Chin Up, Head Down

by Helena Tym

  My mother, brothers, sister and I arrived at a little rented cottage in Bledington in the Cotswolds. My father didn’t come with us - instead he flew to South Africa looking for work. Six months later we moved again as the lease had run out on the cottage, but it was only sixteen miles away to Stanton. By this time Dad was back in England, and had found work at the Maudsley Hospital in London.

  By the end of the six-month lease in Stanton, he had bought a house in Henley-on-Thames, Oxfordshire. It was here, in Henley, that I was at my happiest. I made friends at school, had a part-time job in the local sweetshop, went to the youth club twice a week, and felt I had gained some kind of freedom and independence. Life outside my family became very important, as Dad was rarely at home, and Mum had private patients in the house most evenings.

  Rob and I got to know each other through school and the youth club. We became good friends and slowly a relationship developed. He was exciting - so different from anyone I’d ever met before. Our home lives were completely different - mine seemingly restricted, his free and full of wildlife. A crow called Grunt, a ferret called Jasper, a one-winged rook who lived in the shed at the side of his house and only came out for food or to chase the postman; guinea pigs, chickens, gerbils and a kestrel. He would catch slowworms during the summer and keep them in tanks. His garden and house reminded me of the TV programme ‘Steptoe and Son’, full of random sheds and part of an old Bedford van made into an aviary where Rob kept zebra-finches, budgies and canaries.

  Rob would wake at dawn and walk for miles through the woods around Henley - he loved nature and wildlife. At weekends we would meet and Rob would teach me to ride his motorbike in the woods. Sometimes he would go night-fishing on the Thames with friends, and I would sneak out of my house, which was just a few streets from the river, to join them, making sure I was back in the morning before Mum noticed I was missing. He was not the sort of person my parents would have liked me to be with; they would have preferred an A-level student with the promise of a university place - instead I had fallen for a wild boy who rarely went to school, rode motorbikes and kept ferrets.

  My happiness was short-lived. The summer before I turned sixteen I was told that once I’d finished my O Levels we would be moving to Sydney, Australia where Dad had already set himself up with a job and, unbeknown to us, had also found a flat for, and installed his English girlfriend. The fact that Rob and I had already become a couple was not taken into consideration, nor were the feelings of the rest of the family; he made us move anyway. I was losing faith in him. My brothers and sister had been dispatched to boarding schools, and Mum and I were left to fend for ourselves (he left the family home three months after we arrived), in a country I had no wish to be in. I began to stop loving him. I was dreadfully unhappy.

  After two and a half years in Sydney, Dad decided he wanted Ben to be educated in England, and once he had been accepted at Harrow, Mum returned with Sam and Mione (both aged fifteen), to start again. She bought a house in Cambridge so that she could be halfway between Ben in Harrow and Sam in Oundle, Peterborough. Mione went to the local comprehensive school. I, by this time, had left home and was living in a rented house, so was not included in this move back to England, and continued working as a secretary for another eighteen months. I saved enough money for a one-way ticket. This time the decision to move was mine. I took advantage of the fact that Mum was living in England, booked myself on a plane and moved in with her.

  Rob and I had always kept in touch, even though we had both tried to move on, and had been involved in other relationships while I was in Australia. We were now both single and nervous and we took uncertain steps to see each other again. We had not been together for nearly four years. Rob came up to Cambridge and we went out for dinner. We have not spent more than a week apart since, and I cannot imagine my life without him.

  I wonder now if it was the difficult - and eventually non-existent - relationship I had with my adoptive father that has been the reason I’ve never questioned who my natural father is. I know he was a doctor and that he was handsome and I am sure that Maggie would tell me more if I asked. Sadly, I have lived the past thirty years without the influence of a father-figure, and my children without their grandfather.

  I need Maggie. She has given me balance - having met her I understand now why I am who I am. Why I have strawberry-blonde hair, blue-grey eyes and a blush of freckles over my skin. She gave me up through love and hoped it would give me the chance to be brought up within the stability of a family - something she could not offer herself at that stage of her life. Such an unselfish gesture, considering that she cared for me for the first six weeks of my life while she waited for my new parents to return from South Africa, where they had been working. I wonder if I could have been as brave.

  For the morning of the funeral we thought it a good idea to display some of the numerous photos we’d taken of Cyrus over the years - giving us all a focal point rather than having to make polite conversation. There was nothing to say - we wouldn’t want to talk.

  Our dining room table is an old pine one and we’ve put a piece of toughened glass on the top. Between the table and the glass we put the photos of Cyrus. Cyrus as a baby, as a toddler, on holiday, with dreadful haircuts, at the school prom, with his brothers and friends; all of them painful to look at. In all of them he was smiling. That smile that used to end an argument, that got him out of trouble, that melted hearts, that made him friends, that lit up a room - the smile that breaks my heart every time I see it in a photograph, knowing that I’ll never see it in the flesh again.

  There were some photos that only we had seen. Now we shared them with the people whom we thought should be there before we had to leave and say our last goodbyes. Captured moments of a life that was too short - moments in the life of someone I will miss until I die.

  Ian came dressed in uniform, waiting silently in the corner while we stood awkwardly, trying to have a conversation with our families. Rob’s dad was making a fuss, insisting he should be in the car directly behind us in the cortege. Then there was my mother, taking photographs of Ian in his uniform, and the coffin inside the hearse - why would you want such an awful photograph? It was bizarre, odd people doing odd things and, we felt, behaving inappropriately.

  Then it was time to go. Ian led us to the first car, which he got into with Rob, the boys and me. As we moved off, I noticed our postman standing to attention, and as we joined the main road a police escort appeared. All the lights were changed to green so that we wouldn’t become a target, and so we could have a smooth ride to the Minster. I’d never thought of being a target. I suppose there are those out there who might have wished to do us harm - but the harm had already been done.

  There was quite a crowd outside the Minster. I suppose Friday lunchtime was always going to be busy. We noticed two men in T-shirts and shorts, and both stood to attention. ‘They have got to be soldiers,’ Rob said. No uniforms though - not deemed politically correct I’ve been told; pity we can’t be proud of our forces.

  Inside, the Minster was full to bursting. Even the minstrel’s gallery was overflowing. There were speakers outside too, so those in the street could hear the service. We were to wait and follow the coffin. When the Bearer Party lifted him, it seemed so effortless I wondered how heavy the coffin was. As they approached the West Porch they stopped, lowered the coffin then shuffled through the door, and lifted his coffin back on to their shoulders. R. Kelly’s ‘If I could turn back the hands of time’ started and the intake of breath was audible from outside. We followed. The church was cold - or maybe it was just me. I tried to detach myself, as if I was in a dream. There were so many people - not an empty pew.

  They gently lowered his coffin with its Union Flag, his cap, his belt and five white roses on to the stand at the end of the nave, in front of the choir stalls. The pulpit was on the left and we sat in the front pew on the right hand side. I have no idea what th
e order of service was - I just kept looking at the coffin, unable to take in the fact that he was lying in there. It looked so lonely - I wanted to hug it, put my hand on it, and tell him it was ok, we were here. I couldn’t. I had to be brave. I had to be strong.

  Major Mark Owen, whom we’d first met at the Hilton Hotel in Swindon, stood and talked about Cyrus’s career in the Army, quoting from the eulogy written by Colonel Rob Thomson. They were words I’d read on the MoD site - words that meant so much and yet were meaningless because we’d lost him. Another soldier stood and read from a piece of paper. I didn’t recognise him, and he seemed to be struggling to read the words. I thought that perhaps the writing was bad.

  Then it was Steely’s turn. Both he and Zac had written something on the night that we learned of Cyrus’s death. I didn’t know what they had written prior to this - it was just so courageous of them to stand in that church and say those words to Cyrus and the congregation. We’d told them before in the car that if they couldn’t manage it, the Canon would read for them. ‘No-one is going to read this but me. If I can’t do it then they won’t be heard,’ Zac said through gritted teeth. He had also elected to read his piece last.

  When the time came they both stood there, our boys, and read with such pride and in such clear voices, those last precious words to their brother, telling him how much he meant to them, how much they were going to miss him, how proud of him they were and how much they loved him.

  Not a dry eye. Tissues being passed along and behind, noses being blown discreetly. So much pain - so many of the pews taken up by the young. No real comprehension of what was happening. I didn’t cry, I just smiled at the coffin and thought that he would so liked to have seen this. A Minster full of family and friends, uniforms and pride. I knew the tears would come - but not here.

  Then ‘Ave Maria’ sounded through the speakers and we stood, and followed his coffin out to the waiting hearse. The bell tolled and there was a slight cooling breeze on this warm June day. Captain Richard Sellars took my arm as we watched the Bearer Party slide the coffin into the back of the hearse. Captain Sellars - another nice man whom I wish I’d met under different circumstances. He helped us into the waiting car and then we were whisked away through the green lights towards the cemetery. I have no idea how long it took to get there. Shock had set in.

  There is a small military graveyard at the cemetery, which is only a quarter of a mile from our house, and this is where our precious treasure was to be buried. I’d not even realised there was one there and I was surprised to learn that there are not these plots in every cemetery across the country. No-one had been buried there since the end of World War II, but now our son was going to join those who went before. The first to be buried there in over sixty years.

  We walked behind him, through the corridor of the Firing Party. There, behind a low hedge, was a gash in the earth that would soon be filled with my flag-draped child. We stood inside the hedge, facing a sea of people; pale, weeping, crying, all dressed in black, and most wearing sunglasses. Some stood behind us, sobbing quietly into soggy tissues.

  The prayers were said and slowly, so slowly, the Bearer Party folded the Union Flag almost as if they were performing a ballet, each movement precise, each movement making it smaller, each movement steeped in history and tradition. His cap and belt were removed from the top of the coffin, and they gently lowered him into the ground to the sound of gunfire. Even though I knew they were going to fire their weapons I jumped, as did everyone else. My heart completely broke and then I couldn’t stop the tears.

  Colonel Nick Parker, whom we’d first met at Lyneham, moved forward. I knew that he was going to give me the folded flag, cap and belt. ‘Help me please. I don’t think I can hold it on my own,’ I whispered to Rob. He didn’t catch what I was saying and I had to repeat it. He helped me lift my arms and together we received these items - the symbols of his job, symbols of his life and symbols of our loss.

  The Canon then approached with a silver bowl which held some of the earth that had been removed during the digging of Cyrus’s grave. He put my hand into it and led me towards the hole, telling me I must throw a handful on to the coffin. The hole was so deep, and he seemed so far away. I didn’t want to do it but everyone was watching; it was so quiet, it was so final. The dirt landed with a thud, and I thought I might just jump in too, one more time to be close, one last moment. Rob and the boys came next, their handfuls on top of mine, then it seemed that the whole crowd moved as one and took a grain of earth, throwing it in together with dozens of roses. So many people came and hugged us - people I had not seen for years, people whose names I couldn’t remember, faces I couldn’t place.

  There were other people there too - those we had asked to be told of his death, knowing they would want to pay their last respects. There were people who had only known him as a soldier, trained him - made him into a man. One of these was Corporal Pete Bevan, whom we’d first met at an open day in Bassingbourn, twelve weeks after we had left Cyrus waiting at the bus stop, at the start of his basic training. The second time we met Corporal Bevan was at Cyrus’s Passing Off Parade, when we had spent a long time talking to him and Captain Emily Stokes, realising that they had a lot a respect for each other not just as soldiers, but as people. I don’t know how often training personnel and trainees become friends, but I’m sure had Cyrus lived they would have kept in touch. We had asked Richard Sellars if they both could be contacted. Captain Emily Porter was on tour in Afghanistan when she heard of Cyrus’s death; we received a letter from her.

  FMCC

  JFSp (A)

  Op HERRICK 10

  09 Jun 09

  Dear Mr and Mrs Thatcher,

  I wish to express my condolences at this immensely difficult time. Having had the great honour to have been your son’s Platoon commander during his basic training at ATR Bassingbourn, I know that his loss will be sorely felt by all who had the pleasure in knowing him.

  In all the time I served at ATR Bassingbourn, your son Cyrus has remained in my memory as the greatest of characters, with his extremely infectious enthusiasm and cheery demeanour, no matter how bad the weather or how arduous the task in hand. He never failed to lift the spirits of all those around him and was one of the most considerate young men I have ever had the pleasure to meet. Always completely dedicated, he had the admirable ability to take everything into his stride, making him a fine example to all others. His love of you all was in much evidence and I believe this helped make him the exceptional young man that he was.

  I realise my words cannot ease the pain you are all feeling, but I hope that in knowing others’ thoughts are with you, it may go some way to helping ease some of your sorrow.

  With sincere regards

  Emily

  Capt EJ Porter (nee Stokes).

  We were touched and honoured that she was able to attend.

  We had also asked if Serjeant Leon Smith (Smudge); who had been injured by the explosion that killed Cyrus, and was here in England receiving treatment, would be able to speak at the service on behalf of 10 Platoon, as he had been the Section Leader on the day. We’d been told by the Army this might not be possible due to his injuries and state of mind, given the subsequent injuries and losses suffered by 10 Platoon.

  Captain Richard Sellars led us towards the soldier who had spoken at the Minster, and introduced him to us. He was Serjeant Smith, so now it made sense - why he had struggled with the words in the church. They were his words; he had been there, had seen it all. He had stepped up to the mark, done it, and despite his own pain he had decided to honour our son, his platoon and all those who couldn’t be here. In typical ‘soldier’ style, he hadn’t shied away from what must have been a harrowing ordeal. He did so well to keep in control. Pain was etched into his face - the agony of having to meet us like this, to see one of his men laid to rest, to know about Paul - and to be here safe when hi
s men were still out there, still having to face the fear of the unknown, and the fear of the known. We embraced and thanked him for being there, embarrassed that we’d not known who he was earlier. He just smiled his shy, sad smile and I felt a huge affection for him.

  I’m not sure what happened next. Everything was a tear-streaked blur. I only remember being helped back into the car and driven home. We’d asked everyone who had met at the house earlier to come, collect their cars and go. We had decided against a wake (the boys’ friends had already been to see us and toast Cyrus), and didn’t want lots of people drinking, eating, and talking about times gone past mixed in with laughter and plans for the future. What is our future? How do we plan? Why should I laugh? How dare they? No, that’s not fair - our pain is different from theirs, but they can go home and get on with their lives. We have to learn how to live our new one.

  I think by the evening most of the local pubs had kicked out the funeral rabble and run out of Sambuca. I’m glad for them - that they held their own wake and had the opportunity to be together in their sorrow. I didn’t have the energy to host one, and I’ve always thought they were ever so slightly disrespectful.

  I wanted a cigarette. I’ve not smoked since I was twenty-five, but right then I could have demolished a whole packet. I didn’t, I knew it was just a feeling that would pass, but the thought was comforting for a moment. I lay on the bed and slept. What do we do now?

  Five days later, Rob and I summoned the strength to go to Paul Mervis’s funeral. I’m sure I saw the Mervises in the Minster, but my mind plays tricks. Later, in a letter, his mother Margaret said, ‘If only we could turn back the hands of time,’ and then I knew they had been there for Cyrus. It’s strange that we felt the need to go to this funeral - not to witness the pain of others but from the urge to show just how much this man we’d never met meant to us. We went for the Platoon, we went for Cyrus, we went for ourselves and we went for Paul’s family. Part of me is glad that Cyrus never had to witness this awfulness; he will never know the agony of having to say goodbye to a loved one.