Mobius Strip - Chapter 2

The following morning I am sitting in a café with my dad. One of the many emotions I experienced as I was falling asleep the night before was relief. Not relief that my granddad was no longer suffering or any of that nonsense. No, the relief of being able to blag some time off work, in fact it may have been my primary response. Yep, that’s right, definitely no redeeming features. Anyway, I don’t have time to focus on how hideous I am because dad and I are too busy talking about anything but my granddads death.

   ‘How’s work?’

   ‘So so, plenty of people’s life’s left to destroy.’

   ‘No one forced them to borrow money son; too many people nowadays think they can have what they want without paying for it. The worlds built on greed son, it’s not your fault, you’re just doing your job. We used to save…’

   We’ve had this conversation before; dad seems to think debt was invented in the 1990’s. He manages to completely ignore the reality of his own home being repossessed in 1987 after he was made redundant. Presumably he didn’t take out a mortgage thinking he wouldn’t have to pay for it. I guess like most people he doesn’t let trivial matters such as facts and the truth get in the way of his beliefs. I just don’t know how people do this; it’s not even hypocrisy, because that suggests intent, they really are just oblivious. I, on the other hand, have to think, think, think, making sure I understand the full horrific actuality of everything.

   ‘Yeah you’re right,’ I say to avoid an argument. Mr Moral Fibre- that’s me.     

   Someone brings us our bacon sandwiches.  The bread is cut so thin that the fat soaks straight through, and the sandwich falls apart in my hand. Dad and me mock the ludicrousness of an establishment that is the greasiest of English greasy spoons, but which is decorated sporadically with baseball photos and memorabilia, and called, bizarrely, “Spanish Bistro”. We both hate awkwardness and this brings some light relief. Only 20 minutes to kill now before the appointment at the funeral parlour. I try to think of something insignificant to say.

   ‘It was sudden.’ Ah, it’s my father’s infuriating habit of speaking in non-sequiturs.  What’s he talking about?

   ‘What was?’

   ‘Your grandfather’s death!’

   Oh. I seem to have misread this; I thought we weren’t talking about it.

   ‘That’s right Son - the death of my Father.  Is it just so difficult to think of someone other than yourself, you have to make stupid jokes about the name of the bloody café?’

   What the f**k is going on here?

   ‘I’m sorry Dad I… I guess it hasn’t sunk in yet. I…’

   ‘It’s ok Son, it’s ok, it’s a shock to us all.’

   ‘I just can’t believe he’s dead.’

   ‘I know.’

   This exchange is one of the reasons I avoided talking about it in the first place. It just does not seem possible to avoid cliché when discussing someone’s death. It feels fraudulent and surely it is demeaning to the person who has died. Of course it has sunk in and of course I can believe it. I’m not expecting my granddad to walk in the café any second, laughing at the brilliant execution of a twisted practical joke; he’s dead - I get it. And a shock to who exactly?  The bloke was ninety-four years old; I am more surprised when I look down to find I still have two legs.

 

   Despite this, relief washes over me. The fact that it has been mentioned at all seems to have loosened the knot in my stomach of which I am only now aware. Perhaps I’m wrong, we need the clichés, part of the ritual of death that benefits the living, maybe it’s simply not helpful for humans to comprehend someone’s death in its entirety, so much better to dip our toes in the shallow end of trite remarks and insincere condolences.

   Anyway, this introspection needs to stop. I realise that if I am any kind of human being I have to do whatever my dad needs. If that means feigning grief and pretending that out of a population of some 7billion the death of one very old man is significant then that is what I will do. Ok, what to say? What to say?  Something pertaining to the end of my grandfather’s life, but nothing that is actually about death.

   ‘Did you see the rugby at the weekend Son?’ Ah, thank you Dad, I’ve never loved you more.

   ‘Most of it, I turned over before the end, couldn’t take any more.’ We swap moans about the inadequacies of the England front row and we’re soon back on track. Well, we should be but the joy I feel at the return to the banal gives way to anxiety. What are the rules here? What exactly is the protocol? How am I meant to know when to talk about granddad and when to make small talk? I chance my arm:

   ‘Do you need help clearing the bungalow?’

   ‘No it’s ok. I’ll go round and take the stuff I want and get house clearers to move the rest.’

   ‘Oh, ok… erm… what about Uncle Mike?’

   ‘What about him? Do you see him here now?’

   You know how sometimes you realise just before you say something that it is not a good idea, but you don’t realise in time to stop the words leaving your mouth? Well that’s what I did then. I guess some kind of explanation is required, so here it is:

   My mother left my father for his younger brother when I was about ten. Well, to be accurate, she did not leave; instead she got the house in the divorce settlement, so dad had to leave. Mum moved my uncle in with indecent haste, although the affair had been going on for some time. Surprisingly, dad was not too chuffed with these new arrangements and hasn’t spoken to his brother all that much since.

   My sister, Sarah, who is a few years older than me, got the hell out as soon as she could, married a head teacher, and is now living in Suffolk with her own children. We rarely talk but there is no animosity, we are just not each other’s cups of tea. Mum was barely aware of my existence and I had the distinct impression she didn’t appreciate the bits she was aware of, so as soon as I turned sixteen I moved in with dad.

   That’s all I have to say about it. I don’t mention it much because, firstly, it has nothing to do with my life now, and secondly, because whenever I do people tut and say, ‘families hey, who’d have em.’  To which the only sensible response is: f**k off and die you irritating c**t. Unfortunately, I’m just not that confrontational.

   All this crap is spinning around my head, but I must suppress it, I have to be the strong one.

   ‘He took my f*****g mum from me you know!’ I say inexplicably. Ashamed by my anger I rush outside and spark a cigarette; I suck in quick, sharp, drags of smoke in an effort to control my unexpected rage, but I can’t stop myself shaking. Passers-by are definitely glancing at me as they walk-by but for once I don’t care.

   ‘I paid for the sandwiches.’ My father has appeared by my side and we walk to the undertakers in silence.

   Walker & sons have apparently been, “offering care and dignity when you need it most, since 1924.” I’m not sure how this is a unique selling point, perhaps there has been a spate of pallbearers turning up in clown costumes. The place is awash with burgundy velvet and it momentarily crosses my mind that they received a cheap rate by using the same interior designer as the Indian restaurant next door.

   Christ, will my brain ever be rid of this trivial chatter? 

   ‘Can I be of assistance sir?’ a middle-aged man addresses my dad with comical solemnity.

   I bite my lip and look to the floor in order to suppress the most inappropriate of giggles. I must look like I’m trying to fight back tears because the pretty girl behind the counter gives me a sympathetic glance, and my dad places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. I feel guilty but play along placing my hand on top of his. It dawns on me immediately how physically awkward this is but I don’t know how to retract it without seeming heartless. I’m saved when the Christopher Lee doppelgänger starts showing us his selection of coffins.

   The Rosewood, The Willow, The Panelled Oak, The Cardboard and The Last Supper (a ludicrously ornate, carved affair), the array of containers available for a lifeless, rotting, lump of flesh and gristle is quite baffling. Surely the pressure of having to make the choice look like a thought-out decision is unnecessary. Everyone should just get The Cardboard and be done with it or better still, why have coffins at all? Just dig a hole in the ground and chuck it in. You will notice I use the word “it” rather than the more personal; he, she or them. This is because a corpse does not have an identity in that way, whatever it is that makes someone human has gone.

   

Nevertheless, dad speaks to Christopher about each option in depth. I, on the other hand, try to sneak looks at the girl. To offer a physical description of her exquisiteness will undoubtedly do her a disservice but I will try.  Her long dark, straightened hair has begun to curl at the ends, and a heavy fringe framing the beauty of her face. Ah…her face, it takes a huge effort on my part to not stand and stare at it.  Creamy white skin, un-made-up, with defined cheeks, not angular and harsh but soft, fleshy, to match her full lips.  Then her eyes, they’re blue and large but this is hardly important. Instead it is the restrained intelligence and empathy that strikes me. There is humour in them too, but above all, loneliness. I know this girl.

   ‘What do you think of this one?’ Dad interrupts my reverie by requesting my opinion on a wooden box.

   ‘Erm…yeah, yeah, that’s a nice one.’

   ‘Try not to sound too enthusiastic Son.’

   ‘Hey? Oh, Sorry Dad, I was…Sorry it is great honestly, Granddad would love it.’ I should know, grandfather and I regularly debated the merits of light oak veneer with a gloss finish. I preferred matt but the old boy was intransigent.

   Dad continues to converse earnestly with the professionally-sombre man. Articles are chosen, arrangements made and dates set, while I try to ignore the girl and pay attention, nodding and mumbling approval as required. An offer to see the body is declined by both of us. Dad would prefer to remember him how he was apparently, to be honest I have a ghoulish fascination with the idea but think better of it.

   As we leave I check to see if the girl is wearing a name badge, she’s not. Fortunately, I still manage to learn her name because as the door closes, the coffin seller barks at her.

   ‘For f***s sake Gwen, will you get this place cleaned up, it’s filthy.’ He’s dispensed with the Dickensian front; the voice is now harsh, and laced with threat.

 

*

 

    I return home that evening completely exhausted. Obviously I’m used to feeling sorry for myself, and while this can be tiring, those particular pathways in my mind are well worn, even Tarmaced in places. So even though there are many dead ends I can cross the terrain of my own self-pity unhindered. Feeling sorry for others is a far more torturous route, rarely travelled. The overgrown weeds and thorns disguise long forgotten and rusty barbed wire.

    I think of granddad and I cry, not for what I’ve lost, but for what I never had. Granddad wasn’t an ogre but nor was he a genial old man with a twinkle in his eye. There are no treasured memories of being taught to ride a bike, Christmases past or eating ice cream on wet holidays in Dorset. The funeral will not be a time of reminiscing and laughter, no; it will be full of tension and tongue biting.    

   You see I want to feel devastated. I want the death of my granddad to have left a gaping hole and to wonder how I’m going to cope without him. I don’t want to be sitting at home. I want to be with a loving family who have come together at a time of great tragedy.  None of this is anyone’s fault, it’s just life, but it’s my life and, childish or not I don’t want it to be. It’s not fair. 

   The tears dry up and I actually feel better than I have for some time, not happy but at least alive. I’m not sure why this is; perhaps it was having a purpose for the day, something to break up the monotony. Or maybe it was doing something “good” and making an effort for my dad, even if I was only partially successful. Still, I decide the best way to consolidate this new found, if not optimism as such then, marginally better mood, is by going to sleep. So I slope off to bed.

   I lie there and fantasize about Gwen; she has been figural for me since I first clapped eyes on her. You’re probably thinking I mean sexual fantasies, but you’re wrong. Women I fancy fall into one of three categories. The first I described earlier, essentially just hand job material.  Next up, when my feelings have strengthened, are the ones I don’t masturbate over because I don’t want to disrespect them. Lastly, when I have it really bad for a girl I don’t wank at all, because I don’t want to be disloyal. Gwen has moved up to category two, with surprising haste.

   A blurry montage is projected on to the inside of my forehead.

   Our first date: Gwen is laughing at one of my many witticisms, her hand gently brushes mine as she reaches for the wine, I feel a tingle of excitement as I try to work out if it was a deliberate caress.

   Moving in together: We’re unpacking boxes, Gwen is teasing me for still owning Enid Blyton books, we stop, look into each other’s eyes and hug tightly, unable to believe our luck.

   Giving birth: I’m stroking Gwen’s head, offering muttered support as she pants and struggles. The nurse hands Gwen a tiny baby girl, she glances up at me and beams with pride.

   I snap my eyes open and slap myself hard. What the f**k am I doing? I’ve not even exchanged a word with this girl and I’m visualising the birth of a child, I don’t even want children. Seriously, what the f**k is wrong with me?

   My stomach sinks and my whole body is heavy and exhausted. I realise now the catalyst for my improved mood is the emotional life I have built around an attractive girl I saw when helping to choose my granddads coffin. My patheticness is absolute.

‘Dickhead! Dickhead! Dickhead!’ I rebuke myself repeatedly, smacking my right cheek hard on each occasion.

   The usual explosion of tears follows. I half-heartedly reach under my bedding, partly out of habit and partly because otherwise I would feel Gwen had reached Cat.3 (which simply cannot happen). Fortunately I am asleep before I finish.