Sad September Smiles

A sense of humour seems to be a desirable, or even essential quality in job descriptions these days. And, yet, if the media is to be believed, or, if public transport is a microcosm of today's society, then it is sadly missing in the daily grind of work, shopping, parenting, caring, travelling and survival. The luxury of laughter, the time to smile, share jokes, tease and enjoy the company of others, seems to be relegated to evenings in the pub, conversation over dinner, convivial parties or comedic programmes on the TV, or a humorous play or show at the theatre.
But it is true that friends, family members and colleagues, who do possess the ability to find life itself amusing, who have smiles to spare and are happy to share them with others, shine like colourful jewels when the world seems grey and has lost its sparkle. They are able to draw others to them, to warm the soul, relieve the tedium and lighten the atmosphere of the dreary, daily drudge. Rainbow coloured radiators, emanating prisms of pure joy.
My lovely Mum came from Liverpool, a city renowned for its unique sense of humour. Life wasn't always easy for her. She went into service at twelve, a servant girl in the 'big house' in Sefton. She survived an abusive father, abject poverty, the bombings of the Second World War, the pressure of 'piece work' at Raelbrook, sewing ninety two dozen collars daily to earn next to nothing in a brown wage packet on a Friday; she married my Dad, a difficult man at times, and had my brother and myself, which must have been far from easy! She survived a catastrophic stroke, the death of her husband and her beloved grandson and, yet, through it all, she retained the twinkle in those Irish blue eyes and a dry wit, the caustic one liner and everything said through the sweetest smile. She was definitely a treasure, a precious jewel.
Did I inherit that sense of humour? Well, maybe, a paler version that is there under the surface, a rare visitor, but always a surprising and welcome one. Never a stand up comedian; I couldn't tell a joke to save my life, but I can see the funny side of things, and rest upon the pun, sarcasm and the occasional double entendre. I loved the witty banter that existed between the boys and myself; the ability to play around with words at length, using Monty Pythonesque voices. I remember amusing ourselves for a good hour on a journey from Rouen to Calais on the subject of wattle and daub! Incomprehensible to anyone not in the car at the time. Almost as hysterically funny as the toilet humour of the Whoopie Cushion!
Mark was certainly funny, not in a slap stick sort of way, although that too was known, after a few drinks, but in a clever, 'Who's Line is it anyway' or 'Not the Nine o' Clock News' sort of way. He enjoyed comedy nights in London and was involved in some stand up sessions in Taipei too. He was also a tease, loved practical jokes, cheated at board games and enjoyed the punch on the arm, and playing tap tap in the back of the car, which he found hilarious, and basically 'having a laugh', sometimes, usually, at the expense of others.
So when an email came, back in July, advertising Michael McIntyre, we booked three tickets and thought it would be a good idea for September. It was! A dash into Birmingham, a frantic search for somewhere to eat, and no, we hadn't thought to book, even though the rugby and the comedian were competing for audiences the same weekend. My guess is that some folk managed both. Either way, Brindley Place was heaving with anticipation, excitement and conviviality, and maître d's shook their heads, no doubt bemused as to why we could have possibly thought they would have a spare table. Fortunately, a pretty manager in Strada offered to serve us our meal at the bar, instead of waiting for a table and we accepted, relieved and grateful. A short stroll to the newly named Barclaycard Arena, drinks in hand, we took our seats for what we hoped would be an entertaining evening.
We were not disappointed, not at all. Mr Mc Intyre kept the vignettes coming, from Calpol to supermarket trolleys, to Facetime and living in the countryside. Simple observations of the ordinary, giving life meaning and hilarity through quick wit, precise timing and that wonderful gift of a sense of humour. It was a fabulous evening that lifted the spirits and certainly 'turned the frown upside down' of three tired folk. Mark would have loved it.
But humour is not always thought through, carefully constructed and expertly delivered. Sometimes little children and their perceptions of reality and fantasy are equally amusing, as we were to experience the following day during a precious visit to one of Mark's friends. B was one of the first people to contact me after Mark died. I didn't know her; she was just a name, sending sympathetic words and offering support. At the time, I was too numb to really register anyone's details and specifics, but despite my few perfunctory and sometimes sparse replies, B continued to message and, over time, she chatted about her little boy O, her life abroad and telling stories of Mark when he was in Taipei. She drew me in and I started to look forward to daily contact, usually late at night. I rejoiced in the birth of her second son F, and secretly delighted in the tales of her two little boys, as she listened patiently to stories of mine.
Inevitably, as our friendship grew, we made arrangements to meet up; her, when she was in the country to visit her Mum, and us making the short journey to Spain for a few days break. Face to face contact gave us the chance to get to know each other, share the joys and delights of her little family and be part of something I thought I'd lost when Mark was killed; the chance to be a surrogate grandma, to have little people around me and to be able to love them unconditionally.
These meetups have become very important to both of us; a visit to Father Christmas at Trentham Gardens; a music festival in sunny Spain;  Lego World in Manchester, New Year's Day in Lancashire and a coastal walk in Catalonia. F's fourth birthday gave us the perfect excuse a couple of weeks ago.
We arrived at her Mum's in glorious sunshine and just at the end of a typically, raucous, emotional party, complete with uncontrollable balloons, crumpled cake, nearly perfect presents, mountains of paper, colourful cards and spectacular meltdowns. Within moments, we were treated to a random Ninja show, a naked O wrapped in a towel, (don't ask.....I'm not quite sure of the answer.), an out and out refusal to say 'thank you for coming' to two bemused, and probably traumatised little girls, a crisis over the smell of gravy, 'This isn't REAL gravy. Ohhhhh!' and an instant silence, as peace was restored, once the Wii was produced. Magic!
After an adult, civilised lunch, in order to burn off some residue energy, (the boys, not mine), we drove in convoy to a children's farm, complete with perfect, pink pigs, adorable, if hungry, calves, squeaky guinea pigs, a couple of croaky cockerels and an amazing, death defying jungle gym, designed to keep two excited little boys, and Matthew too, of course, who entered the ropes and rollers, slides and swings on the pretext of being on hand just in case, if you know what I mean, fully occupied while we drank tea and chatted about blogging, Twitter, school, life and love.
Our perfect afternoon ended with an urgent dash to watch the cows being milked, no doubt standing there attached to pulsating machines and wondering why their little ones were being fed by inquisitive infants, when they had nourishing milk to spare. But that's a reality that doesn't need to intrude into the magical, delightful, slightly manic world of two little boys, whom I have grown to love and their amazing Mum, who loved Mark, and who feels like a very special gift from him to us. This time no sarcasm, no witty banter, tricks, teasing or clever puns, just someone, who has the ability to make us smile from the inside. And for that I am incredibly thankful.

On our knees in August

I am not ashamed to say that I have never worked in August, not one day of it, ever. And I probably never will. August is holiday time for me and this year we have had seven long and glorious weeks off school. I am never short of things to fill up the time, from catching up with friends I haven't seen for a while, decluttering every room, enjoying the garden, exploring new places for coffee, filing hundreds of letters into their correct place and actually going on holiday. This year I have thrown in new glasses, acupuncture sessions, long, almost daily walks, some decorating and a couple of tentative visits into school to collect the debris from the end of term, delete hundreds of emails and make a long, fluid list of things to do next term.

We also finally updated our wills, something we had been meaning to do for a couple of years. We had obviously made provision for all our boys, but Mark's death changed that. I still find it incredibly hard to tell someone I have never met before. Each word in the sentence, 'Mark died. He was killed by a taxi in Taiwan four years ago,' is a thud to my stomach, making the tears form, my voice choke and the listener reach for the tissues. The meeting with the solicitor was no exception, but it was the sight of Mark's signature on one of the pieces of paper that brought me to my knees. He was here, he lived, he was and the proof was there on that document, no longer valid, but evidence of my crazy boy, for once being serious in his signature. It took me a while to recompose myself so that we could draw up the new will, this time not including my firstborn child. Another cruel reality we have to deal with as bereaved parents.
We did actually go away too. The first was a weekend in Yorkshire, based in Skipton. We walked, climbed, tripped and wandered across God's country, enjoying the scenery and the company. A refreshing short break. Our week in Majorca was a complete contrast. The warmth of the sun, the sophistication of the hotel, the velvety coolness of the pool, the cheeky morning cocktails and delicious Mediterranean food in the evening, relaxed and refreshed the three of us. I read three books that week, all involving the death of a child in one way or another and I strangely found that comforting too. Others have gone through this, either in real time or in fiction and most find a way to survive, some changing direction, some changing a partner or job, some forgiving, some requiring care for all sorts of illnesses and conditions, and all of them struggling with a loss so catastophic that the fall out contaminates anything that was once normal. I find safety in such writing, a sense of seeing 'me' in the characters, the situations, the relationships. It's not my story, but it is a shadow of it and it helps me feel not quite so alone.

Tanned and calmer, we arrived home to more of what we'd been doing before we went away, enjoying small achievements and progress with the house and garden. And, because we had been away, Matt suggested that we went to Coventry for our 21st 'thing'. It was hardly exciting or thrilling, but we went anyway. After a little bit of confusion and conflict with the SATNAV, we managed to park by the Cathedral and headed there. When Matt was in Year 8, the RE project was 'Churches'. We drew them, photographed them inside and out, labelled bits of them, designed new windows for them, wandered round them and got bored with them. But he also visited Coventry Cathedral, both with us and with the school. He got an 'A' for that project and I have it somewhere in the detritus of keepsakes. And now we were back, not because it held any connection to Mark but because Matt suggested it and, in the absence of a better idea, we agreed.

One cannot fail to be stunned by the majesty, beauty and sincerity of the new Cathedral, as it takes its place adjunct to the battered, broken and splintered remains of the original Anglican Gothic building.
We entered the vast space and looked up, as everyone must do, to the vaulted ceiling, but then our eyes were drawn to the elongated windows of light, their hues casting rainbow prisms on the stone floor. Huge tablets of stone hung from the angled brick walls, inscribed with the 'I am' statements Jesus made about himself. There is supreme strength in these statements, a desire to collapse against them and let them hold us in our human weakness

 We wandered, we whispered and we walked softly to the Lady Chapel to light a candle for Mark and for the children of other bereaved parents; people I wish I had never had cause to meet, children I should never have got to know through their parents, but without whom I would not survive. They know, understand and care and, more importantly, they talk about my boy, say his name and remember significant dates. Lighting a candle says I am thinking about you, praying for you and keep you alive in my heart and I always will. I haven't forgotten you, Mark, as if I ever would or could, my precious boy.
The tag line of the new cathedral is 'Reconciliation'. It is meant to offer hope and forgiveness for the bombing raid on Coventry in 1945 that destroyed the Cathedral and much of the city. There are pottery candle sticks made by German Jews, beautiful testimonies by visiting German school children, and a brutal cross made from two burned splinters of wood. There was also a haunting metal head of Christ. It was made from the wreckage of a motor vehicle.

Someone had died in that crash and yet, out of that tragedy, the strength and compassion of a risen Christ offered peace and hope. I don't know if the sculptor had lost a loved one but she certainly poured love and emotion into her work and it helped me at least. Our exit route was filled with Peace Cranes in every colour of the rainbow. Again, out of the failings and cruelty of man against man, soldier against civilian, and bomb against childhood innocence, arose a thing of beauty, a symbol of hope, resilience and, yes, reconciliation.

 Knowing that Mark had died a tragic death alone in a foreign city haunts me and, if I let it, the loop of imagined visuals would drive me into insanity. The speeding car, my boy trusting the pedestrian crossing, the murderous impact, my boy being thrown into the cold night air and the cold-blooded thud of his broken body hitting the taxi windscreen before slamming into the road, are too horrific to allow them head space. But, I promised myself that some good would come out of this; his life would not be wasted in anger and recriminations. We would honour his memory, his joy of living, his sense of adventure and his faith. It has not be easy in any sense, but, we have built lasting relationships with Mark's friends; some have become family and I love them to bits; we walked the Thames Path; I am running the London Marathon next year; Matt and I have become incredibly close, I am enjoying blogging; I have found some amazing bereaved friends through Compassionate Friends and I believe I am now a kinder, more compassionate and gentler person, who has a deeper empathy and understanding of death, loss, madness, and family and love. Like the old cathedral, my 'before' life lies in ruins, but, this new life is beginning to regain some colour, some hope and sometimes it is OK.