My attempt at TMA 4
Hope you like it.
Not my Daddy!
It’s odd to think that I am now four years older than my dad, or at least I’ve been on the planet four years longer than he ever was. I am fifty six now, my dad was fifty two when he died, I was nine then.
My memories of my dad, and the accident that killed him, are not vivid, they have faded over the years, but they are still there. I can still recall them whenever I want to. I don’t want to very often, not anymore, but I used to. When I was younger I would think about him and the accident a lot, and every time I did I would cry. Looking back I think I cried mostly because it was expected of me, because I’d always done it and I got so used to doing what was expected that I just did it.
My tears continued until I was twenty three years three months and twenty days old and then I stopped. The seventh August 1979 was the very last time I cried for my dad. That was the day my son was born and I cried because my new baby would never get to meet his wonderful granddad. I grew up that day.
Don’t get me wrong, I still love and miss my dad I just don’t need to show everyone else. My memories, although faded, are now happy ones.
March 8th 1965.
I look at the two police officers standing at the front door. I know there is something wrong and by the look on mummy’s face she does too. I think she’s going to cry. I don’t like it when mummy cries.
The police man says there’s been an accident and my daddy is hurt. Now I want to cry but I don’t because I know mummy is going to. The policeman takes her into the sitting room, he’s holding her round the shoulders, and the other policeman takes Judy and me to the kitchen to make some tea. I don’t want to make tea, I want my mummy.
The policeman said that daddy has had an accident on his motor bike. Mummy keeps telling him that bike would be the death of him, I wonder how she knew. He’s been taken to a hospital in Cambridge. I don’t know where Cambridge is but I think it’s a long way away because mummy said it’s too far and how is she supposed to get there.
The Next Day
I don’t like all these people being here. All of my brothers and my sister are here and aunties and uncles and neighbours. I want them all to go away. I just want to sit on mummy’s lap but I can’t because she is crying again and my brother, Robin, keeps taking me away from her.
I’m trying to hear what everyone is saying but they are all talking in whispers. I’m sitting on the stairs listening but I can’t hear much. I want to know what happened to daddy but no one will tell me. They keep asking me if I’m all right and smiling at me. I don’t smile back, I don’t want to. I don’t like feeling the way I’m feeling, it’s odd. I want to cry but it hurts my chest.
Mummy told me what happened to daddy. I wish she hadn’t. My poor daddy is really hurt. I want to go and see him and mummy says we can. We are going in Uncle John’s car all the way to Cambridge. Robin says it will take a long time to get there so I have to be good.
Sometime Later. (A Week, a Month?)
It did take a long time to get here and I’m tired. My brand new silky blue dress, bought especially for daddy, is crumpled and I’m upset. Mummy says daddy won’t mind and not to worry, but I am worried, I wanted to look my best for him and now I don’t. And I’m crying again. Mummy bought me new shoes too, shiny black ones, I can see my face in them. Daddy will like them.
The hospital is big with big windows and two big wooden doors. I can’t get up the steps because they are so high. Mummy is pulling me up them. It hurts my arm. Judy is asleep on her shoulder and dribbling down mummy’s back, I don’t tell her though.
It smells like flowers inside the hospital. It looks posh too. It has pictures on the walls and carpet on the floor. It doesn’t sound like a hospital, it’s too quiet. We don’t have pictures and carpets at our hospital and it’s really noisy there. Mummy says this hospital is a special one for people with head injuries. She says they will look after him. I hope they make him better soon.
I don’t like the nurse who’s talking to mummy. She said I can’t go in to daddy’s room because he’s sleeping. She said I can only look thought the little round window in the door. Mummy said she understands why but I don’t. I want to give my daddy a cuddle and show him my new dress it’s got frilly sleeves and lots of petticoats that tickle my legs. That will make him laugh. I want to smell his smell, the motor bike oil smell. I want to give him a kiss and tell him I love him.
I’m being held up to the little round window. It’s dark inside the room, I can’t see properly but my eyes soon focus. The curtains are pulled over to block out the sun, and there is a nurse sitting at a desk writing in a book. Mummy points to a bed at the other end of the room. It’s daddy’s bed she says. I can’t see him. All I can see is a big bandaged head and bare shoulders. Is that him? He’s facing the wrong way, I can’t see him. Is he warm enough? Is he asleep? What are all those machines for? I don’t ask. My chest hurts again. I know I’m not going to see my daddy ever again, no one told me that, I just know. I know I’ll never get to cuddle on his lap again, and pretend to be asleep just so he’ll carry me to bed and tuck me in and kiss my nose.
September 7th 1965
The man at the door is wearing leather clothes and black boots like daddy wears and he smells of oil too so he must have a motor bike. He’s called the telegram man mummy says. What’s a telegram? He’s giving mummy a brown envelope. I don’t know why but mummy is shaking. That envelope has something to do with daddy I just know it. Now she’s crying again. I think my daddy died. I won’t cry, not until she tells me he’s died. If I cry then he will be dead. I look at Robin and wait for him to tell me but he doesn’t, he cuddles mummy and cries too. I feel lost and left out. Someone tell me if it’s OK to cry now.
She said daddy has gone to heaven to be an Angel. I don’t want him to be an Angel, I want him to be my daddy. Who’s that screaming? It’s me! No not my daddy, not my daddy, not my daddy! Yes it is me. Mummy rocks me on her lap and we are both crying now. It’s OK to cry now. I snuggle in to her and pretend she’s daddy and fall asleep.
Today.
Mum told me what dads injuries were. You wouldn’t think much of that would you? except that I was still only nine when she told me. She wasn’t too stingy with the details either. My dad died as a result of his crash helmet not doing its job properly. In fact it did most of the damage. He should have died instantly from extensive head and brain injuries but he didn’t. He ‘survived’ for six months on a life support machine until the day his body, and his mind, couldn’t take the strain any longer. I think, emotionally, I just accepted everything as it unfolded. Perhaps that’s why I cried so much as the years went by. Perhaps the crying was my outlet. I don’t hold it against my mum for being so honest with me. That’s the kind of person she was, and that’s the kind of family I grew up in.
Mum has gone now too and it makes me happy to think they are together again, even though mum remarried. My step father has joined them and I often imagine them all sitting down together and chatting about the old days. The war years were the favourite topic when I was growing up. So perhaps that’s what they talk about. I hope there is beer up there, dad would be very bored without his pint and mum her glass of Tia Maria, and they both loved a sing song. Now you’re expecting me to say that I can hear them singing aren’t you? Well I can’t, it must be a very quiet party. Not to worry, it’ll liven up when the rest of us get there.
Rest in peace all of you.
All Text Copyright © 2012 Annie Green ( Trudy Chappell) All Rights Reserved
