Monday 25 November 2013

Chapter 42 - Caught in the Web

Available on Kindle and in paperback from Amazon worldwide.  Also available from all good bookstores and from Completelynovel.com



Chapter Forty-two

Peter waited until he was sure Karen was fast asleep before he moved. Finally he stood up and gathered up the remnants of her breakfast, taking the tray back downstairs into the kitchen. He carefully washed up the mug and plate and set them on the draining board to dry.
Smiling to himself, he slipped on his light summer jacket and checked in the pockets for his door keys. He ran up the stairs, looking into the bedroom once more. Karen was still asleep as he closed the door gently behind him. He hesitated, wondering if he should have put a bolt on the outside of the door, then shrugged to himself.
‘She won’t be going far,’ he thought. ‘That’s a job for later on.’
Still, he left the house as quietly as he could, making sure that the front door didn’t slam behind him, holding the key in the lock as he closed it. He soon reached the phone box and dialled the number for the hospital ward that Karen had left on the pad in the kitchen.
‘It’s Peter Edwards here,’ he said as soon as he was put through to the ward. ‘I’m ringing to let you know how Karen is.’
‘Oh, thanks for ringing,’ said the male nurse who answered. ‘This is Mike, the Charge Nurse, speaking. I was going to drop by and see how she was.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ Peter bristled.
‘When will she be coming back to work? Any idea how long?’
‘She won’t be back for another week, at least,’ said Peter. ‘The doctor has said she shouldn’t be working in that sort of place until she’s well.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Mike. ‘What’s the matter with her?’
‘I’m afraid she’s having a bit of a breakdown. I think working there has made her ill, actually.’
‘Really?’ Mike remarked. ‘I’m surprised at that. Karen seems such a steady kind of a person.’
‘Well, you don’t know her then, do you?’ Peter was feeling slightly annoyed at this man who thought he knew Karen.
‘Maybe not,’ Mike said. ‘I only know that she’s a good nurse. She’s reliable and has a good head on her shoulders.’
‘And I’m telling you that she’s ill, OK?’
‘Yeah, alright mate,’ said Mike. ‘Tell her we’re all thinking of her, won’t you?’
‘Of course. Goodbye then.’
‘Get her to ring in when she’s better,’ Mike said.
Peter hung up without replying. ‘You’ve got to be joking,’ he said to himself as he dialled the number for the doctor’s surgery.
‘It’s Peter Edwards here. I need to see Dr. Wright,’ he said firmly. ‘He said I could come in if things got worse with my wife.’
The receptionist asked him to hold the line. He waited.
‘Hello Mr. Edwards.’ The receptionist’s voice was soon back. ‘That’s fine. Dr. Wright will see you in half an hour at the end of surgery if you’d like to come in then.’
Peter put the phone down and stepped outside the booth. He lit a cigarette and walked in the sunshine towards the surgery.
‘What a lovely day,’ he thought, pleased that all was going well.
Soon he was sitting in front of Dr. Wright.
‘She’s getting worse Doctor.’ He frowned. ‘She accused me of trying to poison her, and came at me with a kitchen knife yesterday. I really don’t think she’s stable enough to have this baby.’ He paused. ‘I was thinking either a termination or maybe it would be best to take the baby away for adoption once it’s born.’
‘Are you absolutely sure? That seems rather, er, extreme.’ Dr. Wright sounded shocked. ‘Have you talked to your wife about this?’
‘Of course I have,’ said Peter. ‘She’s in full agreement with me that she’s not well enough to look after a baby at the moment.’ He looked around the room for inspiration. ‘The thing is,’ he went on, ‘she’s so weird at the moment, I don’t think she can remember what she’s said from one minute to the next. To be honest, Doctor, I believe she’s a danger to herself. She’s certainly a danger to me, and she would definitely not be able to care for a child.’ He paused. ‘I know having a baby is what we’ve always wanted - and it’s heart-breaking - but... I love my wife and her well-being must come first. I’m very worried about her.’
‘Well, she didn’t seem as bad as that when I saw her.’ Dr. Wright hesitated.
‘Take it from me, Doctor,’ Peter asserted. ‘She is bad, very bad. You know, I think that being pregnant may be making her worse. Tipping her over the edge, I mean.’
‘Perhaps I should call and see her again. It may be best to take her into hospital for a while.’
‘No!’ Peter’s voice was sharp. ‘I wouldn’t want her to go into a place like that. I can look after her at home.’ He stood up. ‘I should go. Don’t worry about it Doctor - I can manage.’
‘But it sounds like she needs more than you can offer,’ Dr. Wright said. ‘I will come and visit her again and see for myself what she’s like, if you don’t mind. Say tomorrow morning after surgery. Do you think you could manage until then?’
‘I really don’t think you need to come and visit at all,’ Peter blustered. He wondered whether he’d made the wrong move involving the doctor again so soon. The last thing he wanted was for Karen to be taken out of his care. He just wanted to make sure that the baby was dealt with as soon as possible. All he wanted was his old wife back and for things to carry on as before. That wasn’t too much to wish for, was it?
‘Look. I know it must be very difficult for you,’ Dr. Wright’s voice interrupted his thoughts. ‘No-one likes to admit that their loved-one may be mentally ill but the treatments these days are very good. Patients are often only in for a few weeks then with regular appointments with the psychiatrist many live full, normal lives again before long. Taking away your baby is a very drastic thing to do and probably totally unnecessary.’
‘You don’t understand.’
‘I understand that you’re very distressed and maybe not thinking very clearly.’
‘It’s alright, really,’ said Peter. ‘I shouldn’t have come.’
‘Well - I shall visit tomorrow morning. Your wife is my patient and my responsibility.’ He smiled. ‘After eleven then. Tell her to expect me.’
Peter shook his hand and left the room.
His head was reeling. ‘Now what?’ he thought.




Monday 18 November 2013

Caught in the Web - Chapter 41

Got yours yet?  Also available from Completelynovel.com


Chapter Forty-one

Karen drifted in and out of a timeless sleep.
The house was quiet when she finally woke. The light was in the sky but the sun hadn’t yet risen. She could hear the faint sound of the birds in the street outside as she crept from her bed, trying not to wake Peter who was snoring beside her. She glanced at him in the dim grey light, realising the depth of her feelings for him had not waned. She paused a moment before pushing away the regret which was trying to overwhelm her resolve to break free from his power.
Quietly gathering up her clothes, she eased open the bedroom door, freezing for a long moment as Peter turned over in his sleep. Eventually she closed the door behind her and tip-toed to the bathroom where she hurriedly dressed herself.
Karen had no plan - she just knew she had to get away. Going to Margaret would be of no use as she would just send her back home again. She couldn’t even think beyond getting out of the house. Her mind was flooding with thoughts she didn’t want to think. Getting away from Peter was the only answer to her safety.
Without flushing the toilet, she opened the bathroom door and listened. No sound came from the rest of the house. The bedroom door was still firmly closed. She stood at the top of the stairs and looked around. The feeling of remorse was hanging heavily over her as she realised that she might not come back here again. But where would she go? Without trying to find the answer she made her way to the bottom of the stairs and the front door. Her bag was slung over the back of a chair in the hall. She clutched it to her and turned the front door knob. It was locked. Trying to unlatch the lock, she realised that it was already unlatched. She panicked, wondering what had happened. Then she looked up and noticed that the door had an extra lock fitted at the top of the door. Her fear drew to a new level.
She ran to the back door suspecting even before she reached it that it would be the same story there. She rattled the handle, whilst wondering as she did what she thought she could achieve. She sobbed in frustration, leaned against the door and slid down the glass panel to the floor. She sat hunched over her knees, wailing inwardly in frustration.
‘Now what are you doing?’ Peter stood in the doorway, glaring down at her. She looked up and his glare turned to a smile.
‘Poor Karen. You really are in a state aren’t you?’ He reached down and took her by the elbow. ‘Come along, let’s get you back to bed. I’ll make you a nice cup of tea.’ He pulled her up roughly, almost wrenching her arm out of its socket.
Karen screamed at him. ‘Let me go! Please let me go! Why are you doing this to me?’
He held her arm in a tight grip and pulled her face close to his.
‘Now just shut up!’ he spat. ‘You’re not well and you need to get some sleep.’
‘I’m not ill,’ Karen shouted back. ‘You just can’t stand me being my own person. You can’t get away with this.’
‘Just watch me.’ His voice was quieter now. ‘No-one will believe you. Why should they?’ He laughed. ‘I only have to give the word and they’ll lock you up, just like one of your patients.’
‘That sort of thing doesn’t happen any more,’ Karen retorted. ‘You can’t just lock people up without good reason.’
‘But we have good reason, don’t we?’ Peter stroked her face. ‘Dr. Wright has seen how you’ve been and my own dear Mother too.’
Karen gasped.
‘Oh yes,’ he went on. ‘You thought she was on your side didn’t you? Well it didn’t take much to convince her that you’re completely unstable. And the doctor? That was even easier. Because it’s true, you really are going mad and it wouldn’t take much more to tip you completely over the edge. I really am worried about you Karen. I don’t know what you might do next to harm yourself. And then there’s the little problem of you hurting other people.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Karen was horrified at the depths of his fantasies.
‘The kitchen knife you attacked me with of course.’ He paused, releasing his grip on her slightly. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t remember the kitchen knife? It was lucky I managed to wrestle it from you in time.’
‘You’re insane!’ Karen said. ‘None of those things have happened. No-one would believe you.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong. You see, dear Karen, they already do believe me. Why would they not? Now then, let’s get you back up those stairs.’
He steered her towards the hallway. Karen knew that she couldn’t fight him. He led her up the stairs and watched as she lay back down on the bed.
‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Just rest there and you’ll be well again before you know it.’ He smiled. ‘I’m going to make you some breakfast now.’
Karen said nothing. He shrugged his shoulders and left the room. She could hear him in the kitchen, making tea. The smell of toast wafted up the stairs. Her stomach churned with hunger.
He was back in a short while with a tray of tea and toast, cut up into triangles and spread with marmalade. He placed the tray on her lap and stood back.
‘Just how you like it,’ he said. ‘Now be a good girl and eat up.’
Karen sat and looked at the tray. She was frightened to eat or drink anything he offered her, knowing that somehow he’d been drugging her.
‘Now come along.’ Peter sat on the bed beside her and picked up the plate of toast. ‘I’m not leaving this room until you’ve eaten something,’ he said. ‘Come along darling - eat.’
Without looking at him, she took a slice from the plate, hoping that he’d back-off and leave her in peace.
‘Go on,’ he urged. ‘Eat up. There’s plenty more.’
Karen nibbled the edge of the slice nervously.
‘Come on, Karen,’ Peter said impatiently. ‘What do you think I’ve done, poisoned the marmalade?’
‘Of course not. I’m just not that hungry.’
‘Nonsense,’ he insisted. ‘You must eat. In your condition it’s important to eat well.’
‘I thought you wanted me to get rid of the baby. Why are you suddenly concerned for it. You don’t care.’ Karen was angry now.
‘Of course I care.’ His voice was mocking. ‘You know, Karen, your imagination is getting beyond a joke. Do you really think I could do you any harm?’
‘I don’t know,’ Karen said.
‘I just want you to be how you used to be. You were alright before you started to get these weird ideas in your head.’ He put down the plate and took her free hand. ‘I know I was upset when you told me you were pregnant with this baby, which isn’t mine, by the way. I just thought I’d remind you of that little fact.’ He sighed, then went on. ‘I was upset but I can understand you don’t want to get rid of the baby. I’ve just had to come to terms with it, haven’t I?’
‘So you think I should have the baby now, then?’ Karen’s hopes lifted a little.
‘No choice is there?’ he replied. ‘Now eat something before you make yourself ill.’
‘I don’t know if I can believe you. You’ve changed your mind so suddenly.’
‘I haven’t,’ he denied. ‘I’ve been thinking about it for a while now.’
Karen was unsure of what to believe any more. She was tired of fighting and just wanted to feel safe again.
‘Come on darling,’ he coaxed. He stroked her cheek and smiled softly at her. ‘Just eat a little bit.’
‘Alright,’ Karen conceded and bit into the toast. It tasted as it always did and she began to doubt her suspicions. Hunger was getting the better of her and before long she’d finished the first slice. Soon the plate was empty. Peter passed her the mug of tea that had been placed on the bedside table.
‘Good girl,’ he said. 'Now a nice cup of tea to wash it all down.’ He sat watching her as she drank the contents of the mug.
She could still see his smiling face as she drifted into oblivion.






Thursday 14 November 2013

Caught in the Web - Chapter 40

Caught in the Web is available from all good book stores, and on the internet.  It is available from Amazon either in paperback or as a Kindle ebook.


Chapter Forty

It was raining when Grace got off the bus outside the hospital gate. She wore a blanket of numbness masking the emotions that were still buried deep inside. During the journey she had stared from the bus window as it rumbled through the winding country lanes and tried to forget the years that had passed since she’d travelled this route as a weekly pilgrimage in all weathers. Today the rain had sheeted against the window, cutting through her painful past. The bus had paused for a passenger to get off at the abattoir, reminding Grace of the noises that had come from within this grisly place in the past. Today, there was only the silence of a Sunday afternoon bringing back thoughts of Grace’s own losses.
Now standing beside the bus under the shelter of the main hospital gate, she paused. The gates were no longer locked although the porter still sat in the little glass-fronted office at the side. The bell-tower still stood watch over the centre of the main building, telling all-comers of the time, the bell now silent but still a memory of the days when it would ring a warning of some poor creature escaping from within the miserable walls.
Grace paused a moment longer, then walked through the gateway, stopping at the open hatch where the porter waited.
‘I’m visiting someone on Camberley Ward,’ she said. ‘Could you direct me, please.’
‘Through the door across the yard, straight down the left-hand corridor,’ he pointed. ‘When you get to the end, you have to go up the stairs. Ring the bell on the door at the top.’
‘Thank you.’
It had all come back to her as the man spoke. How could she ever forget that journey down the corridor of doom? She’d taken it so many times before.
Her footsteps echoed as she walked. She wished she’d not worn the new shoes with the leather soles which clipped as she walked. She wasn’t alone in the corridor. Other visitors headed in the same direction but she felt alone. There was only a flicker of hope which kept her going. Hope that she could make things better again.
Plodding up the stairs as part of a group of visitors helped keep the fear at bay. She stood outside the door with the small group of seemingly lost souls all waiting to pay their respects to their own guilty past secrets.
The door opened and the smell of the ward hit her in the face, forcing the memories of past visits to the forefront of her mind. She swallowed and shuffled through the door behind the others as they began the long walk down the gallery to the ward office. She tried not to look at the faces in the windows of the rooms which stretched all along one side, knowing that Evelyn would be in one of them.
A nurse stood at the office door waiting to greet them.
All of the other visitors seemed to know what to do, nodding to the nurse before continuing on to the open space beyond the office. Grace could see several patients sitting waiting - dressed, she presumed, in their Sunday Best cotton dresses, crisp and not yet faded with age and over-washing.
Grace smiled at the nurse. ‘I’ve come to see Evelyn Chapman. I’m her Mother.’
‘Of course. I’m Sheila. Evelyn’s in her room but if you’d like to sit here I’ll go and get her for you.’ She led Grace to some low chairs set around a coffee table near a tall window in the gallery. ‘I expect you’d like some time alone with her,’ she added.
‘Thank you.’ Grace sat in one of the chairs, nervously glancing out of the window at the rain which was still falling relentlessly from the summer sky. Black clouds scudded across the rooftops of the nearby wards. She wondered if you could see across to the Isle-of-Wight on a clear day. It was a disturbing thought that Evelyn had often looked out on this view. All those years wasted whilst outside life went on through its daily turmoil, leaving her behind in a world which would never return.
Evelyn’s voice brought her back to the present.
‘Mum.’
Grace stood up. ‘Hello Evelyn.’ She reached to embrace Evelyn with a quick hug.
‘I’ll just leave you to it then,’ the nurse turned to go. ‘I’ll bring you a cup of tea in a while if you like.’
‘Thank you,’ said Grace. ‘That’s very kind.’
‘We don’t usually make tea for visitors. But as it’s your first time, I think it would be best for Evelyn to stay on the ward. The next time you come, you could take Evelyn to the Patient’s Cafeteria - get her off the ward.’ She turned to Evelyn. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you Evelyn?’
‘I want to stay here,’ Evelyn said firmly.
‘Yes, of course we will,’ Grace assured her. ‘Don’t worry.’
They sat in silence listening to Sheila’s footsteps echoing in the distance as she stomped off to the kitchen to make tea. Grace tried to find the right words to start a conversation with this daughter who was a stranger to her.
It was Evelyn who finally broke the silence.
‘Karen’s gone,’ she said.
‘Oh, I saw her again,’ Grace said. ‘She came to see me after your visit.’
‘She’s not been here. I miss her.’
‘She’s a nice girl,’ agreed Grace. ‘But you know, she has her own problems. I expect she’s taken some time off for a holiday.’
Evelyn picked at her fingers, looking at the space between her and her mother.
‘How have you been?’ Grace asked.
‘Alright.’
‘Good.’ Grace wondered what else she could say. ‘Well,’ she continued, ‘We’ve got a lot of years to catch up on. I don’t know where to start really.’
So many thoughts were rushing into her head - things she wanted to say but each one she rejected as being too contentious or somehow inappropriate. ‘How do you make small-talk in such a situation?’ she wondered. The years spent apart stretched between them like an impassable canyon.
It was with a smothered sigh of relief that Grace welcomed Sheila back with the tray of tea. She looked at the nurse gratefully as the tray was placed on the table bridging the distance between herself and Evelyn.
‘I thought this might help,’ said Sheila. ‘It’s never easy the first time.’ She smiled at them both. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot.‘ She turned to Grace. ‘Could you come to the office before you leave? The Charge Nurse would like to have a quick word, if that’s all right.’
‘Of course,’ Grace nodded. ‘I’d like to speak to him anyway.’ She smiled at Evelyn. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’
Evelyn shook her head.
‘Good,’ said Sheila. ‘Right. I must get on.’ She walked away, leaving them alone once more.
‘Evelyn,’ Grace began, ‘I don’t know how you feel about this, but I wanted to talk to the Charge Nurse about you coming to see me at home again. What do you think?’
‘I can’t come on the bus on my own!’
‘You wouldn’t have to come on your own,’ Grace assured her. ‘I’m sure a nurse could bring you and make sure you were alright. I was going to ask but wanted to speak to you about it first.’
‘Not Marion,’ was all that Evelyn said.
‘Marion? Is she a nurse here?’ Grace asked.
‘Yes. I don’t like her. Can I have Karen?’ Evelyn spoke firmly.
‘I don’t know. We could ask but if Karen’s off duty then you could have a different nurse. Karen can’t be here all the time can she? What about that nice nurse who made the tea? Sheila.’ Grace looked at Evelyn expectantly.
Evelyn nodded.
‘Good.’ Grace breathed a sigh of relief. ‘I’ll talk to the Charge Nurse then.’


Wednesday 13 November 2013

Caught in the web Chapter 39


Chapter Thirty-nine

Grace sat for a long time beside the empty fireplace before she pulled herself to her feet and made her way upstairs to bed, passing the closed door of Evelyn’s old room as she went. She paused for a moment by the door, sighed and went on into her own neat room. She clambered into the old high bed, pulling the crisp white cotton sheets up to her neck as she rested her head on the pillow.
Thoughts raced through her mind, pushing away the more recent conversation with young Karen to the background, whilst Grace’s own worries fought for her attention.
She reached to the bedside table - took up the old photograph she kept in the silver frame and held it to her breast for a moment. A tear slid from her cheek and dripped onto the cold metal. Using the back of her hand to wipe her face, Grace looked at the picture and smiled at Evelyn’s innocent eyes staring back at her.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered as she ran her finger over the unfeeling glass in the frame. After a moment she placed the picture carefully back in its place, turned off the light, and lay down to sleep with a new determination in her heart.

Evelyn was worried. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Karen. The more she tried to work out how many days ago it was, the more muddled she became.
‘Doctors come on Monday,’ she thought. No doctor had been since she went to Fareham. ‘It wasn’t market day. That’s Monday, too.’ She wondered what day it was today. The smell of fish wafting from the ward kitchen told her it was Friday. So she hadn’t seen Karen for at least four days. She stood in the doorway of her room and tried to gather the courage to walk to the office.
The heat of the morning sunlight poured through the long windows opposite her room as she stepped into the wide gallery and tentatively made her way towards the open office door.
‘Evelyn?’ Mike was sitting at his desk. He looked up at her inquiringly.
She couldn’t find the words.
‘Come in.’ Mike patted the chair at the side of his desk. ‘Come and have a chat.’
She pushed down the fear and stepped into the office.
‘What can I do for you?’ Mike asked as she sat on the edge of the chair.
‘Karen.’ It was blurted out before she could lose her nerve.
‘She’s not here today.’ Mike smiled at her. ‘Did you want to talk to her?’
Evelyn nodded.
‘Can you talk to me instead?’ he asked.
‘Where is she?’ Evelyn asked.
‘She’s just taking a few days off. She’ll be back on the ward before you know it.’ He paused. ‘Do you miss her?’
Evelyn nodded again.
‘She’s a good nurse,’ Mike said.
Evelyn smiled.
‘I’m glad you came to the office, Evelyn,’ Mike went on. ‘I was going to ask you something.’
‘What?’ Evelyn jumped.
‘It’s alright. It’s good news.’ He paused, smiling at her. ‘You saw your mother the other day, didn’t you?’ he asked.
‘Yes. With Karen.’
‘How did it go?’ he asked.
‘Alright.’ Evelyn examined her nails. ‘She’s old.’
‘It’s been a long time since you saw her, I suppose,’ he said. ‘You were ill for a long time.’
‘Am I ill now?’ she wondered.
‘You’re better now. You’re just not used to the world outside. You’ve been cooped up in here for too long.’
‘Chickens.’ Evelyn interrupted him.
‘What?’
‘Chickens live in coops,’ Evelyn went on. ‘We had chickens once. The fox got them all.’
‘Oh, yes. Chickens - cooped up. I see.’ He chuckled. ‘Anyway, we’d like to get you used to going out a bit at a time, like when you went to Fareham the other day with Karen. And maybe seeing your family. Your Mum?’
‘I didn’t like it in Fareham.’ Evelyn could feel herself shaking inside. ‘Marion scared me.’
‘Well when you’re ready, maybe you could try it again,’ he said. ‘But with nurses you feel happier with.’
‘Karen.’
‘Maybe,’ Mike agreed. ‘Who else do you trust here?’
‘Not Marion.’
‘No, not Marion,’ he said.
‘Not Marion,’ Evelyn repeated.
‘What about your Mum visiting?’
‘I told her she could.’ Evelyn stood up and turned towards the door. ‘When’s she coming?’
‘She wants to come this Sunday,’ he said. But if you don’t want to see her yet, I can drop a note in her door on my way home tonight. What do you think?’
Evelyn nodded.
‘Good. This Sunday then, at two.’


Caught in the Web is available from Amazon, either on Kindle or paperback.  Also can be purchased in all good bookstores.



Monday 11 November 2013

One Night in April

In August this year I performed at The Victorious Festival in Portsmouth Dockyard.  This was my performance piece of writing for the Spoken Word Stage:


We buried my Dad in the woods.  He didn’t want a church ceremony or to be buried in a churchyard with a slab of marble to remember him by.  He didn’t want to go down the crem. on that sometimes conveyor-belt exit to the next world.  He didn’t really believe in the next world.  He was anti-church to the extreme - born a Catholic, lived through the hell that was Poland in the Second World War and never got over it - not really.

When he died, we’d not spoken for over a year - long story.  Not spoken for a year and I didn’t know - my brother told me his wishes.  He wanted one of those Eco burials - to be shoved in a hole in the woods somewhere.  I was never sure whether it was his true belief that it would be better to be recycled into the forest or just some perverse way of sticking his fingers up at his family - a way of saying ‘No-one cares about me now and I don’t want you all standing around my grave or putting flowers on a hump in some cemetery which is connected to a church I don’t believe in.’

He died in the QA and there he lay, waiting for me to work out how the hell do you get a body from the hospital into a hole in the woods.  Not just the hole but the coffin and all that.  Lucky for me there was a leaflet on it and soon I found myself sitting in a woodland grove, chosing the place to lay my Dad to rest.  On the side of a hill, between the trees with views of sheep on the South Downs.  I smiled and knew my Dad would love it here.

Now what about a coffin?  We sat, my partner and I, in an office bedecked with coffins - wicker, raffia, cardboard and even one of wood.  We were told we could even put my Dad in the ground dressed just in a shroud.  I thought about this for only a brief moment before deciding on a wicker one.  I shuddered at the thought of undertakers - men in black with top hats and grim faces.  But no - you don’t need undertakers to bury your Dad in the woods.

The day dawned - a late November crisp and Autumn day.  The kind of day I remembered the good times with my Dad by, walks in the woods near our home, kicking up the golden leaves and laughing together about life.  A short drive took us to the burial site where we met with my two brothers and our children.  We needed a few strong young men to help with the bere - it’s a woodland walk from the Centre to the site - all downhill and bumpy.  Being Autumn the ground was slippery and a little treacherous in places!  My Dad was in the car - a four-wheeled drive wagon driven by the woman who ran the burial site.  She’d gone to the QA that morning and with the help of the mortuary assistant had popped Dad into his new wicker coffin and there he was, lying there in the back of her car.  We just had to get him out and onto the wooden bere.  Luckily we had strong sons to bear the weight.
My sister-in-law had made a floral decoration to place on the coffin - made of dried flowers and bound with natural fibres - no wires - and she placed this on the coffin.  Then we were off.  

As I said before, the ground was slippery underfoot and quite steep in places.  Ever tried wheeling a bere laden with the six foot long, well-built remains of your Dad down a winding woodland path?  At each twist and turn the boys struggled to control the roll of the wagon, clinging onto the coffin, giggling and joking as they went.  The sun shone through the trees, now bereft of many of the golden leaves that had shimmered and danced the week before when we’d wandered this same path to find the perfect resting place.
There is something final about seeing the hole in the ground that you’re about to put your Dad in.  When we turned the last bend and reached the clearing where I’d sat pondering on the view it just hit me that this was it.  My Dad was dead and wasn’t coming back.

Now we just had to manipulate him from the bere and into the ground.  Luckily the young woman who’d collected Dad from the QA was still with us - as a kind of guide.  She’d talked us through the process of balancing the coffin on the boards and how to take the weight of the straps and to carefully lower him into the ground.  I stood and watched.  The hole was very deep and apart from the top layer of soil was completely chalk - a nightmare to dig so I imagine.  Incidentally, we were given the option to dig his grave but graciously declined and were grateful for the mini-digger which was peeking from behind a tree a few yards away.

Once Dad was in his grave I felt the need to say a few words - my brothers had agreed that I should be the one - being the ‘writer person’ in the family.  So I talked about the good things in Dad’s life - and there were loads although he probably wouldn’t have agreed.  I talked about some of the not so good things too, just to keep a balance.  Then I read a poem I’d found in a collection of John Betjeman’s he’d left at his bedside - Autumn 1964.  Funnily enough, reading the poem made me realise that Dad may have had some sort of belief in the afterlife and all that - the last two lines state ‘And in the bells the promise tells of greater light where Love is found.’

My brother’s contribution was to bring along a compilation cd that he’d bizarrely made ready for his own funeral - he was only fifty-five at the time!  He insisted that he wanted to play the music as Dad was lowered into his grave.  The young woman (our guide) had tried it in the Centre building before we walked to the grave and it had worked then but once at the graveside it would not work - just made a booming noise.  She even ran back up to the office and came back with new batteries just to make sure - but again just this loud noise was emitted from the speaker.  My brother was a little upset although I am convinced that Dad didn’t really want morose music at his funeral.  And it was morose.  He got his own way that day.

Since then I’ve found talking to my Dad much easier than when he was here in person.  I can say whatever I want to him now and he doesn’t get upset or ignore me.  We’re closer now than we had been for years.  And although I don’t sit beside his grave very often - it’s not marked other than by a crab-apple tree which was planted after the burial - every Autumn I remember our walks and he knows I love him.

Wednesday 6 November 2013

We Buried My Dad In the Woods

I wrote this tribute to my Dad and read it out at The Square Tower Bookfest event on 30th October - Celebrating The Day of The Dead:


We buried my Dad in the woods.  He didn’t want a church ceremony or to be buried in a churchyard with a slab of marble to remember him by.  He didn’t want to go down the crem. on that sometimes conveyor-belt exit to the next world.  He didn’t really believe in the next world.  He was anti-church to the extreme - born a Catholic, lived through the hell that was Poland in the Second World War and never got over it - not really.

When he died, we’d not spoken for over a year - long story.  Not spoken for a year and I didn’t know - my brother told me his wishes.  He wanted one of those Eco burials - to be shoved in a hole in the woods somewhere.  I was never sure whether it was his true belief that it would be better to be recycled into the forest or just some perverse way of sticking his fingers up at his family - a way of saying ‘No-one cares about me now and I don’t want you all standing around my grave or putting flowers on a hump in some cemetery which is connected to a church I don’t believe in.’

He died in the QA and there he lay, waiting for me to work out how the hell do you get a body from the hospital into a hole in the woods.  Not just the hole but the coffin and all that.  Lucky for me there was a leaflet on it and soon I found myself sitting in a woodland grove, chosing the place to lay my Dad to rest.  On the side of a hill, between the trees with views of sheep on the South Downs.  I smiled and knew my Dad would love it here.

Now what about a coffin?  We sat, my partner and I, in an office bedecked with coffins - wicker, raffia, cardboard and even one of wood.  We were told we could even put my Dad in the ground dressed just in a shroud.  I thought about this for only a brief moment before deciding on a wicker one.  I shuddered at the thought of undertakers - men in black with top hats and grim faces.  But no - you don’t need undertakers to bury your Dad in the woods.

The day dawned - a late November crisp and Autumn day.  The kind of day I remembered the good times with my Dad by, walks in the woods near our home, kicking up the golden leaves and laughing together about life.  A short drive took us to the burial site where we met with my two brothers and our children.  We needed a few strong young men to help with the bere - it’s a woodland walk from the Centre to the site - all downhill and bumpy.  Being Autumn the ground was slippery and a little treacherous in places!  My Dad was in the car - a four-wheeled drive wagon driven by the woman who ran the burial site.  She’d gone to the QA that morning and with the help of the mortuary assistant had popped Dad into his new wicker coffin and there he was, lying there in the back of her car.  We just had to get him out and onto the wooden bere.  Luckily we had strong sons to bear the weight.
My sister-in-law had made a floral decoration to place on the coffin - made of dried flowers and bound with natural fibres - no wires - and she placed this on the coffin.  Then we were off.  

As I said before, the ground was slippery underfoot and quite steep in places.  Ever tried wheeling a bere laden with the six foot long, well-built remains of your Dad down a winding woodland path?  At each twist and turn the boys struggled to control the roll of the wagon, clinging onto the coffin, giggling and joking as they went.  The sun shone through the trees, now bereft of many of the golden leaves that had shimmered and danced the week before when we’d wandered this same path to find the perfect resting place.
There is something final about seeing the hole in the ground that you’re about to put your Dad in.  When we turned the last bend and reached the clearing where I’d sat pondering on the view it just hit me that this was it.  My Dad was dead and wasn’t coming back.

Now we just had to manipulate him from the bere and into the ground.  Luckily the young woman who’d collected Dad from the QA was still with us - as a kind of guide.  She’d talked us through the process of balancing the coffin on the boards and how to take the weight of the straps and to carefully lower him into the ground.  I stood and watched.  The hole was very deep and apart from the top layer of soil was completely chalk - a nightmare to dig so I imagine.  Incidentally, we were given the option to dig his grave but graciously declined and were grateful for the mini-digger which was peeking from behind a tree a few yards away.

Once Dad was in his grave I felt the need to say a few words - my brothers had agreed that I should be the one - being the ‘writer person’ in the family.  So I talked about the good things in Dad’s life - and there were loads although he probably wouldn’t have agreed.  I talked about some of the not so good things too, just to keep a balance.  Then I read a poem I’d found in a collection of John Betjeman’s he’d left at his bedside - Autumn 1964.  Funnily enough, reading the poem made me realise that Dad may have had some sort of belief in the afterlife and all that - the last two lines state ‘And in the bells the promise tells of greater light where Love is found.’

My brother’s contribution was to bring along a compilation cd that he’d bizarrely made ready for his own funeral - he was only fifty-five at the time!  He insisted that he wanted to play the music as Dad was lowered into his grave.  The young woman (our guide) had tried it in the Centre building before we walked to the grave and it had worked then but once at the graveside it would not work - just made a booming noise.  She even ran back up to the office and came back with new batteries just to make sure - but again just this loud noise was emitted from the speaker.  My brother was a little upset although I am convinced that Dad didn’t really want morose music at his funeral.  And it was morose.  He got his own way that day.

Since then I’ve found talking to my Dad much easier than when he was here in person.  I can say whatever I want to him now and he doesn’t get upset or ignore me.  We’re closer now than we had been for years.  And although I don’t sit beside his grave very often - it’s not marked other than by a crab-apple tree which was planted after the burial - every Autumn I remember our walks and he knows I love him.