by Ben Graff
I have to think about ending this now. The stories have been told, the letters and poems shared. One day soon, there will be a neatly typed up version of this manuscript, a book hopefully, that I will give to the children. It could be a moment that they remember. Annabelle, Madeleine, Francesca and Gabriella. They might read it, they might not. Is it possible all of this will be forgotten and then re-remembered like Martin’s journal?
There will be a copy for Katharine and for my Uncle Mike and my brother Matthew, his children Reuben and Evie too. If nothing else, it will not be like Bleeding. I have written about the people that I know and the things that I can see. I hope that the sense of all that was good in Mary and Colin, Theresa and Dave, Anna and Martin is just as clear to the reader.
My children are all still children, and any illusion they still might have that I am all-seeing will be lost if they read these words, perhaps replaced at least with the notion that I am trying to see, however imperfectly, to find my way and that none of these things are easy. I am hopeful that any such thoughts this reveals to them about my own many inadequacies will be displaced by a game of Monopoly or some football in the garden. Perhaps my solutions to things that might be difficult are not so different from my father’s after all.
When I am gone, will they think my life was more about me than them? If they do, on this they will be wrong, just as I knew, when my father said, “You boys are everything,” that he was telling the truth. If there was to be one thing that remained, I would want it to be that the girls knew they were everything to me. There might still be a myriad of other disappointments and missed expectations, perhaps some that are entirely unknown to me but matter to them. The history of my relationship with my father tells me that this might be so. It also gives me hope that it will not be the whole story.
In the end, Annabelle, Francesca, Maddie and Gabriella will write their own chapters, whether on paper or in other ways that matter more, and I will have to be content that I told my side whilst I still could.
Epilogue – Last Journey
There is one last journey left to make. Annabelle and Francesca are coming with me as we leave Warwick on a summer morning which has just a trace of autumn in the air, a quiet whisper that the season has already peaked. My back feels fragile, it gives me more warnings than once it did, but we have a plan for today and that matters more. Maddie is staying at home with Katharine and Gabriella to do some baking; we have been promised cakes on our return.
Down the motorway we go, teenage music blaring out as we make good progress. The roadworks that used to shape this journey have long since been completed, and today there is no trace of the bollards and average speed cameras that used to mark this route. Annabelle and Francesca squabble benignly, but mainly there is calm. I think to the drive on the day before my father died and it feels both vivid and distant. A long time ago and not so long, even if he was alive then and is dead now, today is better. What we will face is more certain; some things if not all have been resolved. I am not making the trip alone.
Eventually we divert to go through Malvern rather than straight onto what had once been my parents’ house. We talk about Francesca’s latest football trial and then the play that Maddie and Gabriella will both soon be in. Annabelle shares a plan to dye her hair silver.
Finally we are there and we walk down the steep hill and stand before the grave which is still and peaceful in the delicate summer breeze. The children now quiet, thoughtful, and just as I never knew what he was thinking when he stood here, now I cannot read them.
I have not been here for a long time and we clear some weeds and lay fresh flowers, just as my father used to do in the six years between my mother’s burial and his joining her in this place. He was the custodian for such a short space of time; how can any of us be other? I resolve to come more often.
I remember again her funeral, in the sun, rain, then sun again. Arguing with him at the graveside a few months later, the packed church at his funeral, which first impressed and then just saddened me. Earlier happier memories here: Matt and Rachel’s wedding, Reuben’s christening; they are all part of the same cycle, the same patterns.
Annabelle is thoughtful and does not say much. Francesca talks a little more and holds my hand. None of us are quite sure what we are doing, but we are going to make this work. We stand for a while and in the end it is Francesca who tells us that it is time to go, that we still have things to do. Her grandparents will still be here whenever we want to come back.
We drive on to their old house, twenty minutes or so away, and park at the top of the small private road. The drive is smooth now, but other than the fresh tarmac it looks much as it did when I saw it for the first time nearly thirty-five years ago. It is likely it will look the same to others many more years on from this, further than the three of us can go. All of us are part of something that will transcend us all, even the children, whether we like it or not. Mum and Dad were Anna and Martin’s, Dave and Theresa’s children, once. My children are never allowed to die.
I can feel a tingle in my back and in my leg, but here today, as on so many previous days, it means very little. The new owners are friendly and would doubtless invite us in if they knew we were here, but we have no desire to intrude. The physical place is not ours now, but some of its past surely still is.
I tell Annabelle again about the bike races down the drive and skating on the duck pond in winter. She has heard these stories before but listens politely.
Everything might look the same but nothing really is. I remind Francesca of the time we picked apples in the orchard, just before the house was sold. She remembers. I start to tell her some of the stories I have been writing about. Their great great grandfather riding a motorcycle in World War One, Martin in the fire service in World War Two, the chess, and some of the other games that have been played.
I notice I avoid telling them about how writing all of this made me think, about me and about them. Perhaps I keep the same things from them as Dad did from me. I am my father’s son. They both nod politely and I know these should be the last stories for today.
In the morning we are heading to Uncle Mike’s and we will be on the Isle of Wight once more. That is still part of our present in a way that the house is not.
We will bring Maddie and Gabriella’s cakes with us. Francesca will bring her football.
Finally Annabelle looks at me.
“Let’s go home, Dad.”
Acknowledgements
Find Another Place would not have been possible without the help and support of many others.
If it had not been for my grandfather Martin Holmes’s journal there would be no book. He might not have become the writer he wanted to be, but hopefully in some small way this book showcases both his talent and his story. I am also grateful to Kelly Stevens, for her expertise in deciphering Martin’s handwriting, without which I do not think his journal could have been rescued.
The letters from my parents Mary and Colin Graff and my mother’s poems are equally integral to this book. It still moves me to read stories of their beginnings at a time when their lives are both over. As so often with these things, the best moment to say thank you to them both is past, but I want to take this opportunity to place on record my thanks for everything they did for me. I will always miss them.
I would like to thank the other contributors to Find Another Place. In particular my daughters Annabelle, Madeleine and Francesca for their passages and my youngest Gabriella who helped her sisters with these. I am also grateful to Madeleine for taking a photograph one Christmas Eve, back on the Isle of Wight where so much of this book is set, that formed the basis for Dave Hillsarts cover design.
Janet Morter very kindly let me use her mother Noreen (my great aunt’s) diary and her encouragement and support for this project was very much appreciated. Charmian Knight graciously let me use one of her letters. As a lifelong friend of both
my parents, her enthusiasm for this project meant a great deal to me and helped to set my mind at rest that this book should be written.
The role that first readers play in helping to shape a book is something I have come to more fully appreciate during the writing process. My editor Gary Dalkin helped me to better navigate this story than I could have done alone. His care and precision have played a big part in making Find Another Place all that it can be. I am grateful for his friendship.
The professionalism of the team at Matador has also made a big difference. I am sure there are many others, but I would like to particularly thank Lauren Bailey, Heidi Hurst and Emily Castledine.
Finally and most importantly I would like to thank my wife Katharine. Without her encouragement and patience Find Another Place would still be nothing more than an idea. Here is to many more stories…
Ben Graff - January 2018
Notes
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1 Charmian Knight taught with my mother and is my godmother. She and her husband Tim were lifelong friends of my parents and she wrote a letter after my father’s death which appears later in this book.
2 My grandfather’s handwriting never did give up all its secrets. All I can say for sure is that I have this name wrong. I would be intrigued to learn if anyone knows who my grandfather might have been writing about.
