. He and some friends won an amount on the Lottery, but while out celebrating their win, a car mounted the pavement and Kevin was hit. He always used to say, ‘Be careful what you wish for, hinney.’ And at the time I thought how sad it was to have good luck one second, only for it to bring bad the next. I think I know what he meant now. Life needs to be lived here and now, not wishing for things to be different - money, job, friends - it takes its own twists and turns without you wishing to change it. If you do wish for change, it might not come in the form you’d hoped for.
I don’t think I’d wished for a different life. I know now that if I had, for every action there is a reaction, and I suppose not always the one you want. Perhaps we lose those we love for a reason - those with religion would say it was ‘God’s will’. I don’t believe that for a second, but I do wonder why Cyrus had to die so young, when there was so much more for him to achieve in this life.
We are all here for such a short time anyway, so I don’t know why his time was cut shorter than others’. The unfairness of it all is overwhelming. I hate this lonely road, but I know I don’t walk it alone - I share it with Rob, Zac and Steely.
We went to Wootton Bassett a second time on 14th July 2009, to pay our respects to the eight British soldiers who had been killed in a twenty-four-hour period in Afghanistan the week before. We stood in stunned silence as the eight coffins came past. The sorrow runs so deep, there are no words that can describe the sadness. Five of them were from 2nd Battalion, The Rifles: Corporal Jonathan Horne, Rifleman William Aldridge, Rifleman James Backhouse, Rifleman Joseph Murphy and Rifleman Daniel Simpson; Rifleman Daniel Hume of 4th Battalion the Rifles, Private John Brackpool, Prince of Wales’ Company, 1st Battalion Welsh Guards and Corporal Lee Scott of 2nd Royal Tank Regiment. All young, all with their whole lives ahead of them - all died doing a job they loved within the fold of a family far larger than ours. They had such courage - it was such a shame... such an awful way to welcome them home.
On November 10th, Rob went to Wootton Bassett alone to pay his respects. Six more men, six more coffins. Warrant Officer Class 1 Darren Chant, Sergeant Matthew Telford and Guardsman Jimmy Major from the Grenadier Guards, Corporal Steven Boote and Corporal Nicholas Webster-Smith from the Royal Military Police and Serjeant Phillip Scott of 3rd Battalion, the Rifles. Six more soldiers who had paid the ultimate price.
I couldn’t go with Rob as I had been asked to talk to the Year-11 students at Chiltern Edge, where Cyrus had spent - and not spent - his secondary school years. I talked about Cyrus and the fact that he’d not liked school. He had spent his last year attending school three days a week, and working two days a week tiling and building with Rob. This had all been allowed and approved by the school, as to get him to attend three days a week was seen to be better than him dropping out completely. The days with Rob were both very physical and educational, in their own way, but it seemed ridiculous that to have your own son work with you needed approval from Social Services, Health and Safety clearance, and liability insurances. Still, this arrangement helped Cyrus stay on track and take his GCSEs, as he needed them to join the Army. It was difficult to articulate to fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds how it feels to lose a son in this war - and also why I felt it was important that our troops were in Afghanistan, and how I believed we must support our forces. They are, after all, protecting us and our way of life.
The last time we went to Wootton Bassett was on Mothering Sunday, 2010 when, over seven hours, thousands of bikers rode through the town. Official figures claim that 10,500 were there, but I’ve heard it was more likely 15,000. It was so moving, these people from all over the country and some from abroad, here in Wootton Bassett, supporting our men. Where else, except the Cenotaph in London, do so many gather to show solidarity in grief and pride for both those who have died and those left injured? I was humbled by their charity. My hands were sore from clapping, I wanted to thank them personally, but of course that was impossible.
We’ve not been down since. It’s not that I don’t want to go for every single soldier that passes through, but my shoulders are not broad enough to carry the weight of all that grief. My heart has already been ruptured and it can’t take any more.
I have heard that they are going to stop the repatriation ceremony at RAF Lyneham in 2011 and it will move to RAF Brize Norton in Oxfordshire. This will be a great pity as Wootton Bassett has become the country’s focal point for the public to show their respect for our fallen heroes, and I don’t think this could be replicated anywhere else.
Chapter 7: The Funerals
We’d chosen our hymns - chosen the songs that meant most to us, decided on the prayers and Order of Service, been told about how the coffin would be moved from the hearse, how the Bearer Party would have to stop and duck to get through the main door of Reading Minster which is called the West Porch. It is low and narrow, so they would have to shuffle through with the coffin held at waist-height before lifting it on to their shoulders again, once they were inside. I didn’t want to know any of these things. I didn’t want to have to go into town and choose something to wear. Why should I have to pick an outfit to say goodbye to my most precious things? I’m losing my mind and my son at the same time.
Then deciding who will come in the cortege - who will sit in which car. Should we have a wake or just have those in the cortege come to the house beforehand and have coffee? Why am I worrying about old family feuds, what to wear, what time everyone will arrive and how on earth will we spend the night before?
In the event that was decided for us, because Maggie and her husband Fred had booked themselves into The Bull at Sonning, so they could be close for the next day. We went and had dinner with them. I am adopted and Maggie is my natural mother - so much shared and yet a life-time spent apart. We first met when I was seven months pregnant with Cyrus. Maggie had breast cancer and wanted to let me know that there was a possibility it was hereditary. Because mine was a private adoption she knew who my adoptive parents were, so tracking me down was not too difficult. It was peculiar, as I’d always been curious as to who my birth-mother was, and whether I replicated her in any way. I so wish it wasn’t the way it turned out.
Five years after Maggie and I first met, their eldest son Simon died. He was taken from them as suddenly and unexpectedly as Cyrus was from us, due to a brain haemorrhage. So here I was, dealing her another cruel blow - she had lost a son and now a grandson. I’d never understood her pain, but I do now, and I’m sorry that I hadn’t been able to give her the support she needed. Now here she was, being so brave and spending this evening with us, supporting us, empathising with us. It was an immense gesture of love - the ultimate maternal gesture.
I have always known I was adopted. Maggie worked as a nurse alongside my adoptive father, a neurosurgeon, in the north of England. He and his wife - she a doctor too - were unable to have children at that stage, and it seemed only natural for them to adopt me. My early years were full of love. My father moved us to the west coast of America for a couple of years before bringing us back to England where a brother, Sam, and six months later a sister, Hermione, (Mione) were adopted.
By now I felt that their work as doctors had become the focal point of their lives, even though two years after they adopted Sam and Mione they managed to have a natural son of their own, Ben, who was born in Glasgow. By the time Ben was two and I was eight, Dad had relocated us to Toronto in Canada, where we spent nearly four years.
We settled into life on a quiet suburban street, where all the front gardens were open, and as children we played with our friends across all the lawns. One Christmas I was given a golden retriever puppy. I named her Honey - and I loved her more than any friend. Togeth
er with the other neighbourhood children, I would ride up and down the gardens on my bike, with Honey running by my side.
I can see now, that this is where a shift in our family started - subtle changes, hushed arguments. My father began to spend more and more time at work, making it increasingly difficult to obtain and retain his love and attention. I adored him - possibly because he was so aloof, incredibly intelligent, difficult and distant. There were times when I wished I shared his genes - to be as clever as him, to have his drive.
Sam struggled with being adopted. He used to cry at night, and I’d hear him from my room and sneak down to the basement room that he and Ben shared. I would climb up on to the top bunk with him and listen to him as he wrestled with the unknown. Who was he? Where did he come from? Why was he different? Why didn’t he fit in? Feelings of blame and rejection simmered under the surface, and I don’t think I ever managed to reassure him. He is still full of self-doubt, disjointed and unable to fit in - not sure of his role in the world, as he is always wondering who his real parents are. I have never felt like that - I’ve always been self-assured, and confident in the person I am, rather than wondering about the person I might have been, should Maggie never have had to give me away.
One day, when I was eleven years old, I remember Dad coming home and asking me how quickly I could pack a suitcase, putting in only the things I really needed, as we were booked on a flight in the morning to leave Canada for England. I was devastated, Honey was not coming with us, and arrangements had already been made for somebody to collect her in the morning. I spent the night on the floor, under the dining room table with her, and to this day have never known what became of my beloved dog.