Of Love and of Loss

A little girl with flaxen hair in pigtails, a gap where her front teeth used to be, a hand-knitted cardigan.
Not a girly girl - a tomboy, always on a rope swing, climbing trees; a rebel, a naughty girl, too often over her mother's knee. 
Her name? Virginie.

I was with her little brother in a park today. Such an odd couple we made, sitting in the dappled shade of one of the small parks off Rue Luxembourg near the flash glasshouse of the European Parliament. 
I had time to spare, French class not due to start until 9am, so the park beckoned; one corner of it, where the sun shines early in the morning slanting long shadows across sandy paths. A rare moment when there is nothing to be done except sit and, perhaps, write a little.

It's quiet in here. Close by, on the other side of the railings, smart women click clack on heels and the teenage girls are all casual prettiness, perfect mussy hair and flat shoes. The teenage boys have that lop-sided shuffle and cocky-cum-gawky rolling gait while most of the older men are in suits - identikit beings in jackets and trousers albeit in varying shades of blue. They move with that important 'should have been there 5 minutes ago' briskness.

I clock Virginie's brother immediately, walking more slowly than all the others. As the rat race rushes about him he turns into the park, to a bench, to the only bench in the sun, my bench. 
Seventies, possibly 60s, difficult to tell. He doesn't look like he's slept well - shadows under the eyes, stubble round his chin, unkempt grey receding hair. A bit of a tremor to his hands and an unevenness to his gait. Perhaps he hasn't slept at all. Perhaps he doesn't have a bed to sleep in. 

He sits at the opposite end of the bench and I see the suit he wears is not so smart. A little frayed at the cuffs and the ankles. The odd faint stain here and there. He must be hot in that overcoat.
I'm uncomfortable that he has chosen to sit so near. But there is no threat from him, none at all.
I keep writing but I'm constantly aware of him. He sits for a while, doing nothing, but glances across several times. I nod - a polite acknowledgement - and am not surprised when he speaks.

He points at the book. 
What am I doing, he wants to know. What am I writing about? 
I pause, just for a second, considering a myriad of options. But can't bring myself to lie. 
'I am writing to my son,' I say. 'He died and I like to write to him.'
 I immediately regret it. It comes out more abruptly than I intended. 
I think I said it half hoping it might shut him up, make him go away.

He doesn't do any of the things I might have expected. He doesn't say he is sorry for my loss, or ask any questions or apologise or redden with embarrassment; he may have crumpled a little, I'm not sure. But he doesn't go away. He simply sits back against the bench.

A blackcap chatters deep in the foliage of the nearest tree. I'm aware of its song filling a sudden, odd vacuum that wasn't there before.
I shouldn't have said what I said. I start to stand up, language failing where an apology should be, but he holds out his arm and flaps his hand, motioning me to sit again, asking me to wait. Something he wants me to see.

He leans forward, loosens the cords of  his shopping trolley - a grubby, tartan-patterned two-wheeled contraption he'd pulled into the park behind him.
I see that it quite possibly contains all that is left in his world.
A thin duvet comes out first, then a pillow, odds and sods of clothing, he piles them on to the bench; some packets of biscuits, cans of beer, and then, arm right in, shoulder deep, he hits somewhere near the bottom and emerges, a little frazzled, holding a book.

A photo album.
He nods encouraging me to take it. I don't want it but I have been rude already. So I hold it while he starts gathering his things again. He sees me doing nothing with it and gestures at me enthusiastically, using his hands to mime the opening of a book.
It feels wrong and intrusive and I am embarrassed by all his things. By the pieces of his life. By what people might think. The pillow is now on the ground and it will get dirty. But he seems not to care.

The album is barely whole. The sticky bits no longer sticky, the cellophane torn, some of the pages browning, others missing. It is held together by a few bits of fake leather and threads of brittle cotton.
But in the middle, still stuck under the cellophane, two photos. 
Two children, beaming faces, a boy and a girl.

In both pictures the girl is hugging the boy. She is a few years older, possibly 12, maybe 13. She is clearly in charge, holding the little boy tightly across his middle. She has long hair in pigtails, a gap in her front teeth, a slouchy cardigan straight from a knitting pattern. The boy is mop-haired, thin cheeks, a shirt that looks too big for him.
The pictures are black and white and it is impossible to date them. This man's grandchildren, perhaps?
But no.

He leans over and prods the photograph. The boy in the picture is him...and the girl holding him fast, his sister, Virginie. 'My Virginie,' he says. And he pats that part of his chest where his heart beats.
'God took her,' he said. A pause. He visibly gathers himself. Not long after the photographs were taken. A fever of some sort. He shrugs at the detail.....'what does it matter what they called it. She died.'

Then: 'It is the worst......to lose a part of you. It is the very worst. Nothing is the same.' 
This shabby man speaks with such dignity and I don't know what to say for a moment. Then I ask about her and he tells me how she liked to run and how he always tried to keep up with her. And how she was disobedient and wild. And he laughs out loud.


We communicate clumsily, using Franglais and sign language. I tell him she is beautiful. I think I say the right things...but it goes to show that in the face of another's grief, we are all made mute, clumsy - even when we have a similar story to tell.

The world scurries around us, yet for a few moments this noisy city is forgotten, the years peeling back as I see Virginie, her life and death, played out in this man's eyes.
Virginie. Who was always in trouble, the big sister who refused to be the tidy, pretty, home-spun girl his mother wanted her to be.

He pulls out a handkerchief from a pocket and mops his eyes and I'm not sure whether he's rheumy or tearful. I wonder at the hold this long-dead sibling, this little Cathy Earnshaw, has on him, still. 

I try to picture him as a little boy on little legs chasing the sister he adored. I wonder, did her death at the beginning of his life ultimately lead to him being here on this bench, worn and frayed and sad, with a shopping trolley for a home. I wonder about his mother and his father. Where are their photographs? But he has told me what he wants to tell me and will say no more.

He tells me I am saying her name wrong though. I am saying VirginiA. I ask him to spell it and he is delighted when I write it in my book.

Then he starts packing his things away and I give him back the album. He asks me your name and I misunderstand  and give him my name instead.
'Votre fils, Nicholas?' he says (with no pronunciation of the 'S')
'Thomas,' I say. Digging into my bag I show him your picture. 'Voici Thomas'.
'Thomas, Thomas, Thomas,' he says, looking at the photograph. 'Bonjour Thomas!'

And then. 'It is hard..no?' And I want to say yes, it is hard, but that because of you, Thomas, I meet people and hear such stories. But my French fails and I just say 'Oui, mais pas encore'.
There is a little more talk about other things of no importance....and I can tell he wants to be off. He pushes himself up and fastens the trolley. I sit there, feeling useless. Should I offer him money? I can't bear that it might humiliate him. He pats my hand and his palm is raspy and dry.
He says something - I can't fathom it so I say just say 'thank you'. And off he goes.
Near the railings, before leaving the park he turns and gives a mock bow before he sets off for who knows where.

Where is he now, I wonder?
 Perhaps in another park, on another bench, talking about the sister he loved and lost? Making friends of strangers just to have the chance to say her name out loud?

Flamborough

I drove here on impulse.

It certainly hadn't been the intention when I set off  this blistering morning. The plan was lunch in Leeds with an old colleague followed by shopping.

The lunch had been wonderful - we'd talked and talked, wondered where the years had gone, hiding from the heat of the day in the coolest part of the restaurant, before emerging, blinking, into unbearable brightness.

The city was feverish and the heat sapped all desire to shop - so instead I went back to the multi-storey and sat for a moment with the engine turning, waiting for the air conditioning to kick in, listening to the busy, busy city; the thrum of shoppers, buskers, sirens, road drills.

And sitting there, suddenly, I knew where I wanted to be...and it was all-consuming, urgent, as if I was already late.

Leeds was congested and impatient and getting out of the city took a frustrating amount of time. But eventually the hire car was chewing up the miles. Through glorious countryside, past fields of yellow, heady, scented rape; swinging round York, around Driffield, through Stamford Bridge, past the Burton Agnes duckpond, crawling behind tractors on the A614, bypassing Bridlington..

Until at last, here I am, finally. In the car park. Beneath the wheeling, spinning mirrors of Flamborough Head lighthouse.

It's 4pm - and the first thing I hear as I turn off the engine is the crunch of car wheels on gravel. Timing is perfect, most are leaving and the car park is almost empty.

The urge that brought me here has become overwhelming and for some reason - there is no logic to this - I need to hurry. I throw open the door and there is the sudden quick blast of a foghorn. Another blast follows - not the evocative tremor of a deep bass, but a higher frequency, and it's confusing to hear it on such a bright day.

Looking seaward though all becomes clear. There is no sea. There is no sky. They have blended in the haze, melded so absolutely that it is impossible to see where one ends and the other begins. There is no horizon.

The gorse and air fizz with birdsong. The skylarks' high-pitched musical trill is constant. It hurts the eyes to look for them but I see one - a dot in the sky, hovering before it loops and swoops, silent now, to the ground.

It is a gentle but exhilarating walk to the cliffs and gradually the song of the larks and the chatter of the pippits quickly fades, replaced the raucous calls of thousands of seabirds.

I sit close to your ledge and the foghorn sounds again, just as it did on the day we let your ashes fly from this very spot. And the air carries and lifts the sound so that it resonates and vibrates long after it has ended. But it is fainter out here, muffled by the waves and the cries of the gulls.

To the left a huge, riotous, breeding colony of kittiwakes hugs a white cliff face and to the right is the famous Flamborough Head stack, domain of the herring gulls. One throws back its head, opens its beak wide and gives that ululating seaside town fish and chip holler.

There's quite a breeze here and below the sea is lively with white horses.
The waves swell, crest and roll, foam dissipating on the surface. The water is blue, azure, almost Mediterranean and the pale rocks in the shallower parts are easy to see. The suck and roar, the pull and push, is mesmerising. It always is.

The air is filled with birds, and on the sea colonies rise and fall, bobbing on the swell. Razorbills - scores of them, their wings churring like the legs of a clockwork toy - guillemots, blacked back gulls, shags, fulmars.

The kittiwakes are unmistakable - yellow bills, black tips to their grey wings and white bodies as pristine and as clear as porcelain. They are tiny compared to the herring gulls and black backs.
They make their 'kitt-eee-wayke' call as a greeting, as one returns to the nest where the other is brooding. Their nests are strong, sturdy cones and arriving birds bring more materials - twigs, tufts of grass - as opposed to fish. No chicks yet then.

Occasionally the wind changes and a gust rears up the cliffs from the sea and the smell, the guano odour of this huge colony catches on the air. It's kind of stable meets zoo, only less....palatable?.

A gleaming roly-poly seal bobs on the surface, glances around with big shiny eyes and then loops and dives.
Further out, gannets, three of them, are streaking towards Bempton Cliffs. They are huge flying darts. And behind them a group of shags, inches from the surface. Their reflections are visible on the water despite the haze.

Suddenly, as if as one, the entire colony of kittiwakes leaves the ledges and take to the air. There are hundreds circling and calling. Something startled them but there's no sign of the culprit, possibly a bird of prey or one of the bigger gulls who are crafty, vicious egg stealers.

I love this. I love the wildness, I love that you are never ever alone, that it's teeming here with nature going about its business of birth, life and death.

Your ledge looks different though. It slopes a little more than it did before. The forces of wind and rain at work, and I know some day it will be gone.

For an hour or so I just sit, watch, listen and absorb until the brisk northerly breeze starts to bite. It's hard to walk away, but not unbearably so, because you are there but you are not there. You are everywhere and I take you with me.

I head to a bench perched on a grassy mound a few hundred yards away, where grandma and grandad used to sit with you. The wood is warm. The wind drops and I hear what sounds like a church bell. It comes from a buoy out at sea and it tolls with a regular rhythm, rocked to-and-fro by the swell.

I've only ever heard it once before - that foggy, grey morning when we came here, numb with cold, numb with grief and we cast you to the winds. And I hadn't expected it today..and it is loud and and resonant and somehow, significant, as I sit in your place amid the pipits, swallows and skylarks.

The bench was placed here as a memorial, as a remembrance, by another family. But it has become special to us too..and I know the words by heart:

 "He lived for those he loved. And those he loved remember.

Flamborough in the haze, on May 24, 2012

On Public View

You were always happily oblivious to the stares of strangers. The attention you drew when we were out and about, it passed right over your head. More important things to contemplate, like where the next cafe stop was coming from.

I wasn't though, I felt their eyes on us even when our backs were turned.

I didn't mind the brief glances. Humans are designed to be nosey, born survivors because of our natural curiosity. We can't help but look at a toddler throwing a tantrum, we all turn to trace the source of a sudden, unexpected noise.

Your little quirks and eccentricities, your shoutiness, your puppet-like gait, your habit of picking things out of other people's shopping trolleys, they were my joy. They'd told me you would never walk and yet there you were, striding on thin legs through Tesco's..shouting in that language only you could understand...

But to 'the general public' you were different, a heartbreaker certainly, but not as other children - and so people would look, of course they would.

And sometimes they would catch my eye and smile, even say hello to you.

Strangers at their loveliest? The couple who came to help after you, in a temper, accidentally knocked to the floor with a sweep of your arm most of the contents of a restaurant table - plates, cutlery, sugar bowl, teacups - because your fish and chips hadn't arrived quickly enough.

They got the waitress to pick up the bits and pieces and then, when the chaos was under control, the old man took your hand as if in a handshake and said 'well well young man, what will you do for your next trick?' and his wife said how bonny you were and you looked as if butter wouldn't melt and I was so relieved and grateful.

People got to recognise you and your ways. 'Hiya Thomas' the fish and chip shop man would shout at us ever after, when we walked past.

There were many acts of kindness - but there was the other stuff too.

And I don't know which was worse; the starers for whom a look simply wasn't enough, who wanted to absorb and gawp and stare and stare and stare, only looking away when they realised they'd been rumbled?

Was it them...or was it those who opened their mouths and stuck their size 10s right in?

'We never used to see them out and about in my day'
'It must be awful for you'
And, of course, the one heard more than anything else: 'Isn't it a shame'.

The starers I would deal with differently depending on my mood. Mostly I ignored them, sometimes I deliberately about-turned and started towards them, on a collision course, just to watch them scurry away, scared of confrontation.
I'm imagining a sandwich board we could have worn that would have solved the problem: "Yes, we're interesting aren't we? Come say hello. We don't bite - mostly. *winking smiley* ".

Sometimes I would speak to them, 'can I help?', I'd say. And sometimes I would meet their eye and stare back hoping they'd got the message, hoping they'd registered every ounce of venom I was daggering their way.
And then I'd get in the car, belt you in and drive home. Hot tears and guilt. A sense that I'd somehow made it worse. They were ignorant, rude without meaning to be and yet awkward, not knowing the right thing to do. After all, how might I have once reacted?

Funnily enough I found the other ones, the ones who opened mouth without engaging brain, easier to cope with, hurtful as their comments were. These were mainly elderly folk, of the generations when the 'handicapped' were hidden away by their families or left in 'institutions'.

I would become the journalist, relentless but gentle: 'What do you mean?', 'Explain yourself?', 'Sorry?...'them'??' and then, when they were blushing and spluttering, we'd chat. I'd tell them about you, your happy life, and I think that most of the time we parted with them feeling it wasn't such a shame after all. One of them even gave you a pound to 'for your piggy bank'.

It was exhausting though, always being 'on duty' as your champion, as your defender. When all I wanted was a loaf and something for tea.

A mum* posted on Twitter today about going to the shops, taking her autistic daughter with her in a special needs buggy. 'Why do people have to stare and then look away as soon as I look at them?' she wrote on her timeline.
Why indeed.

I have a friend whose child needed 24-hour care due to her hugely complex needs. The child was a twin, her sister died in the womb. My friend absorbed all her grief, her agony, and converted it into loving her little girl, giving her the best life she could. She adored her beyond words.
What broke her? What reduced this defiant, courageous woman who never gave in, who never gave up, finally, to tears?

A middle-aged woman who glanced into the pram as she was in a  supermarket queue one day and said: 'probably best if she hadn't been born love'. The queue was long, those around heard, no-one intervened.

My friend left the trolley where it was.
People have such power to change another person's world for the better Thomas. But they can destroy it in an instant too.
If only they would think...
It doesn't take much..


*Jeannette, a Twitter friend, can be found at Twitter.com/@AutismMumma