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Chapter Two

The first and Second Act

The first act: Remember, remember the tenth of November.

 

 I awoke early in buoyant mood beating the larks by a county half hour. A cold night had afforded a full capacity frost that through my lens-less eyes, seemed like snow. And I love the snow. The life giving sun, fluorescent in both tone and mood, hung low in the sky and high up in my estimations. Christmas was coming and my Ma (Brenda) and Pa (Terry) had just returned to England on account of Dads ill health. They had been back in the country for four whole days after a decade spent in the company of carne salsa, searing heat, incompetent tradesmen and competent and incompetent hospital staff, pimientos de padron and the very finest Rioja pensions could purchase. Relief of the unspeakable and unbridled excitement returned in their hand luggage and arrived in my and my half-sister Lindsey’s hearts. Feel free to put on the Phil Spector album: Christmas is coming.

 

Phew and Woo-Fucking-Hoo in equal measure.

 

I was staying away from home in a rather swanky, yet defiantly business hotel. I joined my colleagues for an early morning breakfast on our company’s annual away days. Three days and two nights where we declare intent and spread the EMI Music Publishing gospel. We ate hearty food and discussed matters pertaining to our work. People nodded enthusiastically. People offered thoughtful insight. People clapped when appropriate. The people are alright. One sausage too many provided ample reason to walk the idyllic Oxfordshire countryside, so Melanie, Anthony, Felix and I fixed up and headed out into the precious cold and started what was to become the most poignant walk of my life thus far. Oak canopied country lanes lead to bright open vistas and a church in a state of ruin. As we wandered round the eerie grounds, mist ambled over historic ruins like dry ice over old age ravers and the dawn chorus became a natural substitute for a ceiling. Despite the fact that this was a religious site and that religion is against my religion, I was genuinely enjoying the sense of history only your country of origin can supply. We, the bunch of us, the fantastic four relative newcomers to the company, enjoyed each others, conversations never struggled and silences never stuttered and the fact that we were up early and at ‘em gave me a slight sense of the county’s famed carpe diem. It’s fair to say that spirits were high.

 

As we strolled back to our working day, up the hill back to the quaint sandstone village, my phone rang; the ‘old phone’ ring-tone fitted the thatched surroundings hand in glove. The words ‘Sister Home’ filled the screen.

 

I hit the green key and everything went black.

 

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The second act: Mourning has broken.

 

‘Austin?’

‘Mum?’

 

Uncontrollable sobbing. This was howling and I knew tears were falling like twin towers down my mothers beautiful face. It would become apparent that what I could hear was more than fear, more than panic and more than pain alone; it was the loss of all hope delivered via an orbiting satellite live and direct to my ear in a dreadful monotone. Fuck.

 

‘Mum, Mum, what’s the matter?’

 

‘Austin, get here now, Dads not good, the ambulance is on its way’

‘Ok, I’m on my way’

‘Drive safe. Please drive safe. I need you’

 

The group’s collective faces froze in an expressionless limbo. Something's up I understated, Dads-bad-a-bad-Dad. The ambulance is on its way I remarked hopefully. I’ve gotta go I said.  We all embraced and man-size shoulder grabs were received in the spirit in which they were given. The key turned in the ignition and the diminished roar of a once powerful engine spluttered out.

 

 Is he dead I ask myself?

 

The journey from Oxford to my sister’s house should take approximately 2.5 hours. I did it in 1.45. Get in. The roads quiet, fast lanes empty and my creaky classic BMW or ‘the warhorse’ as it was affectionately known, spat out the road like a spent chewing gum. My mind raced way faster than the 100 mph the speedometer read: ‘This is it’ it whispered over and over until traffic distraction afforded a commercial break in my personal road-movie and horror-flick. Then it started again. Oh look Eddie Stobart haulage truck. Your Dad’s dead. A red Ferrari. Your Dad’s not dead. My body’s way of distracting me was crude but effective and in South Parks lexicon it shouted ‘it’s morning, you should very probably drop the kids off at the pool’. I grumbled impatiently at me until I took notice. The Bicester services were in sight and in the nick of time, only as I pulled onto the slip road did an all-consuming emotion fill my head: ‘he could well be waiting for you to arrive before he gives out’. I looped twice round the roundabout, screeched tires, burned rubber and pointed the shark like bonnet north. I hit the pedal to the metal, ‘the kids can wait’ I told myself‘ it’s the parent that takes precedence. In order to keep unhealthy distractions at bay, I decided I needed some company so I flicked on the CD player. We had just taken delivery of four demos from the new Arcade Fire album and they had affixed themselves into my mind and stereo instantly. As the track ‘Windowsill’ began to play, the opening lines rang out with a pathos I’d previously unheard ‘I don’t want to hear the noises on TV, I don’t want the salesman coming after me, I don’t want to live in my fathers house no more’ and this experience was to become a apparition for a whole underworld of double meanings during the next period of my life. With music out of bounds and only a mobile for company, I set about calling my friends with the news that my dad may or may not be dead. Ed, Snowy, Graeme and Steve all offered a sincere comfort and support in a remarkable way that made me think they’d done it before: my friends the grief councilors.

 

Soon enough motorways became A roads and A roads became B lanes, the Potteries glorious countryside floated into vision and rear view mirror alike. Surrounded by the land, its muted autumnal colour, its primal smell and sound of livestock: an eerie calmness descended over me.

 

The previous hour my body had been releasing a truckload of epinephrines live and direct from my adrenal glands making my heart race and my palms sweat (kicking) buckets. Now as my brain took back control of my tranquil body an acutely alert feeling, akin to an unearthly slow motion, surrounded my every move and thought. It was the shock rearing its helpful head and preparing me for what was about to happen. As I entered my sister’s road the sight of a solitary police car on her driveway confirmed what I’d already known.

 

 Dad was dead.

 

I killed the engine.

 

My sister and my mother greeted me at the door. My sister was clearly on the edge and holding it together but my mother had jumped off it without a parachute, wing or a prayer. I could write you a thousand words but written explanation or visual interpretation wouldn’t come close to what I saw in her eyes. Holy fucking fuck fuck. An anvil of scared emotion dropped from my brain, ripped through my innards and thudded at my feet like an elevator in free-fall. We held each other for dear life. We held each other for a dear life. This embrace, this connection: all warmth and all sorrow could have lasted an hour or a minute. I have not a clue. Their arms and their combined consolation filled me up with strength and ability to take my first small steps into a real mankind.

 

Ironically the house was alive, the police, the vicar, supportive neighbors and a kettle whistling whilst it worked. Keep calm, drink tea and carry on was the general atmosphere. I joined Mum and Lindsey in the dining room and helped with the questions from a very understanding and considerate member of the local constabulary. Denying the situation, I revealed a new tattoo and cracked jokes and cracked open hugs in equal measure, until Mum asked if I wanted to go and lay with him.

 

 

Twenty months have passed since he died and I’ve put off writing this paragraph for eight. This is a difficult and emotional memory for me to regurgitate. Breath deep.

 

It’s 6.30am, I’m in a hotel room in San-Francisco, 5000 miles from home, forcing myself to type with cigarettes and alcohol and I am shaking as I do so.  If the mornings walk was poignant, this walk was on another planet and reality entirely. The door opened and the first thing that struck me was how small he looked, diminished of his ample life sprit, there he lay; my dead dad the Ron Mueck sculpture. I lay with him, stroked the man I loved so much and wished with all my heart for one last time to tell him how much I loved him. I would give anything for that chance then, right this minute and for the rest of my life.

 

His body was cold and at peace. Draped in a white sheet and his freshly fatherless son. I stroked his hair, kissed his forehead and spoke words that have long since deleted themselves from my memory. He was next to me and becoming a memory at the very same time: an uneasy duality to say the least. Despite me telling him four days out of seven, I was suddenly unsure if he knew how much I loved him and guilty about being so hard on him about his smoking, his diet and his lack of exercise. This guilt knotted in my stomach and expanded into every cavity my 32 year-old body had to offer. Mum joined us and I asked if he knew what he meant to me and if he knew I was only being hard because I cared. I couldn’t get the words out. We sobbed uncontrollably whilst we held the man that had showed us the world.

 

I have no experience, first hand or from research to quote at this juncture but it is our firm belief that he knew his body was about to leave this mortal coil and very possibly exactly when. Mum recounted the day’s events and it became clear to us all that sumink was up guv. He arose unusually early; this is of note as his respiratory problems always delivered an uneasy sleep and the necessity for a lay in. He had been losing weight and to celebrate he’d been to Marks and Spencer’s for a brand spanking new outfit.

 

In all his newfound slender finery, perky navy slacks and chunky woolen knit he made Mum a cup of tea, took it to her bedside, went back downstairs, deposited himself on the sofa and had a fatal heart attack.

 

I am sure that there is some sort of emotional need for us to romanticize the death of a loved one, that it fits a vanity of some sort. Regardless of any psychological and egotistical reasons that lay behind our beliefs, without question he went through tremendous pain in order to survive this long and reunite his lioness with England and her pride. It serves as an almost perfect metaphor of what this man did and would have done, day in and day out, to protect and foster our family.

 

As the night drew to an end, fags were smoked and red wine guzzled.

I climbed into bed.

The lights went out and walls came tumbling up.