by Ben Graff
We ride the Metro and walk the streets. I like the feeling of safety that comes with being underground, the world somehow simplified into clean straight lines, a clearer story that is easier to follow.
In the hotel room I listen to Cathy Dennis and dream of being invited to parties by Kylie Minogue. I am acutely aware of how thin my legs look in shorts, the number of spots I have and, however much I wash it, the greasiness of my hair. Some things are only plausible in my imagination.
There are posters everywhere, on most of the billboards, featuring a photograph of a person’s head. All sorts of different people, different races, ages and genders, but the caption is always the same – Yes, I have AIDS. Will you still speak to me?
I am scared someone will inject me with AIDS as we meander through the crowds. A fear of death grips me. It seems inevitable and soon. I am told I am being melodramatic. The actual likelihood of me contracting AIDS at this point is zero.
A tramp drinks whisky from a bottle outside the hotel. English newspapers at the kiosks are expensive and have to be rationed.
“You can’t get one every day,” my father says.
At night the Eiffel Tower is lit, and looking at it makes me feel lonely, separate somehow. We do not climb it. All the familiar sights are powerful and strident and appear to mock me. They have a place here, a permanence that I do not. It is possible that I am over-sensitive.
I am relieved when it is time to go home. On the way back we are told in pigeon English that ‘the plane is broken.’ We can only fly to London. Matt and I laugh, but Mum doesn’t think it is funny. Dad is on the case and, annoyed but focussed by the challenge, looks into hiring a car to take us on to Birmingham. In the end we are put on a second flight.
“Paris! That’s a bit grand, isn’t it?” someone at school had asked when she knew this was where we had been.
As usual, I had no answer.
This was our first time abroad as a family of four, but it was only as I wrote this chapter that I realised it was also our only time. Just a single week of plain omelettes and broken planes in a period of my adolescence that I am glad has long since passed.
Our parents were to go abroad together many times in later years – Italy, France, Greece. Mum was not keen on the idea of America, or long-haul flights more generally, but in terms of the four of us, this was it.
For our children it has been very different. They have been on aeroplanes and boats, cable cars and trams, through the Channel Tunnel and on many ferries and cruise ships. We go on a cruise and they do not want to get off the boat. Their default expression in an airport is one of boredom; they have seen all that there is to see before. We have more money than my parents did; a lot of it was once theirs.
“Do we have to go to Barcelona?” they will lament.
An exploration of Rome will not go well either.
We think they are spoilt, that they take things for granted. They don’t understand that they have opportunities which we did not when we were their age.
I expect they find me irritable.
I expect my father thought we were spoilt when we were younger too. He would have had no access to boats or expensive houses when he was young.
You can but live in the world you find yourself in. It is the cycle of things. I hope my children will look back on the good bits and forgive the bad.
If truth be told, I thought Rome was quite dusty too.
Mary’s Journal – 1990
It was just on sheets of lined paper, in a box in a cupboard. A journal started, then abandoned, before being taken up again thirteen years later and abandoned again. This first part from 1990 does not cover personal events of the magnitude of 2003-2004, but for all the drama in families, in some ways it is the normal days where life is most lived. This account captures some of those, from a time when there were still many more days to come.
* * *
13 February – Ash Wednesday
I went to 10.00 am service in Bosbury, very cold, snow 6” deep & frozen. Main roads clear, but many of the farms and hamlets are completely cut off. Church chill, white breath on frosted air. Old service – again felt sense of past scenes of worship over hundreds of years. Many more people then, not like the solitary few today, whose numbers thin still further year on year.
Mrs Smith missing, Mr Smith there. Found afterwards she was in hospital. He was very frail, but coping. She may have had a stroke. It was such sadness + I grieved for them: being separated after so many years is a cruelty. Cannot get them out of my mind on this coldest of days and feel frustrated as to what I can do. Very little in truth.
The beginning of Easter can be the cruellest of times.
14 February
Valentine’s day but hardly saw Colin as he had to go away with work. He has a big project on, which means that when he is here, he paces a lot and says little. Just a case of letting him think his way through it, things generally right themselves for him workwise in the end.
Matt still at home but getting better from the throat, cough etc. he’s had since Sunday. Ben says he is skiving but I think he is ill. Back to school tomorrow. Cleaned out larder – very dull & depressing job – Lenten task I suppose. All the usual delights at the back of the cupboard, I have to accept that I am the only one in the family who is ever going to read a label on a packet or a jar and act accordingly if the information is not good.
Lost Caspar.
15 February
Caspar found locked in roof cupboard. Much rejoicing. He seemed entirely un-phased by the experience. Rushed boys off to bus & spent morning shopping in Ledbury in time-wasting way impossible in term time. I thought a bit to shopping in the days before the children, before Colin even. Carefree trips into Ryde as a school girl. Things were simpler then, but I would not go back.
Snow clearing at last – it felt warmer & spirits lifted. The snowploughs have been at work on the more minor roads now and there are banks of snow stacked up by thin winter hedges. They drip thinly in the slightly warming air. Ben went to chess club – had to drive to Malvern to take him. Colin returned in very bad mood. Ben in a bad mood too. Neither of them offered any further comment.
16 February – Saturday
Stayed in bed late. Colin restored to humour. Called on Mr Smith in afternoon to deliver card & present for Enid. Found him very upset as she’s been moved for possible op on a brain tumour – not a stroke after all. I pray she’ll pull through in spite of her age as he’s lost without her. Tried to encourage him but felt inadequate. Howl, howl, howl… It may be 10 days before he sees her again. May God help them both.
Is this what it comes to? The years go by and then suddenly things no longer work as they should, no longer make sense. You are no longer who you once were and do not know where it will end. People turn their backs on you in your decline and then… It doesn’t bear thinking about. I dread the thought of being old, but what is the alternative? I have made Ben promise never to put us in an old people’s home where they organise sing-a-longs. That is what I dread most, although of course objectively there are worse things.
I think mainly to Mr and Mrs Smith. Whatever my future fears, this is happening to them now.
17 February
There was a baptism at church which was followed by preparation for Matt’s confirmation, went on till 12.40. We went out to lunch at Slip tavern. Very restful, the children have reached the age where eating with them in public can actually be a pleasant experience. Short walk on return. Still feels like the depths of winter, it is colder again now and the yielding of the snow has not brought with it any sense of Spring. It will come in its own time, we can only wait.
18 February
Felt v virtuous after making marmalade – a much needed holiday task but better than cleaning as there was something to show for it. I like the scent of the boiling fruit as it fills the kitchen with a tang of orange
zest. I wonder how many years ago somebody first made marmalade in this room, too long to know, but a thought to imagine. Bombs in London railway stations – Colin delayed on way up & finally back at 10pm.
I’ve always hated London, with its noise and bustle at the best of times and I hate him having to go there even more in these turbulent times. The world feels increasingly less safe. If we could pull up a metaphorical draw bridge I would.
18 February
Boys had hair cut this morning, the hairdresser commented on how much easier Ben’s hair is to cut these days. He is growing into himself and growing in confidence, that much is clear.
Matt and I went to Hereford this afternoon and had afternoon tea in Chad’s. He was quite chatty.
Rushed back to get ready for Matt’s confirmation service. Bishop very droll – hated singing while he was confirming people. Matt very sensitive, for once.
A proud day.
20 February
Matt had music practice at Church in Ledbury, something about the darkness of the place reminded me of a story Herbert once told me, about a solitary organ practice he undertook in Bosbury. Coffin laid out waiting for burial on the following morn. He said it was impossible to concentrate on his music and in the end he was compelled to flee, even though he wasn’t like that, knew logically that there couldn’t be any threat to him. Old churches, new bodies, a winter evening, I think it would have scared many.
Ben working hard & very gloomy. Says his life is nothing but work. I saw Mrs Jones this morning who said that they were well on with the lambing. The first this year had arrived on Christmas day! I do sometimes envy those who work on the land and imagine the benefits. That closer connection to nature, an ability to measure the seasons through the arrival of new born animals; to notice changes in the growth of a hedgerow that will pass by those of us with more sentinel roles. No more need to care about the latest crazy government education edicts. This is a somewhat romantic way of looking at life on the land of course. The work is backbreaking and repetitive and it is not my world. My students, my books and family of course, these are my life, but it always does me good to think out of myself from time to time, however silly the thought.
21 February
Back to college. Same old story. John very depressed about mess up re foundation training. Actually had good lecture with GCSE mob on interviews – assessing candidates & references etc. We are well into things now and I can see progress being made. Just occasionally we feel that we are making a difference.
22 February – Friday
More work. Boys at home alone but coping well. Took Matt’s flute to be mended. War raging on in Gulf – ground war imminent. It dominates every news bulletin, every newspaper. Glorified and sensationalised. I pray for all of them.
23 February
Sunday – Church followed by Matt’s music practice. Ben still gloomy as is bogged down in GCSE work. Planted tress (plum & magnolia) bought yesterday in garden. All four of us were involved, which was fun. Felt a little like Spring – warmer + some sun. I wonder how long these trees will stand here, longer than any of us all being well.
24 February
All back to school etc. today. The rhythm of the year picking up pace, exam preparation looming into focus, it will be summer before we know it. Then another year will be gone. I know I must not think like this but the way time moves scares me sometimes. I look at the boys and think, where did you come from? I look at myself in the mirror and think… Well, I don’t know quite what I think.
Did usual tasks – Colin away in London. Another bomb scare closed all mainline stations, again I worry for him. This is not an easy time. Ground war began in Gulf. God help them all. We never seem able to move beyond conflicts like this, however disastrous all know they are in terms of human cost.
25 February
Helped Ian G with his poetry reading. He is a very talented writer/ musician & a funny man. Programme went well, but was not well attended.
26 February
Dreadful images of war on TV screens – cannot bear to watch at all. Ben’s parents evening – he is doing v. well & everyone was pleased with him. Wished Colin was there. Got back about 9.45. Very tired. Colin home at last, also tired and quiet. I can only guess at what he is thinking sometimes.
27 February
War seems to be petering out. Iraq will be defeated. I am very glad the nightmare will end. Visited Mrs Smith, hospital – she’s OK – but so so frail. I held her hand and she stroked my hair. We did talk, but that was not what seemed important. You can only hold onto the moment.
28 February
Gulf war over! Glory, glory.
Felt v tired, but so relieved. Kept wondering whether Mrs Smith will cope when let out of hospital. She’s longing to be home, with him, back where she belongs. I know things will be uncertain for them both now, but I will do what I can to support them and to pray for them.
We have to stand for as long as we can.
Golden Anniversary, and
Other Football Stories
After months of pleading we are going to Old Trafford to see Manchester United: Me, Matt and Dad. Nobody seems to mind that this is the day of Theresa and Dave’s fiftieth. So long as they are together they are happy.
“Say it,” Theresa says. And I feel resentful. It’s an intrusion. There are more important things to be thinking about now. At sixteen I am not at my most gracious. We stand at the bottom of the stairs, facing each other for a moment. “Happy Anniversary, Grandma!” I say. She looks ecstatic and plants a wet kiss that I struggle out from under.
Fifty years.
Dave emerges beaming from the dining room and hugs her. He reminds me that if I find myself an older woman I can benefit from her pension. Fifty years. They have come a long way from that first meeting at a London Underground station during the Blitz.
“He couldn’t survive without her,” Mum says. She is taking them out for lunch. Dad has made his case as to why he is doing an equally important job. We are playing Arsenal. Dad has got the tickets through a friend from work and there will be a group of his colleagues at the match. We follow the motorway north and park up to eat sandwiches, but I cannot eat: my stomach tingles with excitement.
Outside the ground, Dad nips to the loo and a miracle happens. The whole Manchester United team starts to file past and I thrust my notebook at them as they do. Andrei Kanchelskis, the pacey Ukrainian winger, is one of the first to sign. Dennis Irwin. Mike Phelan drops my pen and scowls, but when I pick it up he signs. Neil Webb and his wife Shelly are arguing by an expensive-looking car and nobody intrudes.
Finally, the biggest miracle of all, Bobby Charlton is stood in front of me. He couldn’t be more polite.
“I’ll sign all your things, lads,” and he does, managing the bustle around him with an experience that can only be gained through years of adulation. Dad returns and asks if he has missed anything.
The beat of the music, the sense of event, the smell of cheap fast food, cigarette smoke and lager; I love all of it. The Scorpions, Wind of Change rings out around the stadium. You have not really heard music until you have felt its beat in a packed arena, have lost yourself in the moment; few other places can provide such a refuge from life, even if that sense ebbs away as the clock runs down prior to the final whistle.
We draw 1-1. Arsenal in yellow and black, the better more successful team in recent years by far. Our agonising wait to win the League still has a little further to run, but we are equal to them today.
Yet change is coming, for me and for the team. For all of us really, and it will twist every which way imaginable. But here and now a sense of togetherness and shared purpose seems to trump all that.
UNITED!
Someone in the work group is drunk. He throws up and sits with his head in his hands, not watching any of it. Sick flecks the seat in front of him.
/> “He’s meant to be out with his missus tonight and he’s totally fucked,” one of them says.
“No change there then, the stupid tosser,” says another. Civil servants at play…
Someone shouts at Ryan Giggs, the kid who is only two years older than me, to ‘get in the game’ and I see him flinch. David Rocastle is playing for Arsenal, not many years left to him, but the imperious master of the moment.
“It’s fast,” says Dad, and I note he is impressed, if still a touch guarded. I don’t know what else he thinks about the day, how much he enjoyed it. He would never really say, but there will be other visits and I will take that as my clue.
When finally we get home after that first trip I show Theresa and Dave the autographs, but the names don’t mean anything to them. Dad asks how Dave expects to win the pools when he doesn’t actually know anything about football.
“Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing, son,” he says.
We will do this a bit in years to come. Sometimes he will drive and sometimes we will get a coach. We will see Eric Cantona make his home debut against Norwich. Watch him shake hands with Mark Robins, now a Norwich player, before the kick-off. The goal that had saved Alex Ferguson’s career had not been enough to keep Robins at United. Despite the free plastic macs they hand out as we enter the stadium, we will get rained on during the re-building work, again against Norwich I think. Norwich must have been one of the easier games to get tickets for.
Clayton Blackmore was in our defence for that first game I went to with my father, and a decade later, at a fans forum I have gone to with Darren, I will ask Clayton about it. He says he doesn’t remember and we talk about the subsequent match with Arsenal where a big fight between the players broke out. Then we will turn to other things, social chit-chat, visiting parents and so on, and it will occur to me that even being a Manchester United footballer only makes you different to a point.
