The past two weeks

I am writing this post, flying to Chicago, some 36,000 feet above the north Atlantic, somewhere south of Iceland. This is the modern world.

24 hours ago, we said goodbye to my Mother. I said goodbye, along with Jools and many assorted friends and neighbours. But I am the last of her family. The last of her line. The line. The family line. It dies with me. Or will do.

We are en route to Chicago for a long planned holiday, and have just had a three course lunch, some three hours after breakfast, but the flight clock tells us it is two minutes past five in the morning in Chicago.

It is going to be an odd day.

Looking back 13 days ago, the 29th September, I drove from Dover to Oulton Broad to try and arrange Mum’s funeral and the other things that need doing. If you would have told me I would be heading back home 72 hours later, having done most of it, or put the wheels in motion, I would have laughed.

But I did it.

And twelve days later, Mum was cremated and most of the hard work done, the rest is paperwork.

Driving up from Dover that bright Sunday morning, it did not feel that Mum had died. She had been in hospital so many times over the years, that it felt just another one of those mopping up operations.

There was anger. Anger at a life wasted. Twenty three and a half years since Dad passed, Mum had spent so much time in her armchairs, slowly killing herself with fags and shortbread.

I called in Argos first, to collect a 4G router so I could be online. An old man looked at me as I waited for the item to be retrieved. I looked up, he was smiling. Not a huge smile, but with warmth.

Are you Ian?

Yes.

You don’t remember me, do you?

He was in his 70s, if not 80s, wrinkled and walked with a stick. He could have been anyone.

I looked deeper at him, and he broke out in a unique lopsided smile.

No doubt now.

Handsome?

Yes.

Brian “Handsome” Samson was legendary in our family. Fellow builder of my Dad’s and arranger of trip to see England and West Ham play. One Saturday in early 1975, a load of hid friends and their (male) children, went on a long day to see West Ham play Swindon in the 4th round of the FA Cup, then go to a strip club in the evening.

I don’t remember that. As Dad an I went. But I do remember the game at Upton Park. I could not see anything in the first half, but saw West Ham’s goal in the second. The terraces were rammed.

I do also remember going to see my friend, James’ grandmother before the game, and watching Football Focus, with the new England wunderkind, Steve Coppel being interviewed,

I don’t remember the strippers though,

I heard about that part from Brian Hunter at Mum’s funeral yesterday. I had forgotten.

Handsome, like us all, has gotten old. He has his smile and dirty laugh though. And was sad at my news that Mum had died.

We talked about the past, his family and our old neighbours, Greta and Charlotte. But they are now so distant to be invisible.

And poor James, died in 1984 in a tragic accident in a taxi on Christmas Eve.

I went to Mum’s and opened the door. The smell of stale tobacco smoke hit like a sledgehammer. I opened the back door and tried to open as many windows as possible. The carpets has the background smell of stale wee too. Not nice.

There was little evidence of the drama from the previous Wednesday when she had had her forth and final heart attack. I looked round the house, full of crap and food. Sometimes the same thing.

I collected the shortbread and Pringles and dumped them outside. I gathered the medicines and medical documents and reports and dumped them in a pile I the middle of the living room floor.

I guess I did some more, but the task seemed beyond huge.

I went to tesco to buy some ingredients for a ragu, then spent the rest of the afternoon cooking. I say that, but it turned out there were no big pans left, just two small frying pans. So I cooked in those. I made a huge pan of ragu, enough for a week.

I made pasts, opened a box of wine, and ate well.

Next day, Monday 30th, I had an appointment at the hospital to collect the certificate of death. This is the trigger for everything that followed. I was fine about things, I felt like I had been preparing myself for this moment for years, so I went on autopilot.

I met with the woman in the bereavement office. We talked over Mum’s death. I thanked her and her staff. I was given the certificate which listed primary, secondary and contributing issues. On the final part, they ran out of room.

She was an ill woman.

I took the certificate, went to Lowestoft to make an appointment with the solicitor for the next afternoon, when I would have used the form from the morning to register Mum’s death the next day, the official certificate from that is what banks and authorities need to start the legal balls rolling.

I visited family friends: Stuart the hairdresser. I was early and had very short hair. He knew I needed no haircut and could tell from my face it was bad news. Stuart has at least ten years on Mum, so in his 80s, talks with a shake, but still works full time. He was said, obviously. Dad had went to Stuart’s all his life, he was like an old family friend, which he is, really.

Next up was my Godparents, Alan and Heather. Both 88 and living at home together. They have had bad health issues and the death of their son to cope with. They have.

Alan knew.

And I went through the details again.

Alan can’t drive any more, so they won’t come to the funeral. I leave them. Alan was Dad’s first boss, where he worked alongside Handsome. When I said I had seen Handsome, Alan smiled big. Handsome was that kind of bloke.

Made you smile.

But then, so did my dad.

I went home, had lunch and tried to do some tidying up, sort through some things. So tackled the wardrobes in Mum’s bedroom. A whole double wardrobe of bran new dresses, some in their wrappers still, all put into binliners to be donated to charity or put into landfill. Over a dozen bags soon filled up one of the spare bedrooms.

I looked in the kitchen and saw Mum’s collection of little china houses and cottages. Maybe they would be worth some money? I searched online for their value, but the number of a local auction house come up. So I called them.

House clearance? Have the British Heart Foundation been round yet? No. Good, they will cherry pick the best stuff and leave you with a bill. I’ll be round in an hour. As good as his word, he came round with a colleague said they would clear the house of everything, sort through the crap, dump it and put the good stuff into auction. We can do it tomorrow morning he said.

Really?

We’ll be here at nine. Sign here.

I signed.

It all seemed unreal.

That night I had more pasta and ragu. And more wine. All seemed to be going well.

Tuesday 1st October, I went to see the registrar in Great Yarmouth. I had the info needed.

He would quiz me, then using what I told him and the certificate of death, make an entry on the register of deaths and provide me with copies needed for the paperpushers.

It was all matter of fact, but nicely done. And in 45 minutes Mum was officially dead, and I had the certificates to prove it.

I went back into town to visit the bansk so they could take copes of the copies. Made sense to them, her accounts were frozen.

In the afternoon I saw the solicitor, who for a small cut would do the probate and inform all parties as I had all required documentation with me.

Sign here:

I signed.

All this while the house clearers had been at work. I thought they would realise things like Mum’s address book which I had found that morning would be saved. Silly me. I had put all what needed to be saved on the spare bed, that and the bed itself, and the cooker were all that were to be saved.

When I returned, they were clearing out the last of Mum’s things. They had found Dad’s flood scrapbook, for which I gave them a tenner each in thanks. That was all I wanted.

And the house was empty. They had taken everything, either for auction or for dumping. There were no cutlery, pans, toothbrush, seats anything left. Just what was on the bed.

All gone. Too late to worry now.

Even the remainder of the ragu I made and dried pasta had gone. Anyway, there was no pans or microwave to cook them in. I would have to dine out.

And I realised at that moment, I had done all I could there. I was to see the funeral directors the next morning, but after that I could go home. So, would. I called Jools to tell her so.

How did I feel? Nothing, really The Mother who brought me up and did so by a certain set of values had died twenty years back. I really did not know or understand who she became. I was fine.

I collected the last of the family photographs, looked through them at the small happy child she once was, and wondered what happened.

Her Mother is what happened, more than capable of squeezing the joy out of anyone’s life, sadly, especially her daughter’s.

Next morning I went to the funeral directors to discuss the final details. I still had not cried or come close. I laughed and joked, as the details were agreed. And then there was the question of music. What music did I want to walk out to?

Billy Fury, Halfway to Paradise.

And in my head its opening bars played I and I sobbed. More shocked than sad. Where had they come from? Its usual I was told.

So, Halfway to Paradise and Jerusalem was picked.

I dropped off some more paperwork, set up a mail redirection service, and was done by 11. I headed south.

Fast forward a week to Thursday 10th.

The funeral being on Friday meant re-arranging our travel for the holiday, putting the cats in the cattery a day early, and picking up the hire car. Jools had gone to work, and I did some work too, and dealt with the mails that came in relating to Mum’s estate and bills.

I packed, and charged camera batteries, so come six in the evening, when Jools came back, we were ready to go. Just load the hire car and leave. The late departure meant the jams had died down, and by the time we got to Chatham, the night closures for roadworks had not quite begun, we had timed it perfectly.

We were on holiday, but also on the way to Mum’s funeral. Odd feelings.

Friday morning, after breakfast we drive up through Suffolk, but my favourite roads, to Mum’s house. We changed, Jools checked the phone for messages; most scams wanting Mum to part with what’s left of her savings.

And half an hour after arriving, it was time to go again, this time for Mum’s last journey.

It was a grey and dull morning, perfect for a funeral. We arrived at half nine, 30 minutes early, and we were first. I still had no idea who were coming, if anyone.

We stood outside, there was no sound of birds, just the background nose of traffic from the old A12.

People did arrive, in ones and twos, old friends and neighbours, so very distant relations, on Mum’s side. We all hugged and said, well, stuff. Sad, but avoidable.

And at ten, Mum arrived, so we went to sit down, of for Jools and I, to walk in behind her.

Fine words were sent, mostly Ann’s words taken from my account and smoothed out, but enough of the meaning left in to be truthful and honest about Mum’s troubles.

We sang, we prayed.

We filed out.

It was over.

We drove to the Wherry, where the rest had gathered. We had a drink, swapped stories and memories, toasted her memory. But looking round, most were older than Mum, soon it would be their time too. Or maybe not so soon.

Brian told me tales of my Dad and Handsome, and of London strippers. And also, of politics. He is as Labour as they come, and I found myself surprised to find he was against Momentum as I was. A party within a party never works. Nor would this time. He has left them be.

We went back to the house, changed, and after stopping for battered sausage and chips at the Gresham Road chippy, we drove south.

I can’t say I was sad for Mum having gone, just the waste. A waste of life and opportunities. She should still be here, healthier and getting about like Brian who at nearly 90 is still involved with RAFA as branch chairman.

Later that night, once we had gotten a taxi from London City to Waterloo and relaxed some, we went to a local Mexican restaurant that did “street food”. It was bright, brash and colourful. We toasted Mum with tequila, as around us, the noise of several hundred rowdy diners grew.

We were back in the land of the living, and glad to be. Life is for living, not to live with regrets. I have made some bad choices over the years but ended up here. I am happy, I have Jools, we have our house and life. I can indulge in my hobbies and passions. And today, we fly to Chicago.

Zaphod Beeblebrox the 3rd once said, life is wasted on the living. Sometimes, he is right. Don’t let hm be right about you. He won’t be right about me. Grab life by the tits and hang on for the ride, you won’t get a second chance.