Coming Home to Story

Last weekend I sorted through some piles of papers in Folly Cottage. I had no problem throwing most of them into the recycling bin. Until I found stuff from our holiday in Portugal two years ago, when Chris had her first seizure and the story of her fatal illness began.

It had been a fabulous holiday until that fateful night. We’d been wild swimming in nearby rock pools; we’d gone to the beach where Chris took this photograph; we’d baked bread and cooked together from the amazing Piri Piri Starfish Portugese cookery book; we’d walked mountain tracks; we’d joked and laughed a lot. For sheer joy we’d yelled POR-TU-GALÉ at each other at every opportunity.

It was hard to look at notes we had made in the hospital: details of tests and diagnoses; names of nurses and consultants; phone numbers and email addresses of neurologists and neurosurgeons back in England. Memories of our intimate conversations during the eight days between the seizure and our departure came flooding back and, for an hour or two, I was very upset. “She tried so hard,” I said to friends who called round. “She tried so hard.”

One artifact made me smile though. It was the information card given to her by the crew of the Air Ambulance that brought her home. She was feeling quite well by then and, after a lifetime of travel, thrilled to be flying in a Lear Jet with her own pilot, co-pilot, doctor and nurse. There wasn’t enough room for me to accompany her, so to her great amusement I had to fly back the next day on a standard commercial flight.

We loved Portugal and we would have returned if circumstances had been different. I certainly hope to go back one day. In the meantime, I’ll pick out some recipes from Piri Piri Starfish, peas with eggs and chourico maybe, and let my stomach fool me into believing that those days haven’t gone forever.

No Ted for a week while I travel to Scotland and back to Ashridge for work. He’s staying with Carole and David and I know he’ll be happy there. Even so, I can’t wait to see him next Saturday. We got so close while we were on holiday that I talk to him constantly, providing his answers myself if he doesn’t respond. In Ted’s absence, I miss Chris even more than usual and I lay in bed this morning wishing I could speak with her, feeling very sorry for myself.

Joan Didion wrote in A Year of Magical Thinking that for a long time after her husband died, she unconsciously acted as if he had just stepped outside and would return at any moment. She didn’t get rid of his shoes, for example, because she knew deep down that “he would need them.”

Anyone who has lost a loved one will understand how long it takes for the reality of their absence to sink in. I know Chris has died and that she’s not coming back. It’s just that I sometimes forget that she’s not here. I turn my head to talk to her (always over my left shoulder for some reason) and often I’ve spoken a couple of sentences before I pull myself up short.

On holiday in Brittany this summer I realised the futility of these one-way conversations, so I wrote her a love letter instead. The French postal system was unable to guarantee delivery and  found my own way to share it with her. This morning, I wondered if a postcard would have been simpler: nothing fancy, just a Penny Plain.

If I could send a postcard
it wouldn’t have a picture
of children eating ice-cream;
there’d be no saucy caption,
no view of Blackpool tower.

I wouldn’t write to tell you
that the weather here is bracing
or that we’re having fun.
There’d be no newsy scribblings
scrawled upon the page.

No, the message I would send you
is simple and it’s clear:
I don’t know where you are, my love
but I wish that you were here.

Ted and I got off the ferry late last Tuesday evening and made it back to Folly Cottage in the early hours of the morning. I unpacked a few essentials from the camper van and crawled into bed at about 2.00am for a few hours sleep before plunging straight into the craziness of work next day.

Later, on Wednesday afternoon, I took Ted to stay at Hydegate kennels (his look of reproach as he was led away still haunts me) and travelled up to the National Exhibition Centre in Birmingham, where I had been asked to run some storytelling sessions for groups of 250-500 at a two-day corporate event.

On the way back, I collected Ted and picked up an Australian friend from the railway station to stay for the weekend. On Monday we had an early start and a long drive to get to Ashridge to examine a doctoral thesis. Yesterday my guest left for London and a few hours later Miche and Flora arrived for supper.

After the tranquility of a solitary five-week sojourn in rural France, this whirlwind of activity has been an extraordinary contrast. Much as I have enjoyed the work and the company of friends, I’ve missed the simple daily routines of life in the bounded world of the camper van, and the time to reflect, write and be with my thoughts and feelings.

But this morning, Folly Cottage is empty, there is nowhere else I have to be and I’m lying in bed in the Shepherd’s Hut with the door open, looking out onto the garden which has become lush and overgrown during the summer, thinking how much Chris would have loved the view. The Rowan tree she planted is bursting with plump new berries; a wood-pigeon is clapping its wings and cooing from the rooftop of the house she lived in for 20 years; and our beloved dog Ted is stretched out beside me, waiting for me to get up and take him for a walk.

Finally we’re home.

Hello, Ted here.

Actually, Ted is an alias. I am really Captain Midnight, super-dog.

Finally, his back is turned. He’s left the laptop turned on and now it’s my turn to talk. He spends a long time deciding what to say and trying to be clever. I just write the plain truth.

“We’ll go to France,” he said. “The food is great.”

He drinks a lot of red stuff from bottles and cooks bits of meat on the barbecue. His food is great. What do I get? Dog biscuits. French dog biscuits are just as appetizing as British dog biscuits. I go on hunger strike sometimes until he puts a bit of meat or fish on them.

Then there’s camping! Whose brilliant idea was that? As soon as I get the smells sorted out, spray a bit of urine, and mark the territory, we’re off somewhere else in the kennel (or camper van as he calls it). When we do get somewhere else I spend most of the day dossing around and barking at French people until he eventually decides he’s tired of sitting on his backside “being a writer” and wants to go for a walk.

He usually finds somewhere nice for his walk, I’ll give him that: some woods, a river, or a bit of seaside. I go with him to humour him and I always make a point of showing how “grateful” I am by pulling him along on the lead. He doesn’t seem to like being on the lead much.

Last night he was moping around, feeling sorry for himself again. There was one of those full moon things and I had a brilliant idea! In the middle of the night, I clipped him to the lead and dragged him to the beach. There was no-one else there, just him and me. I thought he might like a good run around, so I unclipped him and waited. He just stood there.

I ran around like crazy, showing him what to do. I tried everything: I ate seaweed; ran into the sea; dug holes in the sand; and barked at the moon. It was huge fun. He still didn’t catch on. Leader of the pack? I don’t think so.

Then there’s that other thing he does quite often. That thing when he makes a lot of noise and water comes out of his eyes. I jump up on his lap and lick his face when he does that. He puts his arms around me and makes even more noise. It usually doesn’t last very long and I’m still trying to work out exactly what it means. He seems to like me being there when it happens.

He says it’s because he feels lonely, so every night I let him share my bed in the kennel. I know they say that dogs should keep their humans at a distance, but I think that’s a bit old fashioned. Fortunately, we just have to be “good enough” for our humans to develop self-confidence and a secure sense of attachment. My chap’s coming on quite well, all things considered.

That’s all for now super-dog fans.

If you’re in trouble, just whistle.

Captain Midnight