Memory

Golden

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The heat keeps on, pressing my skin, the continuity is a reminder of where I was just a few days ago. Though time stretches strangely in strange times, makes it seem like I am remembering an epochal, ancient past or a current, fleeting dream.

I was revisiting a place I knew well, my childhood home was not three miles away. A landscape that I love: beech woods, fields and lanes, buildings of red brick and flint. Too many cars but enough space. I could walk once more in the woods, sheltering from the heat and collecting my thoughts. The woods have always been a place to think, to re-order myself. I get the same sense of grounded wonder in a cathedral, a similarly cool and elegantly spanned space. The beech woods and the cathedral create a modicum of awe that sets the tone, then leave us alone, content to let private reverie occupy our attention. With hindsight, I have understood that this, in part, in distant childhood years is what my father was offering me, all three of us, on our baffling day trips to see dams and bridges. Look at the grace of this structure, look how it achieves itself so effortlessly. Look.

Once my thoughts had been reordered on the short walks of this recent visit, I went back to the newer, harder to navigate terrain – smaller and infinitely more vast. A hot room, my dad so thin, the rugged, narrow mountains of his knees rising sharply from his shallow body. The sheer, spare cliffs of his beautiful face. The heat, the heat. The creaking of wooden floors and the electric fan rumbling like thunder edging the unfamiliar horizons. Space stretched too so that the horizons, for some time, were met in this narrow view.

The heavy victorian gothic of the hospice building did not do as a good job as the beech trees of keeping the unusual heat at bay, at least on the sunny side of the building. But it held us all gently, kindly, kept us together and cared for us as we said goodbye to my father over a rapidly changing week this June. Over days that included his birthday, which was also the day he accepted that death was coming, then ordered a gin and tonic for himself, his partner and for me. And only a few days later, Father’s day. The day he died.

After he died, when it was time to leave, I found it hard. I wanted to stay in that dark wooden interior, the gentle embrace of ancient luxury repurposed into a kind of universal love for those suffering at the end of their lives and those suffering at the end of another’s. The care that enclosed me and my siblings, and dad’s partner, had also enclosed him, keeping us all together. It was hard to leave him there, though he had gone.

My dad was an architect, a rock climber, a diver, a sailor, a lover of songs sung with heart. In these later years, for the ever-present joy of sport, he played croquet, one of the most entertainingly vicious games there is – schadenfreude is almost written into the croquet rule book.

He loved with a big and generous heart, if not always with the quickest sense of another’s needs. But he cared deeply and with great, throat-catching emotion about those he loved. He believed in his family. He believed with atheist conviction in the true importance of fairness, liberty and equality. He was a great thrower of parties and a marvellous host.

Sometimes in his time at the hospice he asked us to leave him. It was hard for one of the gifted hosts of the world to be unable to attend to and join his guests. I knew he wanted us with him but it was difficult to rest when his thoughts were on us. So we spent time in the beautiful grounds, in the woods, and in the rooms provided for us – the people visiting a loved one. In that time, my daughter sent me a link to a film she has made as a choreographer and dancer. It is a beautiful piece called Kintsukuroi/Golden Repair. The piece is dedicated at the end to my father, Philip Allison.

That is in itself, a form of golden repair. A way of making the cracks and scars beautiful. To know, from his actions and from evidence of photos and papers on his work table, how much pride he had in his grandchildren, how he looked for ways to support them in their reaching for value, how he sought ways that he could nourish them in their claims to a life of beautiful meaning. And to see that love and respect come back to him. To watch my daughters becoming magnificently themselves with his love and support even as I watch him slide quietly away.

This is a common time, a universal time. We have all said goodbye to someone we love. And we all stumble through helping each other to navigate the sad days and long nights of goodbye. And so many people, in our sadness are pouring their own gold to help make the repairs. Letters and memories, messages from people who loved dad or who care about us. They offer such kindness. I am thankful for all of it.

I would also like to particularly offer my deep gratitude to the Sue Ryder hospice in Nettlebed for their beautiful humanity. I will be trying to think of a way to fundraise and support their work.

dedicated to

I send my love to my brother Joe and my sister Thea. I am so glad we were there together with dad.

And Lilian and Phoebe. Beloved

And Pierre

Kintsukuroi/Golden Repair
Sue Ryder

Ravelling

handsome gjMy grandfather died of a broken heart six weeks after my grandmother. He had not expected to live without her, instead had meticulously planned for her comfort and security on what seemed to him to be the predictable certainty of his own death from a heart attack. But cancer doesn’t like predictions. Cancer, with its usual arrogant flare for such things, changed the story, rendered his meticulous, patriarchal, loving care unnecessary. A heart attack did kill him, but only after the death of my grandmother from bone cancer and the torture of six weeks of bereft and baffled mourning.

John Wood, we called him Grandjohn, was an imposing and impressive man. He came from a teetotal and dutifully obligated chapel background, as austere and spare as his name. He had no faith himself but was imbued with the characteristics of his family’s church, though he seemed to burst those narrow parameters at the seams. Six feet two inches, brown as a conker, bombastically sure of himself in a way that could be intimidating and even a little bullying. He was very handsome, dashing, though in his lifetime this was completely invisible to me. It took unearthed photos of his beautiful youth for me to see him as others would have.

He was politically and socially conservative but his personality was that of a daredevil, an adventurer and often, an absurdly, comically impatient lunatic. He drove his sports car onto the pavement to get around cars that were a little slow to pull away when the lights turned green, fury testing out his heart attack thesis once again. He snipped all the wires of the speakers round a hotel pool because the music irritated him to wasp rage. As a young man, he and his brother raced each other on motorbikes across the twin track parapets of a railway bridge. He was tremendous fun, gleefully leading us into some reckless endangerment, some motorised or wheeled or speeding adventure, always operating in secret away from our anxious and loving grandmother. We kids would get our roller skates and he would take us off in the car to find a ‘nice flat road’ when really, all the roads were flat. The car journey was a ruse so that, once safely round the corner away from grandmother’s eyes, he could tie a rope onto the bumper which we could then hang onto as he towed us, swinging wildly round the corners of the expensive, residential streets.

It is easy to see why he had predicted such an end for himself, correct medically even if the narrative didn’t work as he had expected. He smoked as a young man the way it seemed he did many things. He wouldn’t appreciate the Spinal Tap allusion but inside the conservative, blazer-wearing teetotaller, much of his personality was turned up to eleven. He inhaled his pipe smoke, he boiled his tea to a tar-like sheen, tanning himself from the inside as his sun-worship from March to October tanned him on the outside.

He once swapped a lawn mower for a tuba, and revelled in the blast of deep, music-less sound he could make with it. In the same way, he loved my bass guitar, the rumbling resonance gave him a profound and, to his mohican-sporting granddaughter, gratifying pleasure that, for once at that time, connected us in a way that was not fraught with judgemental disapproval on both sides.

It was deeply moving to see my grandfather in the new light cast by the loss of his beloved wife. This man, large, colourful, imposing, intimidating, suddenly showed a frailty that seemed almost miraculous. Not because we needed to see it or welcomed it, but because his certainty about everything had given us absolute certainly about him. Anything outside of those cartoon clear lines of expectation had a fragile, magical quality. I felt a kind of awe in the face of his inability to live with his loss. He lost weight, he cried about a dog that put its head on his knee in mute empathy. He still complained about the noise when he came to stay with us, still told everyone what the best way to do a thing was and you’d be a bloody fool to consider other options, but there was something new and tender that had not been part of our connection to him. Perhaps it had all been reserved for beautiful Daphne, his true love, his reason for living, and with her gone, he had to share it unexpectedly, perhaps undesirably for him, with us.

I never had any doubt that he loved us all very deeply. It was a love that was built on expectation. He expected us to do well in life, to work hard as he always had, to achieve what he presumed for himself and for us, our merit in the eyes of the world. An old-fashioned love predicated on the achievement of comfort and safety. Dreams were to be let off in searing firework flashes around the edges of the serious business of life; in the roar of a motorbike engine and the atonal and offensively loud blast of a tuba kept in the bedroom wardrobe.

After he died, I spent a surreal and magical few days in my grandparent’s house with my mum, my aunt and my sister. One of the pictures that stayed with me, a comfort many times and a profound reminder of the precious gift of connection was an open atlas. He had a conservatory, called tellingly, the sun room. Even when it was cold, if the sun shone in a clear sky he would open one of the doors so he could lie in the sun, tracking its progress, moving round from facet to facet of the hexagonal room. In that room, next to the padded sun bed was a table and chairs and on the table was an atlas open to the page that showed Australia. There was a blue airmail letter from my brother, travelling around Australia for a year. He had described the recent leg of his journey and my grandfather had looked it up in the atlas. It must be what he was doing shortly before he had the heart attack. It gave me great comfort, seeing these papers that connected them. Even with the moment long gone, those connections remain, making an invisible ravelling that perhaps is the real structure of our lives.