A Turn-a-Round in July

Sometimes it is just too painful to go back to a place that holds your life and your story in its busy streets, solid buildings and faraway fields; in its flower bordered lanes, narrow alleyways, ancient church and bustling shops. But this month Matt and I did go back to a pretty village just off the A38, where my adult years and his actual life began- Barton-under-Needwood, Staffordshire.
Paul and I fell in love with the village when we used to drive through it to visit friends, who lived in Yoxall, and, although we had just bought our very first house in Stapenhill, we longed to live and bring our future children up in the peace and the friendliness of this pretty village. Our opportunity came when Stan Clarke began building new properties in Barton and we decided to push ourselves financially and buy the sweetest little semi-detached on what we perceived to be a 'posh' estate- Plot 161. I was pregnant with Mark and quickly began feathering our lovely nest in browns, shag piles, William Morris prints and Denby pottery; the tiny nursery the palest of primrose with shakily sewn yellow gingham curtains, sewn with much love and not a lot of expertise, I'm afraid.

By the time Matt arrived five years after Mark, we had moved into a detached house in a nearby cul de sac, this time decorated in cool blues, Laura Ashley prints and impractical cream carpets. The nursery, too, was blue; Habitat clouds and rainbows this time, as a scan of my 'small for dates' baby had revealed that I was carrying my second son. I loved that house. My big boy and my tiny baby completing our family and filling the house with Star Wars, Lego, Brio train sets, a piano, toy cars by the score and books by their thousand. Good, good times.
I will never be sure whether we reached too far or tried too hard to make the move to the large four bedroom detached just next door. Paul and I were working full time, Mark was at John Taylor, playing rugby, doing really well academically and sports wise, Matt was adorable, quiet, sensitive and incredibly popular. We bought a second car, as money didn't seem so tight, and then....it all went wrong.....terribly wrong and there seemed to be, sadly, no way of scrambling our way back.
I left Barton-under-Needwood to marry David in 2001 but, if I could turn back time, it would be to go back to that second little house, when the present was happy and the future had hope and life had a sense of certainty for a while.

And so, on the Saturday nearest to the 21st July, Matt and I parked at Baron Marina, enjoyed a perfect coffee in the Apple Tree Coffee Shop and set off across the once abandoned grey gravel pits, now a glassy, reed trimmed lake, reflecting noisy ducks on an excursion to look for food. The path led us along the edge of Barton Sports Club where youngsters dodged and wove through their weekly rugby skills. A man, with a familiar walk, shouted encouragement to the boys and was instantly recognised as Matt's uncle, still part of our family, our lives and our story. He was busy so we didn't distract him, but continued our walk. We reached Thomas Russell Junior School and peered through the 'closed for summer' gates. Nothing had changed really. We both remembered sports days, trouble trying to park and summer weekend afternoons in the outdoor pool. As a member of the teaching staff, Paul had a key and we splashed about, shrieking at the cold and then jumping in all over again. We passed the pond where Matt had gone fishing with another of his uncles and where an impulsive Pole had once asked me to marry him. I had said 'yes', but that's another story!

Short Lane made us giggle. It always did because it is anything but.........Paul and I started running down Short Lane in an attempt to get fit, and, in the beginning, we really struggled to run back up more than ten out of breath yards. Where the old Victorian Cottage Hospital and the doctor's surgery used to be, there is now a monstrous, modern building monopolising the lane and the fields behind. It is hideous and almost obliterates the memories of taking Mark to the cottage hospital with a variety of emergencies from dents in his skull where he fell backwards as a baby onto an upturned plug, ( I know.....I know!) to being covered in nettle stings when he fell off his bike into the stream, the trapped finger in the door and a burst lip when he went over the handle bars of his sit and ride truck. I don't remember ever taking Matt there ever. Says it all really.......
Up the alleyway we went (commonly known as dog shit alley) until we arrived on the estate, found each of our three houses, and marvelled at how little had changed over the years.

Matt fondly remembered the tree he used to climb, was pleased that the basketball net his dad put up still graced the wall, and me, well a speeded up cine film flickered the images and memories before me. I sighed, and turned away to find the bungalow Mark rented down the road. How I wished he were still there and we could have called in for a drink and to cut the lawns and tidy up. Maybe, if he had been happier there, he wouldn't have gone back to Taiwan and none of this would have happened.....maybe.

The picturesque Main Street has changed little, with elegant Georgian houses rubbing shoulders with Victorian cottages with their colourful window boxes and Farrow and Ball front doors. We wandered without words towards Dunstall fields and memories of cubs and scouts cross country runs, my Mum and Dad cheering the boys on, sledging down the slopes on slushy snow, tripping over the fields with friends and borrowed dogs, frightening pheasants and aaaahing over newborn lambs. Matt told stories of bunking off school with Mark and heading off across the fields for the afternoon until it was the normal time to nonchalantly stroll in the back door, plonking bags in the doorway, kicking off scuffed shoes and searching for Jammie Dodgers.

Past John Taylor High School, where the boys were pupils, and I taught English on a temporary contract once upon a time. The boys' aunt and uncle also went to the school and it has played a huge part in our story over the years. We headed over the road to the church- St James, built with money left by John Taylor, a triplet, who lived in the village in the 1600s. We took a peek inside to the polished pews, the ancient font, the stained glass stories and the memorial stones seeping their history of Sunday services, marriages, Christenings and solemn funerals, including our boys' Christenings and both of their grandparents' funerals.

We wandered thoughtfully into the church yard. I have always found church yards strangely fascinating, calming and incomprehensibly reassuring. They have a peace of their own and the sad and worthy inscriptions speak of love, loss, respect and honour across the generations. We spent a few quiet moments with Matt's grandparents, sharing stories and making each other smile. Two wonderful people, who brought their Yorkshire bluntness and friendliness to our lives and are very much missed.

We also found the headstone of a former pupil killed on the A38 after a night out in Derby. So sad. I wonder if his mum misses him like I miss Mark. I suspect so, and no doubt her heart breaks on each birthday and anniversary too. And every ordinary day too I suspect.
We retraced our steps back to the car and drove the short distance to the National Memorial Arboretum at Alrewas. I never in a million years thought that somewhere in those vast, carefully designed acres, visited by millions, including Royals and dignitaries, soldiers and airmen, veterans and cadets, there would be a tree and a plaque with my boy's name on it. But there is.....
Mark's funeral was in John Bosco Catholic Church in Taipei. That day it was filled with his friends, his colleagues, football friends and the Chief of the Traffic Department. Oh, and David, Matt, Heather and her family and me, his numb, disbelieving mum. The service was just wonderful and everything a Catholic Mass should be and, for once, my boy was silent and still..........It is Taiwanese tradition that the bereaved are given money in red envelopes and we too were given this token of respect for the departed and the grieving. I'm not sure why, or where, the idea came from but, on the journey home, with Mark's ashes barely cold and cradled on my knee, I knew what I wanted to do with the money. I would put it towards a tree in the Road Peace section of the arboretum. We changed the NTD into sterling and made the arrangements. When the final bill for the tree and the plaque came in, it was the exact amount we had........to the penny. I think that somehow Mark and God approved!

So Matt and I made our way passed impressive monuments of every shape, size, design and inscription and found our silver birch growing straight and true and dancing elegantly in the summer breeze. Mark isn't there. I know that, but I do feel close to him in that place, where his spirit and essence are somehow embodied in the beautiful white bark, the branches reaching out to new horizons and the roots deep and firm......a bit like my wanderlust adventurer, always yearning for something new, but forever linked to us......his mum and his brother, his friends and family.