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.

Stepping down and back in June

Gosh, these months come around quickly, catching us unawares and sometimes breathless. We knew ages ago what we wanted to do this month-June. We wanted to visit Warwick Castle. I'm not sure why, or where the idea came from, but there it was and we were all agreed. It just so happened it was also Father's Day, so two birds and all that; it seemed perfect.
Tickets bought-(how much!!?) and we were there, stepping back into history, into a story of battles, besieging, intrigue, terror and winning through adversity. It was also a story of a family home and generations of custodians of that story.
                 Our visit started with a timed entrance to the Dungeons.There was the intitial obligatory photograph of me being beheaded by David and Matt. Their expressions, as they held the hatchets high, betraying a sinister secret perhaps, and a darker side to their natures. Then we were plunged into darkness, barely able to make out the horror of ancient implements inflicting indescribable pain on their victims. As we felt and shuffled our way from chamber to chamber, from gruesome to obscene, from hilarity to terror, we slipped further and further away from the present, from normality into a base underworld of depravity. Screams echoed through the corridors and vile smells cloaked us in the gloom. Judges, executioners, aparitions, 'surgeons, embalmers and simple murderers barked their commands to 'move along there' until, finally, we fell into a well lit room where the hard sell encouraged us to purchase our execution photographs. No thank you. We bypassed the gift shop, shielded our eyes from the sun and escaped the horror, making our way to the coffee stand and on to the falconry arena.
               Matt is, and always has been, fascinated by birds of prey. Their power, beauty and majesty; their, ruthlessness and grace all combine to make, in his eyes, perfection. The eagles battled against the wrong sort of wind, their soaring compromised and their landings somewhat precarious; the African Vulture was comical in his tottering gait and near miss flying, causing the crowd to duck as he skimmed their ears and close shaved their heads. A well deserved clap sent the birds, one by one, back to their hides for a tasty day old chick, no doubt eaten with relish.
              The last time Matt and I had visited Warwick Castle was about twenty four or five years ago with a Sunday School group. Mark and the boys' dad were there too and we had a wonderful day, exploring the castle as only young boys can, firing pretend arrows, sword fighting until someone was poked in the eye, charging each other with shrill battle cries and tearing up spiral staircases, ignoring desperate pleas to, 'be careful!' and 'come down!'. Funny how one's memory selects random momnts and imprints them for ever. I remember the picnic by the river more than the visit to the castle, the game of rounders more than the walls of armour and the softness of what seemed like a perfect day more than the sharpness of the specific. Matt remembered that day too, although his memories are more of friends and Mark and, I guess, his Dad.
Matt's Dad has been out of his life far longer than he has been in it. He left when Matt was eight and Mark was thirteen, but in a 'standing from a distance sort of way', I guess we both miss him. That is, we miss the lego playing Dad, the Dad who built amazing sand cars, aeroplanes and animals, the one who could draw and paint and play music so well. He was an amazing Dad for thirteen years and then no Dad at all since. Few phone calls, no effort to see his boys, a couple of cards at Christmas and birthdays and a painful void in their lives where he should have been; a void that Mark filled with friends, and parties, adventures and sometimes more negative things to numb the pain of his absence.
And Matt fills with self doubt, a lack of confidence, a feeling of never being good enough and a desperate need to care for people, animals and the arts. And yet we still miss him.
We strolled the grounds of this ancient monument, enjoying the sunshine, watching families, big, small, new and older, partly with envy, partly with sadness but mostly with a sense of being part of something normal and continuous. Sitting in the sunshine, sipping tea and watching the 'show off' antics of the resident peacocks, our eyes were drawn to a young family also watching the birds and struggling with a wriggling toddler, who was hell bent on getting away and helping himself to a few turquoise tail feathers. They smiled at each other and shared the moment with their baby son. I so hope they realise how blessed they are. Both my boys would have/will made/make amazing fathers. Mark would have been terrified and delighted in equal measures. He would have flaunted the baby advice books, put the baby in a carrier and shown him the world. He would have thought nothing of camping with a newborn, trekking with a toddler or back-packing with a moody teenager. He would have cheered on touchlines, dumped dirty kit by the washing machine and raced ridiculously fast on old BMXs. He would have encouraged his child to love books, the written and spoken word; he would have relished the beginning of debate, the odd argument and he would have taught him that you can live on very little, that the most precious possessions are family and friends, that a friend's sofa for the night is luxury and that faith in our God is enough.
Matt, on the other hand, will be a much more cautious parent. He will worry over every sniffle, bump or graze. He will watch his baby sleeping several times a night, marvelling in the miracle of creation, his creation. There will be holidays in France camping, playing Round the World table tennis, canoeing expertly down sun drenched sleepy rivers, swinging courageously through the treetops, and enjoying crepes and un boule de glace before bedtime. There will be music of every genre constantly playing, music lessons and a shared love of films and comedy. He will take fatherhood seriously and will strive to be the fun, involved and playful Dad, like the one he had all those years ago. I just hope with all my heart he gets the chance.
David, of course, was with us this time. A different sort of father from the boys' Dad, a stricter, more rigid figure, dependable, safe, predictable, almost disapproving. A man brought up by a cold, disciplinarian, a unemotional being, who shaped David's view on how fathers should be and how they should behave. He brought his two boys up with rules they could never hope to keep and they have a sort of polite relationship now, which I don't understand. As a step father, David has tried to be supportive and involved in the boys' lives. He has painted walls of grim student flats various hideous colours, travelled up and down motorways with a car load of stuff, and put up with the chaotic debris of living with two boys who were very different from his own. Aftershave, socks and the occasional amount of money disappeared with regular annoyance and David silently put up with it all. And, because we know how hard it has been for him at times, there is a kindness and a benign tolerance for his incomprehensible and ridiculous ways now he is an old man and struggling to accept he is not as able as he was both mentally and physically.
And so Fathers' Day was spent with my son, thinking about Mark, Paul, the past and hopefully a brighter, sunnier future where Matt's little boy gets to chase peacocks, fire bows and arrows and watch birds of prey soaring high above him.
An almost perfect day....as ever, almost.
                 

Meandering through May

Now don't get me wrong, I love Wales......once I'm there. It's just that it isn't my first preference when looking for a weekend away. So, when Matt suggested Wales for our May thing to do to remember Mark, my enthusiasm was a little diluted and I only looked half-heartedly at hotels and other possible accommodation. It was Wales after all, and it could hardly be full....could it?
So, on Bank Holiday Saturday, after waving goodbye to one amazing little family, who only came into our lives because Mark died and, not quite knowing when we might see them again, as they were moving to South America, we packed an overnight bag and headed West.
Cares, worries and stress seemed to disappear directly in proportion to the hills coming into view, and, as we dropped into Llangollen, memories breathed and stirred. Memories of college and student trips to sample beer and cider in the Chain Bridge Hotel, leaping rocks in the River Dee, being quietened at Valle Crucis Abbey and hitch-hiking back to Alsager loaded with Welsh cakes and Barra Brith.

We broke the journey in Betwys Coed, stopping for a much needed coffee and what turned out to be a lovely walk along the river. This time it was Matt, who filled the sunny afternoon with his memories of a climbing weekend with Mark and a couple of friends. It was sighingly reassuring to hear him talking about Mark, the climb up Tryffn, the gasp making scrambling, the  scary leaps and the fun and laughter retold and given immortality in the hearing. My boy, his brother, his friends and his adventures; I never tire of hearing the stories. We walked, talked, and listened, whilst throughout, the rushing river sparkled and giggled as she raced us to our next destination.

Some of you are aware that the relationship with my brother is difficult at the best of times, and non-existent in more recent times, well, since Mum died really. He is a complex man with a dark side to his character that makes him selfish and a bully. For a fleeting moment when his tiny baby girl died at 37 weeks, we were close, and he was softer, gentler and more vulnerable. This closeness wasn't reciprocated, of course, when Mark died. He was Mark's Godfather, whatever that meant to him, but there were no words of comfort, no hand to hold, no support at all, and so the feint embers of our relationship have all but been extinguished, maybe for ever, which is sad.
It wasn't always like this. when Mark's dad and I were about twenty and my brother was around nine, we camped just outside Betwys Coed. It rained and rained. The campsite was basic to say the least, but we had such fun. I had washed our waterproofs before we left, but obviously hadn't rinsed them thoroughly, and, as we trudged back from Swallow Falls, using our arms to somehow force a forward movement, friction came into play and white, soapy suds emanated from our armpits, bubbling up into a frothy, foam frenzy, causing us to double up with giggles. Whatever happened to that giggling boy, where did he disappear to? That thought makes me sad.
We left the busy village to its tourists, traffic jams and tumbling river and carried on. Matt became progressively quieter as the towering crags of Tryffn appeared in the distance; no doubt locked into his memories and the realisation that all future memories will be ones without his crazy brother. That thought makes me sad too.
A sharp left turn at Capel Curig, with the majestic slopes of Snowdon on our right and we wound our way past glassy lakes, remote cottages, determined walkers and optimistic picnickers towards Beddgelert. Our arrival took us by surprise in the end; one minute wild, empty spaces, the next narrow streets besieged by the world and his wife. By chance we found the only parking space for miles and joined the heaving masses. At first it was hard to see the charm and beauty of the village, but it was there, held up with grey slate and Welsh stone; with the rivers Glaslyn and Conway, and with the ancient legend of one courageous dog and his master providing its heartbeat.

This was not our first visit and it was not by any random chance that we were here again. Twenty three years ago our second worst nightmare had occurred. Paul had disappeared..... literally. Gone in the space between leaving for a day at school and coming home again the same night. A note saying nothing really, nothing missing, except him; police searches, house to house enquiries made, no leads, two heart broken and lost children, one huge question mark and a sense of foreboding. Our lives imploded and everything that was safe splintered into tiny shards of fearful hurt. At our lowest point two of the kindest people ever stepped into our lives and invited us to their tiny rented holiday cottage in Beddgelert to stay with them for a few days.
Dazed and desperate we went. Sleeping in a hobbit sized front room, we let this little family love and comfort us with endless cups of tea, cheese sandwiches, a quiet drink in the Saracen's Head and the obligatory Cadwalladers ice cream. Before these few days, they were parents of a child I taught in my school. During and since then, they are the dearest friends and I love them with all my grateful heart.
So, on Sunday, in the warm afternoon sunshine, we walked one of the walks we did all those years ago. The colours were vivid; greens shouted their newness, blues blazed their glory, yellows sang their bright ditties, and the pinks, oranges and purples of well placed Azaleas stated their pretty presence like precious jewels. We reread the story of the Wolfhound, after whom the village is named  and imagined the scene that met his owner on return from hunting. Whether it is true or not, it is a wonderful story of bravery, loyalty, protection and injustice. We moved on and it seemed the natural thing to do to make our way to the grey stone church, where we lit a candle for Mark and several others for the children of friends I have met only because we have this terrible defining thing in common. Our children died and we are all trying to find a way of living without them.

On our return to the village, which seemed to be sighing in relief, as the day trippers were leaving in droves, we drank a welcome beer and then set about finding somewhere to stay the night. Call us stupid, naïve, over confident, if you want, but it will come as no surprise to you, I'm sure, to know that there was nothing to be had. Hotels, pubs with rooms, B&Bs, country house hotels, expensive, cheap, awful or otherwise, there was nothing. Metaphorically kicking ourselves, we left for the coast.
We had visited Criccieth too that Summer long ago and to our eyes; nothing had changed: the picturesque town guarded by its once imposing castle; the virtually empty beach; and the view. The view. Lilac mountains tumbling into the distance, Harlech Castle misty in the late afternoon sunshine, tiny boats bobbing in the perfect bay and the sea spreading secretly into every cove and crevice.

What this pretty place didn't have, of course, was anywhere to stay. All enquiries were met with either looks of sympathy or disdain and no help whatsoever. So, without any sort of Plan B, we headed North to the only place I recognised, or indeed could read, on the signposts; Caernarfon. This time we travelled around the Western side of Snowdon until, without mishap, we arrived in the town as the sun was beginning to think about setting. Hurrah, a Travelodge and a Premier Inn! David set off to enquire and I closed my eyes to dream of a long, hot bath and a bowl of comforting pasta. It had been a long day!
David's return with a shaking head brought unexpected tears and the thought of a three hour journey home via narrow twisty roads sank my heart, like a stone. Deep breath and we set the satnav to HOME.
By chance we spotted a hotel sign at the side of the road. We turned left and followed an overgrown track, through wrought iron gates until we scraped to a gravelly stop in front of a stone building, offering us good food, accommodation, a wedding, if we wanted it, and a spa! A spa! We held out no hope of success and we were not wrong. But the lovely man apologised and offered to phone an hotel further on. They had two rooms and would hold them until we arrived. Yes please!
Fifteen minutes later we were having a cup of tea, watching calming sheep cropping the lawns surrounding the Victoria Hotel, Llanberis, which nestled grandly at the foot of Snowdon.
A good night's sleep restored energy and emotions and, following a delicious Welsh breakfast, we made the decision to ascend Snowdon, despite low grey cloud, a miserable forecast and fairly inadequate clothes, better suited to a tea shop crawl in Beddgelert. For those of you, who assumed from the Facebook post and the few accompanying photographs that we actually put one foot in front of the other and climbed the mountain, I apologise. We didn't. We went up in the single carriage mountain train, along with a noisy party of Germans, a few excited children and a bored and silent young man, who spent the whole journey on his phone. He must have had a phone mast in his pocket because none of our phones had any reception! It turned out that he worked in the café at the top and was on his daily commute. What a commute!

The little train chugged its determined way to the summit and into the dense rain clouds, making the whole experience somewhat strangely spiritual. Eventually, reality crashed in, however, as the doors opened, and the cold, and the drizzle penetrated our thin jackets and the eerie sense of there being nothing else, but us standing, suspended in mid-air. By contrast, the café was crowded, noisy and smelled, and felt, like a drab, functional motorway services. Few folk ventured through the rear doors to climb the forty or so slate steps to the actual summit. Why would you come all that way not to actually want to stand on the top? We did though, and were soaked in the going. Again the sense of floating somewhere above the Earth, with nothing above, below or around us. Just us. I thought about Mark as I stood there staring into nothing, but I struggled to grasp hold of him, his essence, his energy, his enthusiasm for adventures, until I remembered that about 18 years ago, I had stood there in that very same place. That time the sun was shining; we had climbed the Pyg Track and there was a view; miles of spectacular view. I quietly sensed his arms around me, as they had been before, and there was a welcome warmth in the hug and the memory. Then I shivered, grabbed Matt's hand and descended the stone steps shaking. I really don't do heights at the best of times.

We had made a decision before our ascent that we would build a cairn for Mark at the top, and so we began to gather our pieces of cold, slippery slate. It was easier said than done. It was cold and wet. It was intensely sad and very important. When it was done we stood back and quietly said whatever we needed to and then, with a imperceptible nod, we turned and left.

We returned to the patiently waiting train and made the hour long descent from the grey moisture soaked clouds to the grey and green of Llanberis. It felt as though we had done something special; it felt as though Mark, as always, had had a hand in our weekend and it felt reassuringly right.

To ski, or not to ski.....April

Legs like the proverbial jelly, heart racing and hands shaking, I stood a mere ten metres away from safety. Breath held, head pounding, sense telling me this is madness.......I can't do this! Then from somewhere, nowhere, there was movement, downhill movement, and gravity and I were one, as we swooshed together across the whiteness to the foot of my own personal  'red' run where Matt waited with a high five and an awkward hug, exhaling in relief.

It had been just over three years since I had been on skis in our favourite Alpine resort, trying to ignore Christmas and avoid the brutal truth that Mark was dead. Heather, Mark's beautiful and amazingly brave girlfriend, was with us and we were, to all intents and purposes, still a family of four trying to act normally in a time and place that was anything but. We cried as we arrived in the picturesque resort, we cried on the chair lifts, we cried as we opened presents on Christmas Day and again, as we wrote his name in the snow whenever we could. We glided down blue, green and the occasional red run-usually by mistake!- and half expected to see a flash of brilliant blue streak past, cut us up and disappear round the next hair pin bend to reappear, casually smoking a cigarette and smiling smugly.

That first Christmas without him, we were like birds with broken wings, clinging to each other trying to breathe with hearts battered and bruised, in the crisp mountain air, holding each other up, as the landscape of normality slipped away from us. But we were together that first awful Christmas and that's all that seemed to matter, as we threw ourselves downhill, not really caring if we made it to the bottom or not.
I started skiing when I was a young teacher and was invited on the school skiing trip to Scotland with a group of mouthy teenagers. It seemed too good an opportunity to miss and Paul, my then fiance, came too. Now skiing in Scotland is a totally different game to the Alps. Can't think why!....... We were ill equipped in borrowed gear and on Bambi legs we snow-ploughed, slipped, collapsed and giggled, our way through lessons in the blinding blizzards that swept the Cairngorms daily.
But we were bitten by the bug. Mark began skiing at eleven; he too learning up in Scotland and Matt when he was just six, a tiny dot shivering with fear at the top of the dry ski slope in Swadlincote. During his time at uni, Mark worked several nights a week at the ski centre in Sheffield, earning beer money when his grant didn't stretch to such luxuries. But it was only in fairly recent times that we all went away together.

Skiing holidays, when Mark came with us. were never quite how I envisaged them when buying new thermals or booking ski hire. Never quite the bonding experience I imagined, We usually arrived fraught and exhausted after a ten hour drive, fuming in stop- start traffic around Chambery, losing the battle with the snow chains at the foot of a 14km almost verticle climb, and struggling with the language in the ski hire shop. ( how do I know how many kilos I am and what size poles I need?) For the first few days we would travel the gondolas and ski lifts, happily planning our routes around the pistes, waiting for each other in the queues, laughing over a mug of gluwein or chocolat chaud; Mark animated, showing off, daring us to follow him, sharing long standing family jokes, which made us giggle all over again. Mark pushing Matt to go further and faster; laughing himself silly when there was a fall, a mistake, a crash or wrong turn. Evenings were spent eating huge plates of pasta, creamy cheese, fresh French bread and drinking beer to re fuel for more of the same the following day.

Things would change subtely on about day four when, slight irritations would creep in. Patience wore thinner, as we had to stop to reposition David after he had planted himself into a snow bank, skis crossed and poles lost, for the fourth time in an hour, or a chair lift stopped numerous times, leaving us dangling in mid air, icy winds freezing icicle tears to our faces. Tempers flared over the most trivial of stuff and our skiing became more aggressive and careless; risk taking ignited our fears and adrenalin and, inevitably, a full scale argument would start over an innocent remark during the evening meal. A stand off, a barrage of insults, more tears, polite requests to calm down, shouting and a walk out until, finally, silence, subdued apologies and 'do you still love me?' hugs before retiring, weary and worn out, to bed around the first misty light of dawn. The last day was always fun, with relieved togetherness and a renewed sense of 'we', 'us' and 'family'. We would giggle at nothing, celebrate my attempts to finally conquer an elusive slope, whoop, whoop our way down our favourite runs and return our skis to the hire shop with many 'merci s' and lots of 'l'annee prochaine, mais oui....' and regret that it was all over far too soon and we must endure the endless journey home........until next year, when we would do it all again, except, now, we don't get to do it again with Mark, do we?

But Matt and I ski on, for us, for Mark, for the past, the memories and the times ahead. Which is how I found myself at the Snowdome shaking, petrified and questioning my sanity. I'm old; I'm not exactly in the peak of fitness; I could do with losing a stone or two, but my sallopettes still fit, and miraculously my kness instinctively remembered how to 'push down' and I was off hurtling towards my destiny. Matt was patience personified, urging, encouraging, cajoling and praising all my efforts. Mark would just have laughed, left me stranded on two uncontrollable planks of wood and then been waiting at the bottom, with a, 'What took you so long?' Secretly, incredibly proud of his dare devil mum. An hour later I was skiing from the top at phenomenal speeds, (OK, maybe not quite that fast) carving up boarders, (sorry!) who seemed to spend more time sitting on the snow than upright, and sliding to a dignified (not quite a hockey). stop at the bottom. Go me! Go Matt! Go us!

Footprints in time- March

Gosh, the 21st of each month comes round quickly and it is already March, the month of my birthday, and the first day of Spring. Back in January we booked a weekend in Liverpool to coincide with my birthday and continue this year of seizing the date before it sucks the energy out of us, a calculated counterbalance to the sinking dread of before.
We had few plans other than to get there and at some point take Matthew to Goodison Road to see where my Mum grew up with her brothers and sisters. Little did we know, at the time, that the weekend had an energy, a force, and a plan of its own, one that would lead us into the unknown and tease us with what we thought we knew. This amazing, vibrant city threaded with history, music, trade and a unique sense of humour wove my story into hers so that we danced in time and tune, mirroring each other perfectly for two glorious Spring days.

After a rather scary search down unfamiliar narrow cobbled streets and bewildering one-way systems that everyone seemed to know how to navigate, except us, we finally parked the car, checked in and breathed out. Resisting the desperate longing to collapse on the extended leather sofa with a gin and tonic and the TV, we set off for lunch at the Albert Dock.
The inevitable commercialism and tourism that pervades the pedestrian walkways cannot conceal, distract or dismiss the history of the buildings, the deep basins of murky water and the echoes of sailors, slaves and merchants haggling, harassing and hood winking the traders of times gone by. The Mersey slipped past, not the prettiest of rivers by far, but rather a statement of strength and purpose, as she flowed out to sea, ignoring the warehouses, loft apartments, restaurants and the History of Liverpool Museum itself.
Stupidly...again....I allowed myself to be enticed onto the same Ferris wheel I was terrified of in
Manchester at New Year. Why do I do it? Up we rose above the city, the river, the theatre and the tiny dots of busy folk, all oblivious to my white knuckles and fixed smile.
On the third rotation (please, God, don't make me go round again!) there, below us, was a sea of turquoise and glitter as the theatre disgorged thousands of petite wannabe Elsa's, and the occasional embarrassed Olaf, into the afternoon sunshine. At the moment when dizzy horror met Frozen fantasy, we ' Let it go! ' and headed up through a maze of historic streets, to the modern Metropolitan Cathedral.
I have always found solace and peace in the empty spaces of a church. It doesn't matter if it is large,
vacuous, old, new, soaring or confined, there is something calming and soothing, reverent and quietening in being in the unseen presence of our God. The Cathedral was no different. Light flooded the space with a fusion of colours reflected from the bold geometrical windows. God's own
rainbow offering hope, comfort, forgiveness in His promise, so awe inspiring it brought us to our knees to utter mumbled thanks, pleas and familiar prayers. Bach's Fugue in G Minor soared to the top of this ecclesiastical tepee, filling  the space with beauty beyond description, as a group of musicians rehearsed for an evening concert. The need to light a candle in memory of Mark pulled us towards a side chapel, where a wooden carving of Jesus invited us to bring the little children to Him. The text was in both English and Chinese! Of course it was!
A quick return to the car and we were journeying past the old docks, warehouses, grain silos and nodding cranes on our way to Crosby beach, where Anthony Gormley's figures awaited us in Another Place. As far as the eye could see, they stood solid, staring sightless out to sea. The narrative said that they depicted a middle aged man, who had experienced the trials of life, but was still standing, still facing forward and still staring hopefully towards whatever might be out there in the distance.

I feel like that. Every morning I fight my own demons to drag my sleep deprived body to a standing position so that I too might face forward, and look into the distance to my future, however short or long that might be. A future where there might be grandchildren, a gap year, a published book, my Mum and Mark waiting for me, when my time comes, in Another Place. The three of us wandered that beach, separate, thoughtful, alone together. As our shoes made their imprints on the soft, rippled sand of the shore, it occurred to me that once the tide crept in, there would be no evidence that we, or any of the other folk on the beach that afternoon,  had ever been there at all. But just because there are no obvious footprints, no tangible evidence, it doesn't mean that we never walked in that place.

Somewhere in the world there is a sofa Mark slept on, a mug he drank coke out of, a record he played, skate boots he wore, a train seat he sat on, a cool pool he dive bombed into and a pretty girl he kissed. He was here, he was....... and now he is simply in Another Place.
The three of us sat awhile, beside a heart drawn in the sand, until the early evening chill blew in from the grey Irish Sea and we hurried, shivering, back to the car to share cupcakes......Happy Birthday to me!
Our evening was spent on the edge of an unfamiliar and unthreatening club scene. Music blared out of every doorway, music of every genre meeting on each street in a surround sound sort of way. Bright young things, arm in arm, wove their way to their first destination of the night - high heels, designer jeans, smart/casual wear - worn with nonchalant confidence. We retired to bed and the TV well before the streets were really fully awake and left the city to continue its all night party.
I'm not sure if we slept well or not, but we certainly awoke to bright Spring sunshine casting shadows through the now almost deserted streets. Sipping coffee over breakfast, there came a blurry realisation that  groups of folk, dressed in Liverpool football shirts walked heads down, like Lowry figures, past the windows. A quick check on the phone and, yes, Man United and Liverpool were playing that afternoon at Anfield. My own father had once played for United and the majority of arguments in my childhood home were about football; my Mum being a die hard Liverpool supporter. Mark followed my Dad and continued the rivalry with my Mum and his many friends across the world. How I miss his text messages, which came thick and fast as a game progressed. A short, snappy commentary full of exclamation marks and words that cannot be repeated here; me at home; him in Taiwan or London, or South America. Wherever, the football and United took priority. We laughed out loud! Only Mark and my Mum could have arranged such a thing for us.
But first, the famous Cavern Club on Mathew Street. Bronze figures of the Fab Four led the way, beckoning us down the dark steps and into the deep underground world where it all began in the 60's.
Memorabilia adorned the walls, graffiti smeared the bricks and posters plastered the alcoves. For an hour or two we were rocked, serenaded and sang along to Beatles' songs, the words so entrenched we didn't have to think about them. A copy of the original contract between Brian Epstein and the Beatles told us that it had been signed on 1st October 1962-Mark's birthday!

And so back to the one place we had intended to visit; Goodison Rd, Walton, L4. Since Mum died a couple of years ago, I have researched the family history, the names of people long gone and yet still significant. There is the continuation of surnames through the generations, Christian names that appear time and again, anomalies and mysteries through the lineage. Why was my grandfather born in Limerick when his older and younger siblings were registered in Liverpool? Did my grandparents divorce or just separate in an era when such things were unacceptable? I have recently found the exact number of the house that my Mum grew up in until 1941 when she moved away to Stockport, met my Dad and the rest is history, as they say. Mum told stories of watching the Everton games from the upstairs bedroom windows of the house and then entering the ground at the end of the match to pick up silver paper from the inside of cigarette packets, and cashing in their trove for Sherbet Dips, Aniseed Balls and Black Jacks. We found no 41 in a sad and sorry state; dirty, red brickwork, boarded up windows and peeling paint. It was hard to imagine the noise and bustle of a house filled with six children, a shiny front door step and neighbours chatting as they kept an eye on each others kids playing Whip Stone 123, The Big Ship sailed on the Allyally O, and Whip and Top.

We could only imagine the scene on match day, a sea of blue and white, chanting and shoving to catch a glimpse of Dixie Dean and his touch of genius on the ball; the swell of the excited crowd and a little girl with her nose pressed tightly against the window pane.
We drifted away from the now silent and empty house, shielding its secrets behind dark boards, and made our way across Walton Lane and into Stanley Park. This was where Mum and her brothers and sisters, Douglas, Lily,( she who must not be mentioned......), Mary, Edith and Stanley played in the endless sunshine of summers long ago. The lakes, the bridges, rose terraces and the beautiful glasshouse remain unchanged and true to their original design. Children played, dogs strutted and families picnicked in the sunshine, as they have always done, as my family did. The world of work, and school, stress and business a million miles away. .Daffodils marched in a swathe up the hill towards Anfield and the match being played with all the ferocity of a dawn duel to the death. All in all. the distance from one football ground to the other is a mere 0.7 miles, but Mum never crossed over to the 'dark side', never ventured into the red and white of the houses on Anfield Rd. Why would she? She was an Evertonian, a Toffee, until she left the city and became one of Liverpool's staunchest supporters until she died.
The Kop lifted its songs in a resounding chorus, and the United supporters responded with rousing abuse; boos rumbled round three sides of the stadium as Gerard received his red card and was sent off. We could hear Mark laughing his socks off and secretly laughed with him. C'mon United! As we headed back to the park gates, the cheer went up and a quick conversation with a down at mouth security guard, who had for a moment mislaid his sense of humour, confirmed that United were 2-0 up. That put a spring in our step as we headed back to the blue and white, passed a gnarled old tree that I'm sure my uncles would have climbed with scraped knees and grubby hands and reluctantly left this city that had captivated and enthralled us, ahead of the stream of football fans happily making their own way home to Manchester to celebrate the final score of 2-1.

It is hard these days to use words like 'happy' and 'good' or 'great'. I've lowered my expectations and aim each day for 'OK'. 'OK' is 'OK and is the new norm, but this weekend was special in every sense, and for that I am grateful to my thoughtful, gentle surviving son, who wants so much to make it better for all of us, David and to Mark, of course, who daily leaves his unique footprints on our hearts.

Pockets of Peace in February

For us February brings a relief from the relentless onslaught of December and January. It offers the opportunity to re-centre ourselves and find a steadier heart beat in the softer days before Spring, Sleep is less troubled and a sense of normal returns - normal for us, that is, because there is no normal once your child or sibling has died. Every bit of every thing on every level is wrong somehow. But in the spirit of doing something each month which Mark would either love or hate, off  we went to Harry Potter World in Watford.
This is not something any of us were particularly interested in. None of us had read any of the books, bought a scarf or a sticker or even a DVD, but, through the crushing misery of Christmas and New Year, the films, whichever, whatever, played before our eyes and afforded some minor distraction  through the worst of it.
Leaving for London at 3pm on a cold Sunday afternoon seemed somewhat strange, but we dragged ourselves off the sofa and headed south with no idea of what to expect and not really caring either way. We had a timed entry for 5.30pm and arrived amazingly, considering the traffic, with 18 minutes to spare.

Shuffling along in the queue, we waited for the overly jolly attendant to open the doors into a  world of magic, mystery and impossible imagination. Quotes from JK Rowling adorned the walls and we read how she had built Harry's character, knowing everything about him before she began to weave the story around her hero-child. She fell in love with her creation, just as I had loved my tiny child as he grew inside me. She gave birth to Harry in The Philosopher's Stone and watched him grow for ten years through Chamber of Secrets and eventually The Deathly Hallows. She fed him with words and wonderful adventures, formed friendships for him and enabled him to grow in strength and courage as he fought the Dark Lord and championed good, eventually falling in love with sweet Jenny.
Mark was my book; the book I never got to write. Each year a new chapter of excitement, fun, frustration, awe and pride, as he grew from a shy, sensitive and reticent three year old  into the energetic, intelligent, caring dare-devil that I loved with all my heart and soul. My novel. My Odyssey. My epic poem and autobiography.

So, back to our visit..........The tour continued, room by room. The Great Hall was THE Great Hall! There was the top table all laid for the professors and the long trestles separated into the four different houses. Goblets, and plates, bowls and cutlery all waiting in anticipation of the roar of hungry Grffyndors, the screech of owls delivering post, suspended candles and Headless Nick. We were transported deeper and deeper into the layers of literature. Exquisite adjectives, carefully constructed clauses, nouns; so many nouns, all given names with thoughtful appropriateness- the Snitch, The Philospher's Stone, the Cloak of Invisibility, ( there are times when I really would have liked one of those), the Rememberall, Gobstones and Horcruxes, all leading the reader through the volumes into the darkest chasms of  excitement, fear and suspense. There was Hagrid's cottage, Dumbledore's office, the Gryffindor common room, each packed to the extremities with hundreds of objects, some mystical and some functional, but all of them necessary to breath life and immortality to the stories.

We bypassed the opportunity to climb aboard a Nimbus 2000 and take our chances in the speed defying Quiddich match, a game of impossible turns, one-handed 360's and whiplash stops, leaving it to those younger and less embarrassed than us.
The moving portraits in the films had always fascinated me and there they were, a full wall of them. The information screen told us that each one had been individually painted and that they were paintings of cameramen, film crews, catering staff and cleaners. They then filmed against a green screen and superimposed the movement onto the picture. It was intriguing and very clever. How I wish that the many photographs around our home of Mark, were able to move like those so that I could see my boy play, dive into the pool, swish down the mountain, drink his beer and skate like a demon. If only he could smile and wave, and run towards me when I entered a room. If only.......
 Next, the indominable Warwick Davies amusingly demonstrated the animatronics of Dobi, Nagini, The HippoGriff, and the painstaking complexities of the make-up department, which had us enthralled, and somewhat baffled. What patience was needed to sit for hours whilst layer upon gooey layer was applied until the perfect imperfections were just right. BUT we needed Butter beer and so we made our way to the café. We were not disappointed. Whether it had magical qualities, or for a moment turned us into Hermione, Ron and Harry ( I'll leave you to work out which might be which!), we didn't care. It was very nice indeed!
Outside, the freezing evening found us in front of the Knight Bus, and no 4 Privet Drive.

We half expected to see Hagrid on the motorbike zooming down to rescue Harry from the odious Dursleys. The Hogwarts Bridge enticed captivated visitors to walk its twisted path and we duly took the photographs that nowhere near touched the pervasive mystery surrounding it.

Gratefully, we entered the welcome warmth of the second studio. Diagon Alley lived up to every expectation with its shop fronts and well worn cobblestones.
Gringotts, The Leaky Cauldron, Flourish and Blott's bookstore all wove their magic making the impossible plausible and it was hard to imagine a world without magical owls, powerful wands and creatures whose normality was, in fact, their strange peculiarity.

We had fallen into silence, lost for words in the wonder of it all, when we entered a world of white.White walls covered in white drawings, which transposed into white models of every nook and cranny of every room, staircase, dorm, turret, tile, bridge and buttress of Hogworts castle. The models also included The Burrow, Hagrid's quirky home and every outbuilding, boathouse and conservatory. It was an architect's dream, pencilled with precision and it was breath-taking. However, little did we know, but the best was still to come.

We thought we were going into the inevitable gift shop, but instead we turned a corner to be confronted with the mystery, splendour and majesty of a magnificent model of Hogworts itself. It was there, stone by stone, window by window, towers and turrets, spires and staircases, all bathed in a spellbinding blue light adding to the other worldliness of the whole phenomena that is the World of Harry Potter.

Resisting the urge to purchase several wands just in case they didn't  work......and they were expensive, we returned to the real world, which felt duller, paler and sadly ordinary. For a few hours we had been lost inside a story, inside someone else's reality and it had afforded us a feast of fantasy where good people don't die and all is well in the end.
Our story is tragically somewhat different.............and I wish I could rewrite the sad bits and weave a different ending, most of all for Mark but, of course, for us too.

Round and Round-January

And so it begins, this new year; a year of remembering, of memories, some new, some etched silently
on my soul, scratched with the fingertips of despair; a year of deepening loss, of sorrow upon sorrow and yet....... maybe a slight shift, some small change and, against the odds, some sense of hope...........maybe.
We have decided, Mark's younger brother, Matt, and I, that we will do this year differently; we will acknowledge Mark's death/life/legacy each 21st of the month in a fitting, a connected and a wonderful way. It's our way of keeping him in our lives, in the living and the doing, in the planning and the recording of our dailyness, an unseen thread binding us together for all time. It might not work, of course, and we might find that it could be just too painful an expedition for us, but nothing can be worse than nothing, which is what last year felt like. It was a void of emptiness, of barely existing, of denial and being numb and of being constantly exhausted.
So here goes............January.
The 21st of this month, of course, is THE date. The date of the phone call, the question, the answer, the date our lives and our hearts splintered like crystal shards fracturing our very souls forever.
The long plane journey to Taiwan, the tentative touching of my son's pale, beautiful and so terribly cold face. Police, courts, paperwork, drinking Chinese tea in the coffin shop, the priest, choosing flowers ( how did we know what flowers he would want?), the urn, his friends, a service so beautiful it was heart-stopping; talking to Mark as we rode to the crematorium with his coffin in the same car, the respectful bowing, the open door of the furnace, the final signature and the unbelievable, sacred beauty of powerful flames releasing my boy's soul to Heaven..............and then the endless journey home, with tears dropping silently
onto the urn cradled embryonic against my heart. All I had left of my amazing, outrageous and precious son.
Except it wasn't, of course, I had photographs, memories, the sound of his voice in my head, cards and presents he had bought, furniture, some clothes and the most special of all, his friends, who have stayed in our lives and become our friends, some virtually and some actually, their presence a comfort and a continuous connection to the now as well as the then.
So, on the weekend before the 21st, we found ourselves in London, in the buzz and the bustle, in the crowds and the chaos. We had tickets for Cirque du Soleil in our hands and questions in our hearts. Was this the right thing to be doing? What would Mark be thinking? He would have thought we were mad! London resonates with Mark; the pores of the pavements, the ornate buildings, the smells, sights and sounds all carry a memory of lunch, a show, an argument, a greeting hug and a wistful goodbye. So many weekends and afternoons when Mark strolled the city with his own confidence
and charming arrogance.
             We decided to go to the V&A, or rather we found ourselves there unplanned and haphazardly. The majestic rooms, and exhibits preening themselves, showing off their wares, their uniqueness and their rarity drawing the eye, and occasionally the breath and the curiosity.  We wandered, we whispered and we wondered whether Mark would have loathed, loved or lingered over the pottery, the costumes, the tiles and the glimpses into times gone by.

We dipped into the Natural History Museum, proud that we were doing something cultural beyond shopping, an activity hated by my eldest son. It heaved and breathed with a life of its own, pulsating from room to room until we could stand it no longer and we were rudely regurgitated onto the pavement to make our way back to our hotel to refresh ourselves before the evening.
An hour and a half later we retraced our steps to the Royal Albert Hall, excited and giddy in anticipation of what was to come. What came were wonderous, impossible and reality defying acts that had us on the edge of our seats, gasping out loud, laughing freely and totally absorbed in the spectacle that is Cirque du Soleil. Each tumbler, tightrope walker, acrobat, uni cyclist, clown, and unsuspecting member of the audience cajoled into participating, amused, thrilled and amazed. For a while we were lost in the wonder of it all, felt normal, and relaxed and it was good. We drew strength from their energy, the rare sound of each
other's laughter and from doing something quite extraordinarily ordinary.

 We all slept well, exhausted by our efforts and perhaps by a sense of certainty that this was better than the lonely isolation grief inflicts on its hosts. Being together and doing something positive was the mantra for this year and so far, all three weeks of so far, it felt better.
A brisk walk in the morning brought us to Holy Trinity, Brompton, breakfast in church, a warm welcome and the startling memory that it was in this church that Mark did an Alpha course and took his first firm steps of faith; a faith that upheld him in all his travels around the world and comforted us in his death.

The music, the families, the vibrance was infectious and we were caught up in something greater than ourselves, something unseen but nevertheless tangible and real. The speaker was invited up onto the stage, a young man,
aged 32, a family man from Montana, USA. He spoke quickly; he spoke passionately; he spoke with a language and a wisdom beyond his years. He was mesmerising and we were slowly drawn in. And then he told us about his daughter. She died.( My child died). His family were broken and hurt. (My family is torn apart and hurting). He spoke of the mess, the despair, the questions he asked of God and he spoke of his anger, but he also spoke softly of his little girl; the sadness of her not being here physically with her family anymore and he spoke confidently of courage and hope. No platitudes, no patronising, no sweeping statements, no meaningless well- meaning phrases, just raw honesty about how this is for families and parents like us. Were we meant to be there? Of course we were! God and Mark know exactly how tough this is for us and how desperately we needed to hear this young man and his message of truth, comfort and compassion.
Lost for words, we spilled out of church and drifted towards coffee and Harrods. The coffee was a good idea but Harrods definitely wasn't!. The surreal world of glitter and gold, of consumer goods costing obscene amounts of money both fascinated and repulsed us.
We rode the hypnotic escalators up and rode them down again, resisting the urge to be drawn into this false senario of pretence, before emerging into the cold to return to the car and a stop/start journey through London to the M1 and home.
So, as we circle around January, four years on, we are still breathing, we are together and Mark is firmly and securely part of us in every ordinary day and in the awful, stomach punching anniverary day too. And when January comes around again next year, we will have new memories mingled with
Mark- memories to draw on, lean on and hold on to..........and maybe it will help.