Chapter Eighteen
Death Isn’t Closure
The white Anglia sits in my grandad’s rented storage garage. I sit in the car wishing I could get the tape deck to power up but my lack of automobile knowledge leads me to believe that simply inserting the key into the ignition will result in the car going from nought to sixty straight through the garage doors. I’ve even brought a tape with me, a mixed tape I made for Deb when we first started dating. The sentiment was lost on her. Why would a guy make her a mixed tape when she didn’t have or know anyone who would still have a tape player? Because it’s more romantic than a CD. A mixed tape isn’t a casual collection of tunes, it’s crafted. You don’t download songs and drag and drop them onto a flash drive. You rummage around your personal collection, opening the CD cases, fingering through the booklet. You slide out the vinyl from its sleeve just to feel its sleek yet uneven surface in your hand, reminiscing about the first time you heard that particular song; the song that stopped being music and became emotion as the notes made their way over to you from the speakers. It’s knowing when to hit play and record at the same time, so that you don’t get the end of the previous track, and hit stop before the next one begins - a mixed tape is a show of dedication. We made out for hours and screwed more than once yet when she left, the tape stayed on the coffee table.
The time is ten to twelve, ten minutes until the end of the year. In ten minutes the whole country will get very excited about another year having passed us by. Oh, New Year’s Eve, why so giddy? I was asked to four different venues tonight, go figure, an arsehole like me getting four different groups of people wanting me to join them for the last of the festivities? And here I am alone in a dusty old car too scared to turn on the radio. I was actually on my way to see my grandad again, then thought better of it knowing that mum and as many family members as she could amass will have journeyed there to sing Auld Lang Syne with him for the last time. Already on my way there and not wanting to be anywhere, I felt the keys to the car and the lock-up in my coat pocket, along with a Bassett’s Black Jack Chew that I quickly unwrapped, with little joy, and popped it into my mouth with most of its wrapper still attached. Finding the keys gave me somewhere to go where no one would look, though maybe those four invites are starting to make me a tad egotistical. At ten to twelve on New Year’s Eve no one is in the slightest bit concerned where I’m at.
Within a maximum of six hours Christmas will be done. Oh, some people may leave their decorations up way past the fifth, that’s laziness not relentless Christmas spirit. Some see the January sales as a part of the festive motif - they are not. What they are is the last nail in the coffin, a corporate death rattle. At a time when the last thing anyone wants or needs to do is buy more shit, the shops slash their prices to force us into doing just that. They use that term, too - ‘slashing’ – ‘We’re slashing our prices!’ What a metaphor for the cutting of one’s wrists, staged corporate suicide; staged meaning it’s an act: ‘Boo woo, we’ve ripped you all off in the run up, and now it’s all done with, no one wants to shop.’ It really is just a cry for help.
5, 4, 3, 2, yay… it’s not a ‘do over’ no matter what your resolutions are, it’s just another lick of paint on the tragedy.
The car is the past, dusty and unused and that is where I sit, in the past. Re-enacting days long since gone, playing out the scenarios in my head, a changed act would change everything. If I had kissed that girl in the darkroom when I was fifteen would we have fallen madly in love? No, but I’d have been a better kisser when I did finally kiss a girl at age seventeen. If I had gotten into sports back in school, would I now be able to have a normal conversation with another male? Yes, but I’d hate myself for it. If I had learnt the guitar back when I bought one, would I now be an alternative folk singer who only plays in small dark clubs down the back streets of Europe that only the hip people know about? No, at best I’d be a session man for one of those famous teens who have none of the qualities needed to be in the music scene, but do so very well in the music industry. If, if, if… If drunks were princes the country would be bankrupt due to the royal commission.
With a new year born, a new year to stumble through, Noel Winters lies stone cold sober in the back of a white Ford Anglia with a red racing stripe. He lies in a foetal position, the sounds of the cold, dead engines roaring in his imagination. Sleep finds him in the darkness and to slumber he goes, almost back in the womb.
Grandad died four days later. I saw him in the hospital, held his hand; neither of us able to talk for different reasons, but I was not there when he passed away. My brother was, he said that our grandfather turned his head to look at him and then he was gone. I felt jealous at hearing this, jealous that my brother got to be the last thing my grandad saw. What a stupid thought. I’m sure my brother would have happily traded that moment with me so he did not have to see his father figure die right in front of him.
At mum’s her Christmas decorations are already down. This is not out of respect as she always has them boxed and back in the loft by noon on January first. My brother’s there minus his offspring and spouse. My sister is absent for a reason that she gave and I now forget, but the truth is she is Clive’s daughter from another marriage so she was not a blood relative of my grandad’s and hence felt no need to join us in our loss. Naturally, Mum and Clive are there and Hannah, too. Hannah sits in my mother’s lap weeping; Mum also allows her eyes to rain, but even with all the crying the two are fairly quiet - Hannah shakes from time to time but barely a whimper is audible. The rest of us sit in silence longing to do anything that may occupy our thoughts: switch on the radio or TV; read the paper; gouge out our eyes. We dare not as the ambience of the room forbids it, so we sit there, moving as little as possible and remain silent. My brother breaks rank.
“We should play that Nat King Cole song, that one he used to sing to Gran.”
“Pretend, that’s a good idea,” Mum agrees. Pretend is the name of the song, she isn’t saying that we should pretend that the suggestion is a good idea.
Grandad used to sing lots of songs to Gran and I now find it hard to pick out this one. A flood of Nat King Cole lyrics wash over my brain to the point of not being able to differentiate the individual songs. Like a mass of tangled black electrical wires I know what I am seeing but haven’t the foggiest idea what goes where.
My inability to recall a song that I must have heard sung innumerable times leads me to conclude my mental block is my psyche’s way of preserving itself. This puts the fear of God in me; fear that this tune could in some way physically harm me, could be my end.
Mum stands still cradling Hannah, who has dropped into sleep. She walks over to Clive and lowers Hannah down into his lap, my sister does not stir. Emotions this deep are not for the young, it is draining and with Jonathan still in the hospital my little Hannah Banana is drowning in thoughts someone so small shouldn’t even know. Hannah thinks too much like me; at my age too many bad thoughts simply lead to bitterness, whereas at her age they lead to an abyss of nightmares. Sleep, my little beauty, stay away from this as long as you can.
“I think I’ll go put the kettle on,” says Mum.
She retreats to the kitchen, not to make drinks but to have a private moment of grief. We all hear her sobbing through the wall even though she tries to muffle the sound with a tissue. If life is a war then Mum has been moved up to the frontline and to be on the frontline means you have no parents standing by to protect you. Fifty-two years old and orphaned. I allow her some time to weaken under this almighty sadness and then go to her aid. The cups sit empty on the counter top, the kettle not switched on, she stands facing the cupboards, eyes closed tight as if opening them would allow the awful truth back in. Her hands hold onto the counter edge firmly, like it’s the only thing holding her up.
“Mum?”
“I’m fine. I can make a couple of sodding teas.”
“I’m not here to help make the teas.”
She collapses into
an embrace, her damp face against the right side of my upper chest. Fluid pours from her; tears and snot stream into a river of one, saliva sprays from her mouth like the hot embers of a freshly poked fire. Disgusted? I would have been quite sickened if I merely heard this as an anecdote, yet I remain steady - in fact I hold her closer. I’m not the emotionless husk I thought, I feel the pain around me as though I were hugging a porcupine, it’s not a lack of emotion it’s a lack of showing emotion. If a tree falls in the forest and no one sees, who gives a damn whether it makes a sound? The important thing is to take note that it has fallen. My lack of tears shows strength not in a ‘boys don’t cry’ way, but by not showing the pain myself I’m showing I have the strength to hold up those around me, to take on the burden of their pain. This was a power my grandad had; I never saw him cry but I saw him many a time holding and caring for those who were weeping through loss and hurt. When there is a death do we all move forward taking on new roles within the family unit, new roles that fill in the blanks of life’s journey? I hope not, I’m doing ok with this moist hug for now but I in no way want my grandfather’s place. I’m way too selfish to be so selfless.
“I need to tell you something,” says mum as she wipes her face down.
“Need to?”
“Yes, it’s your Aunt Lilith.”
“God, what’s she up to? Is she trying to get a lax Protestant into a Catholic funeral?”
“No, though I’m sure she would if she could. The thing is, Noel, as she’s the oldest she’s the main signatory on your grandad’s will.”
“Which means?”
“She decides who gets what.”
The car, I’ve lost the car. The last act my grandad did was to give me those keys to tell me the car was mine. He passed over the car to me while that bitch watched and now she’s going to rob me of it.
Mum explains that Lilith is intending to sell the house and split the money made between the four sisters, that being my aunts and my mum. Everything else will be put into an auction to raise money for the Church. This includes the car.
“Raising money for the Church, the Catholic Church? One of the richest, most powerful organisations in the world? What next? A fun run for Bill Gates or a bake sale for Prince Al-Waleed bin Talal?”
“Who?”
“He’s a rich Arab.”
“Love, I know it’s awful, but…”
“And so I’ve got to buy my inheritance, no, worse I’ve got to help support a bigoted cult to get my inheritance. The good news is there is no way in hell that I can afford it so they won’t get a penny from me.”
“I was talking to Clive and we’ll lend you the money to buy the car.”
“Mum, it’s a 1966 Ford Anglia in mint condition. I’m guessing it’s going to be in the thousands.”
“Oh.”
Returning to the silence of the front room, drinks in hand, my mourning has been eclipsed by a rage of anger or annoyance or a thick slice of both. I can’t stop thinking of that evil bitch. What is it about religious nutters? I wouldn’t half mind if the money was going to something a little more useful like a shelter that spays and neuters cats, not to be spent on concealing paedophilic priests. Christians and their Church, they have a habit of thinking that spreading the message is more important than acting like a Christian. Charity and forgiveness, those are noble Christian acts. Giving money to the Church isn’t charity it’s an attempt at greasing the palms of God, and by forgiveness I mean forgiving the failings of others not your own, you tight-fisted ol’ hag.
My hate brews and my brew goes cold. I need to clear my thoughts and so, after kissing my mum on the cheek, rubbing a sleeping Hannah on the head, I step out into the cold. What a time to give up fags and beer. Are you sure that’s what you want your dying wish to be my ‘mate’? I’ll trade masturbation for a shot and a long hard drag right about now. I mimic taking a puff from an invisible cigarette; blowing out my frosty breath substitutes the smoke. Knowing that I could repeat this childish action back in my freezing cold flat, I turn in the opposite direction and head for a wander to wherever and back again.
British Winters Page 18