BY PHILIP LOWE
My dearest wife has written her own memories in a book and has inspired me to write my own. I feel a little cautious in sharing my own memories of relationships and journeys. As long as everything I have experienced has brought me here, it is excusable.
I pray that our children do not experience the doubt, duplicity, and pain that I had.
I do not wish to deny the work my father must have effected, yet I believe, as my own future has taught me, he could have behaved differently—not only towards me.
My early teenage years became ripe picking fields. As I grew, my opinions changed.
At times, I recalled memories I thought were lost. Some were too uncomfortable. I have been able to reflect many times on motives and aspirations, yet it seems there has always been a different hand directing my path.
I do not know how my wife has relieved her life and her own difficulties. She must be so much stronger than me. Reader, I love her.
Reposit In Pacem
My mother died. Shocking news. When Pierre found out about this, he was in tears. He was very reluctant to talk, even to me. I found it difficult to know how to feel or behave.
I do not know why she died. She seemed too young to me. The cause was “unknown,” according to some members of staff, which was not really helpful to me. Of course, I suspected my father but was not sure.
Even at her funeral, I could not shed a tear. She was always dismissive of me or ignored me in favour of my brother. I could not understand her ignoring me even when Pierre became ill. At least Steven said goodbye and appeared distressed if not upset. I do not think I was even distressed.
We travelled to Hathersage for her funeral. Perhaps she had some connection with the place, but she had not cared to share it with me. It was, or felt like, a hideous and hot journey. The thick black of the garments was to blame; it was an incredibly hot day, too.
I travelled with Pierre and not my father, thank goodness.
It was a plain church, not as comfortable as the one near home. Mother wanted to rest here, I do not know why.
The minister who took the service seemed very bored at first, then he started to speak very slowly, as if he were in a torpor. His reading of the gospel was abbreviated with meaningless pauses and his dreadful coughing.
When it was clear he would not emerge from this, several men ran out of the church. As they were absent for a long time, even noticeable in a funeral service, several other younger men left, and others were stationed to mollify the crowd in the chapel.
One sat near me. I noticed a noise emerging mildly from the crowd. The verger near me seemed to be aware of the loss endured by my brother and I. He said, “I am so sorry for your loss.” He appeared to have nothing to say then. He seemed unable to cope with this situation, which grew longer. The silence became unbearable. He then said, presumably wishing to appeal to our age, “Did you know that Little John, friend of Robin Hood, is buried here?”
The men who ran out reentered, and one dressed in a minister’s vestments resumed the service after some time, addressing the books lain out for the service. The sleepy minister was taken out, and at this point, I was able to look at my father. Amazingly, he was weeping, and his tears were making him nod, and silently, he clenched his teeth and closed his eyes tightly. I had never seen him like this. Indeed, I did not know if this display was because of my mother or for the eyes of the gathered attendees. If for my mother I did not realise they had such a connection. I did not realise there was such a connection to be had. I could not imagine my father showing or feeling regret.
Outside the chapel, there was a man who looked very familiar. He even smiled at me. He was here for legal work (which always happened, I believe) to check that the deceased did not die by their own hand.
During the service, I remember nothing but thinking about Robin Hood the whole time. My brother’s determination to be unaffected by the day wore off when he was at the graveside. For want of a better word, he bawled, and a female member of staff comforted him. I did not know what to do. I looked at my father, who was like a stoic statue.
I recalled when my father and a number of male staff were ill. My mother went out and collected logs to warm the house. It was raining heavily, and I remember my mother reentering and meeting my newly risen father with a laugh and an apology. She said she was sorry she looked so bedraggled, and her hair looked wild from the wind and rain. She dropped the logs and muttered to herself.
I recall my father saying—maybe it was then, maybe at a meal later—that she showed “independence, resourcefulness and drive.” If only she had known then that she was not the only one to receive his attentions. Perhaps she did, or suspected it.
My mother laughed heartily at what my father had said. That was the last time I remember her laughing.
A plaque for my mother was newly lain at the door to the chapel—it said:
“Christ is to me as life on earth,
and death to me is gain
Because I trust thorowe him alone
Saluation to obteyn”
Near the plaque was a curtain that was left open. There was the statue of a praying woman with two infants. Was this us?
I thought that she would be lain inside the church. Not so, and I was led outside to see a freshly dug hole in the ground.
Then Pierre was at the graveside. For want of a better word, he bawled, and a female member of staff comforted him. I didn’t know what to do. I looked at my father, who stood like a stoic statue.
As the coffin began to disappear underground, the heavens opened, and goodness, it rained very hard on the earth below. How it rained.
It rained so hard—and was accompanied by thunder—that many around the plot ran back into the church. As my brother and I ran, I heard crying. At first, I thought it was Pierre. I soon saw it was not, and we gained cover and is and others breathed heavily. Those who had run inside looked around, and we saw what a strange situation we were in. There was no sign of my father—I assumed he was inside a carriage, as I had seen some running in that direction. Some were laughing.
The rain eased off, and the sky brightened as we made our way back to the grave. We saw that the rain had created large puddles. The rain slowly guttered into the grave. One could see that the coffin had received a great deal of rainwater.
The ceremony continued next to the grave.
I saw on the way to the carriage where the crying I heard was coming from. A woman who sounded younger than she looked. She was obviously drenched and had remained outside while others went inside. She was holding onto a gravestone, rocking and weeping. She did not appear to meet anyone’s gaze and certainly was not looking for anyone specific. She seemed to be lost in her own world of sadness.
She had long grey hair, the hair streaked and stuck to her forehead by the rain, and she wore a large cross. I thought of the difference between her world and mine. I knew nothing of her, yet she had obviously been hit hard with whatever loss she had endured. It was strange to see someone so explicitly demonstrating her feelings.
As I entered the carriage, I saw that a member of the clergy approached this woman who must have totally ignored him.
After a while, as the carriages began to leave, the horses negotiated the puddles as they left the churchyard. As I left, I noticed my father talking with the legal fellow. Travelling back to Thornfield, two other black-clad men were in the carriage, sharing jokes and laughter most inappropriately, I thought.
At the burial, I had been thinking of one of my tutors, a Doctor York, who was fond of Shakespeare but had not taught me about Hamlet and the wily gravediggers’ scene. My valet John said that he wore false dentures made from the teeth of one who had died. I wonder where he got that information. A shame his name was not Yorick instead of York. I allowed myself a titter for that.
I much later learned ( I can not remember from whom) that the slurring minister at the church was dying of cancer and drank to hinder the aggressive symptoms.
So I was thinking about the possibility of living after death. As I miss my mother still, I hope it is true. Pascal—according to a book I have seen—talked about God (which I suppose is the same as talking about the Afterlife) and said that one should live as if God exists.
This is a massive thing. I have always acted to please God. Why could my father not do this? Surely my father had made vows before God at their marriage? Did he not think—at the time at least—that this was a massive and serious undertaking? Did he think about the repercussions when he slapped Ma’s face? Obviously not.
I went to my room and to bed. My father and the men from the carriage had disappeared into a room downstairs. I could still hear the wretched laugh.
As if to lighten my mood, John talked of the strange things he had seen and heard at funerals. A cousin of his from Ireland had been lain out in his coffin in his living room for days. At first, I thought this a ghastly practice, yet John convinced me it was a fitting way to say goodbye to someone. He said that when he was very young, he did not know if the flowers at a funeral were a fitting and beautiful way to adorn a corpse or to distract from the awful smell.
He checked himself, as if talking about such things were inappropriate, despite my encouragement. I begged him to continue.
He spoke of brooches and lockers containing the recently deceased’s hair—(he mentioned Queen Catherine’s hair)—which he said he had seen. Of people who could not attend a funeral being sent biscuits wrapped in Biblical verses. Of people who could not attend funerals being sent invitations thereto; John said he knew of a man who was killed by a carriage, as he was trying to deliver such a message. Of people who, after their death, had had their cats, birds, and other animals killed, stuffed, and buried with them.
He spoke of people who collected their tears in small vases and other small receptacles. No such receptacles for me, then.
It was my habit to kneel next to my bed and pray before I slept. John kindly provided me with a hassock. He said it was “murder” on his knees when he knelt in church. I asked him, after its arrival, whence the hassock had come. He looked at me, smiling, and put a finger to his nose.
I prayed as usual, asking God to show mercy to my mother.
I watched them blow out my candle, thinking of Doctor York talking about Othello—“Put out the light, then put out the light.” After I had gotten into bed, I started to weep, howling for my mother.
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