Back on the Farm

This morning the rain was constant. I woke to Gatling gun staccato on the water and ripple interference patterns than even Bridget Riley could not match. It was cold as lawyer’s blood and the sun was a wheezing, invalid grey. We seem to have fast-forwarded through the joys of autumn to the first harsh edges of winter.

With just about enough light to recognise my own face in the mirror, I shave. Pull on a black Italian suit, blue and white-striped shirt burgundy silk tie and the Chelsea boots. I look like a Tory until the rain forces me to take the leather trench coat from its hanger.

At 10am I make my way down a Little Lebanon too early to be fully awake, too wet for the usual shisha huddles. Weaving into what estate agents and others pompously label ‘Connaught Village’, I nod to the policemen armed with Heckler and Koch MP5s like I am an old friend. No one challenges me. It is a trick I learnt from watching Doctor Who and used countless times as a journalist: act as if you own the place and half the time those on the gates do not even bothers to ask for ID.

Within an hour, hands are shaken and papers are signed. I feel the shudder of collapsing parallel dimensions as I meet and move forward from this nexus point. I am back in the game, back on the farm.

Later in the day I close forever the door on my grandparent’s council flat – the place they called home for 40 years of their 78-year long marriage. A frequent and reliable refuge, a place where I could always find love no matter how crushed and crumpled my life was, is now lost to me. Returning from Essex, tears escape on the train as I try and update my internal map.

The sunset I watch from the carriage window is a nursery scheme of pink and blue. The industrial spires and refinery flames across the estuary look like a science fiction backdrop from the 1960s. I find I am my eyes are still damp when the sky has become dark and the shimmering pyramid atop Canary Wharf signals that the end of the line is nigh.

The Second Albert Southwell

I am a writer. I am meant to be good with words, but sometimes I struggle to fit them together. Some things are hard to write about and any attempt ends up like trying to capture the wind in your hands.

I did not manage to write the eulogy for my grandfather until an hour or so before the funeral. There had been some family debate the night before over whether or not I could call him a “scoundrel” in an oration and whether if I did, whether it would be the only word my predominantly deaf Nanna would actually hear. However, the real problem with trying to write it was that my emotion was too raw and rushing to be shaped by words.

In the end I hit deadline, scratching a few notes in the morning ahead of getting into the hearse for the short trip to Saint Mary’s Prittlewell. Blurred by tears, a little shaky and finding it somewhat difficult to play the role of strong man, I pushed my Nanna’s wheelchair into church whilst Surreal Girl supported me. With the blonde wood of the coffin ahead of me, the hymns and preliminaries of the service just ended up becoming the background noise to help hide my sobbing. When it was my turn to go to the lectern, I felt hollow, exhausted. I was sick with grief and the knowledge my pale words were going to fail me, my grandfather and the 70 or more people waiting in the pews.

Below is roughly what I told them through veil of water and a voice that kept betraying my sense of loss. I think all that you need to know about my grandfather to understand what follows is that he had been a scoundrel (a word actually used in the end by Father Frank to cover his years of gambling, drinking and hustling) who had a profound spiritual experience after my father died 12 years ago. After that he really was in many senses reborn. He was certainly a different, easier to love man.

'This should be very easy because I know Father Frank will come up after me and tell you how wonderful my grandfather was. And he was wonderful. However, it is incredibly hard. I do not think I can begin to do my grandfather justice today.

There is no doubt about it that my grandfather would be terribly embarrassed by me or anyone else standing here and you about him. For a man so many regarded as special, he was incredibly modest.

If he was here and you could actually persuade him to talk about himself he would probably tell you how proud he was to come from Stoke Newington. How proud he was of his own father – a trade unionist who stood up for Jewish refugees and those in worse conditions than his own. Most of all, my grandfather would have told you about his flaw and the mistakes he made in his life.

I was with him when he died. In the last few weeks of his life his body and even his mind had been ravaged, but beyond the moment of death he looked fulfilled. Even the stretched parchment dryness of his skin and utter, wasted tiredness were invisible. He truly looked fulfilled. Part of this was his total faith, his absolute belief in a return to heaven. Part of it I am convinced comes from him having lived an incredible 95 years.

As a teenager my grandfather put himself through college to learn a trade as a printer. He volunteered for service in the war because he felt it was the best way to protect him family. He joined the air force, which saw him moonlighting and running scams in Iceland to much harsher episodes during the liberation of Belgium and other parts of the Low Countries. He worked hard all of his life for little reward or recognition. When he retired he began to work to help others. By taking up running in his seventies he not only broke records – he once held the British veteran record for the fastest half marathon – he raised thousands of pounds for charity.

However, my grandfather took no real pride in of this. If you asked him, he would say his biggest accomplishment was 73 years of marriage and the great love he shared with my Nanna. After that, the only thing he would mention with pride was being a father to my father Bert.

The saddest thing my grandfather suffered was the loss of my father. However, it was through such devastation and the vision he enjoyed in its wake that he believed he came into the presence of his God. After this, he was a changed, renewed man. His response to sadness was a total love for the world. From that moment on his heart was full of love, forgiveness and light.

I will treasure my grandfather and all the things I was lucky enough to see after his sea change. I will treasure his questioning mind, his avid reading, interest in politics and the him being one of the few men who could talk about LSD, Islamic history, his worries over the environment and the woes of Southend United all in the space of 10 minutes. I will treasure his ability to break into song – usually Ella Fitzgerald or Charles Aznavour. I will treasure his advice on everything from the best place to drink Dubonnet Rouge in Paris (outside Opéra de Paris) or how to find a love that would last like that between him and my Nanna (only marry someone who embodies your favourite song by the Beatles).

I have lost not just a wonderful grandfather, but also a great friend and an example of someone who was able to live without judgement, someone who walked every step with hope and love. My grandfather’s total faith meant he had no fear about his spirit dying and nor have I any fear that he will fail to live on in the hearts and minds of those who knew him.’

Right now, as I am getting close to hitting the publish button before any trace of a tear comes, I raise a glass of brandy to the Gros Bon Ange of the second Albert Southwell. My grandfather deserved better words than I could muster, but I can at least honour him in the best way the living ever can, through a remembrance of love.

Fighting Back Tears

Today was tough. The funeral saw me fighting back tears as I delivered the eulogy, but the worst waited for me post-wake. It was then my Nanna asked me to “put her to sleep”. Now more tears are flowing and I cannot even face sleep.

Dead

My grandfather is dead. He died yesterday afternoon as I held his hand.

I doubt there will be any blog entries until after the funeral.

Return to Essex

Blog entries are going to be sparse for the next few days.

On Monday night I got the call to immediately return to Essex. My 95-year-old grandfather had been rushed into hospital. He remains seriously ill.

This has meant that I am now looking after my grandmother. She is 97 and requires a fair degree of care. Between providing that care and visiting my grandfather in hospital there is not much time for anything else at the moment.

There is also a technology issue. As I am making dinner on a cooker from 1965 and watching the news on a black and white TV from 1973, it is not surprising there is no Internet access.

Given the décor of my Nanna’s flat, it would have been easy to believe when I woke up in an armchair at 2:50 this morning, I had fallen into an episode of Life On Mars. I am just thankful Thank there was no MANDI-esque, girl from Test Card F. I have enough stress going on right now and I get my daily dose of fear from walking past the chemotherapy unit in Southend General six times per day.