by Helena Tym
Leon was wearing a Rifles’ Regimental tie that is dark green with black diagonal stripes outlined in red. Zac asked where he could get one - if he could get one - as he’d like one as a memento. Leon immediately took it off and gave it to him. Rob said that he liked the look of his trousers, Leon gave a wry smile - enough said. It lightened the atmosphere, and helped us all relax a little.
It was after 3 am when we eventually said goodbye to Leon. Back in our house, exhausted by the day and knowing we had to be up in four hours, we were almost too tired to sleep. Cyrus had been based in Northern Ireland for eighteen months and will never come back. I’ve been here for thirty-six hours - and I’ll not come back. There is nothing here for me in Ballykinler.
Chapter 11: Remembrance Days
I dreamt of him again the other night, with such a feeling of reality it left me breathless. We were in Caversham, waiting for the Remembrance Day Parade to come along so we could join it. There was a little girl with pigtails, sitting on a bench opposite me, drawing. Rob was looking out into the street. Then there he was, walking around the corner with a black leather trenchcoat on, his hands in his pockets. ‘Hello Mum,’ he said in a low, solemn voice. ‘I can’t hear you very well,’ he said as he leant against me for a hug. I stroked his hair - I could feel his hair! He was pale and I knew he was dead but I could feel the weight of him and the texture of his hair. ‘I’m ok now, I’m playing Pro,’ he whispered. ‘I just can’t hear you very well because of my ears.’ I looked at Rob and he spoke to the little girl who obviously couldn’t see Cyrus and was wondering why I was crying and stroking thin air. Rob could see him and when he explained to the girl that it was Cyrus, she shrugged her little shoulders and carried on with her drawing. I woke crying. I had felt the pressure of his body on mine - how could this be? I know he is ok - it’s the rest of us who aren’t.
Are these dreams messages, or is it my imagination trying to help me cope with the enormity of what has happened? That’s twice now that he’s spoken, and both times to say he’s ok.
Sometimes I wished I believed in a God and heaven - it would make it easier to think that he was somewhere, playing Pro or listening to music, watching and waiting. I wish, but I don’t, and even this tragedy won’t change my feelings on gods and such. I’m glad, though, that other people get comfort from their beliefs. So many have written, ‘Until we meet again’ or, ‘When we meet again.’ I can see why religion is appealing to some - just not to me. I would ask too many questions like, ‘Why my child?’ and expect the answers that I wanted to hear. But then I suppose that the answer would be that it is not for us to choose who lives or dies, but we have to accept that it’s for a reason, whatever that reason might be.
That would not be of any comfort to me. I still want him back. Sitting in the bath, I wonder what I’ve done to deserve this. Why should I have to go and tend a garden on a grave? Why should I have to go out and see his friends carrying on with their lives? Why should this have happened to us? All these questions make my throat dry and my eyes sore, but I ask them all the same. Sobs rack my body and the pain seems insurmountable. Too many questions that will never be answered; after all, who has an answer and anyway, who would I ask them of?
An invitation had come through the post for us to go The Royal Albert Hall on Saturday for the Festival of Remembrance. There seems to be such a lot going on this week. I suppose I’d not really thought about Remembrance Sunday and all that goes with it. Over the years I’ve watched it on the telly, but then I wasn’t part of that life. I am now.
Another reason to panic about what to wear, the Queen will be there - not that she’ll see me but still, I need something to wear. I hate it, I hate shopping, I hate the fact that I have to choose something that is out of my comfort zone. I would do it a thousand times though for him. I just wish I didn’t have to.
Dianne, Sharpie’s mum, has kindly said she would drive us up to London and wait while we went in and took part in the Festival. People can be so very kind. It’s strange how those you thought would step up to the mark don’t, and those who do come unexpectedly out of the blue.
Another unexpected thing happened. The phone rang at 8.50 on Friday morning, and it was BBC Radio Berkshire’s Breakfast Programme to say that they had some good news about Cyrus and Remembrance Day, and would I stay on the line so they could tell me ‘live’ on the radio? I texted Rob and told him what was going to happen so he could switch the radio on at work. I couldn’t think what it could be - what possible good news? To be honest, there can’t be any. Still, I waited until they were ready then Andrew Peach, the presenter, informed me (and anyone else listening) that the Caversham Branch of the Royal British Legion had decided that Cyrus’s name should be engraved on the War Memorial down by the Thames in Caversham. No name had been added since World War II and there was a panel that had been left blank with the hope that it would never have another name added to it. They felt it was the least they could do, this honour for our son. It is overwhelming, it truly is. He had touched the hearts of so many people that he’d never met. An honour and yet...
I was then called by The Legion and we were invited to join them on Sunday morning at 11 am. Steel yourself for more tears and pain, Helena.
The Royal Albert Hall is a very beautiful building - I don’t think I’d ever been inside before now. We got a drink before it all started and the curved corridors were lined with Legion Banners and men and women covered in medals. Once inside the Hall itself we were seated behind the band and the banner-bearers - all so very sad. Huge swathes of material hung from the ceiling and images were projected on to them.
Men from wars past spoke of their fallen comrades, and one that particularly affected me was a man in his late eighties or early nineties, with tears in his eyes and pain in his voice. He told of the day he was on the beaches of Northern France and his friend was shot, describing how he’d sat with him, held his hand, soothed him, and watched him die - powerless to do anything about it. Surrounded by gunfire, not considering that his own life was in danger, he had remained simply frozen, not wanting to leave his friend. He spoke as though it had happened yesterday. Tragic to think his loss still affects him after all these years - how much he still misses him, and how not a day has gone by without his friend being in his thoughts. It made me think of Elliott and wonder if one day he would be saying these things about Cyrus. It never stops, this pain, for me or anyone who has lost a friend and brother.
There were songs, marches and tributes from so many, both civilian and from the forces. Then the ceiling opened and thousands of tissue-paper poppy petals fell during the two-minute silence. They cascaded to the floor, a red curtain of paper petals landing on those below, who never moved a muscle. They are so proud, these men and women of our forces. Let us not forget.
Afterwards, people stooped and picked up handfuls of the petals, and the boys went down to the floor and collected some too. I have them safe inside the programme - more memories to add to my growing collection, and I wonder if I will ever look at it again.
There is no comfort in all these ceremonies - not for me anyway. It’s just another emotionally draining day. Sunday morning was cold, typically, and we dressed warmly, knowing that we were going to stand outside for at least an hour down by the river. We’d already collected our wreath from the Legion and loading it and ourselves into the car we headed into Caversham.
So many people were heading towards the river. I’d never done this before so it took me by surprise. Then there were the faces of friends, shivering in the cold, sobbing into hankies, holding poppies and little wooden crosses. Rob’s cousin Kieron came forward and gave us a handful of these crosses with the Rifles’ emblem on them, I don’t know where he got them, but it was a lovely gesture. There were Brownies, Scouts, elderly men covered in medals - and then I saw Elliott, Marsh and a Serjeant from the Rifles, in their combats. We were surprised, we’d not known they were g
oing to be there. The ceremony was quite quick and we were asked to come up while the last prayers were said. It was horrible, standing in front of all these people - some I knew, and some I didn’t, my soul laid bare yet again to all the pain and anguish this awfulness brings. We laid our wreath, then the soldiers moved forward and laid theirs. This was the first time they’d been over from Ireland to see us since they got back from Afghanistan a few weeks earlier.
The press were there, and we spoke to several of them, but I was acutely aware that Elliott and Marsh were in the background, and I needed to get to them. There were friends we’d not seen for months, wanting to talk and tell us how sad they still were. There was a slight feeling of panic - we had to get up to the graveside. In addition we were going to London again in the afternoon as we’d been invited to an anti-war theatre production called ‘Eloquent Protest’. Time was not on our side.
Zac hopped in the car with Elliott and Marsh and directed them to the cemetery. We were surprised to see how many people were already there. When Zac and the soldiers arrived I went and stood next to them. It was the first time that Elliott and Marsh had been at the graveside. It was all they could do to stand up straight. Here they were, looking at the grave of their best friend - the closest they’d been to him for months. We squeezed each other’s hands, hugged and cried. ‘This is such a shitty place to be,’ I whispered. ‘It’s not fucking fair and not right that we are all standing here doing this.’ Pain on top of pain for my boys, Rob, Elliott, Marsh, friends - we were all there for all the wrong bloody reasons. I didn’t want anyone to have to stand in front of the grave of a nineteen-year-old - it was so wrong... and we had to rush - we needed to get to London. I felt awful about it when they had come specially to see us. Fuck. I knew they would be back, but it was really all too much.
So, another anniversary to add to the birthdays, Christmas, Remembrance Day, the date of his death - too many, too much, too bloody sad to even truly comprehend.
On this next trip Zac’s friend Sharpie was our chauffeur. He drove us to Shaftsbury Avenue, where we had to be at The Duke of York’s Theatre for the production of ‘Eloquent Protest’, at which the actor Jason Isaacs was going to be reading extracts from Cyrus’s letters. Terri Judd, the journalist from ‘The Independent’ whom we had first met in Wootton Bassett, had arranged for us to meet Jason before the show. He explained that he’d been asked to recite some of Wilfred Owen’s poetry, by the producers, but was so moved by Cyrus’s letters, he asked to use them instead.
‘They have the beauty and lyricism of a young boy of today, who could be walking past us in the street. Unlike the great poets of previous world wars, there is no ability to distance ourselves from it,’ he said, when interviewed by ‘The Independent’. ‘His exhilaration at finally getting to do the thing he has lived and trained for and his attempt to communicate that to his family is very affecting. I am twice as old as Cyrus was, and I overthink and analyse. His words seem to come straight from the heart. There is no literary pretension. I felt like I was listening to a video diary rather than reading a letter.’
It was flattering that Jason wanted to share his interpretation of Cyrus’s words, but because I knew nothing of ‘Eloquent Protest’, the whole thing was a completely new and bemusing experience. Sir Tony Benn was there as a speaker. There were people reciting poems - musicians, dancers and singers. They are all anti-war, but not in a fanatical way, but simply quietly and peacefully airing their views.
After the show we met Terri again to thank her, and say goodbye. She has been very kind and an enormous help with the press. I have telephoned her on several occasions since for advice - she is someone I trust and who has become a friend. Journalists sometimes get a bad press - admittedly deserved at times - however, we have been fortunate in our dealings with them, and have found them to be nothing but kind, sympathetic and professional, and we are grateful for that.
Sitting in the back of Sharpie’s car on the clogged streets of London later that evening, we were completely exhausted. It had been a long and difficult weekend.
On Remembrance Day itself we went to Micklands Primary School, which all our three boys had attended. It seems such a long time ago that I walked along the main road to school with them all, running and laughing every day. We live only ten minutes from the school and it felt odd walking into the playground again, seeing all the small children with their bright red jumpers and grey skirts and trousers. They look so little - it’s hard to imagine that my boys were ever that small.
At Micklands they have planted a memorial rose-garden and chose roses named Peace, Hero and Remember Me. They asked us to attend their assembly and help some of the children plant bulbs around the roses. It was a very sweet tribute and they had commissioned a brass plaque with Cyrus’s name, stating that he had been a former pupil. It is still almost impossible for my brain to register seeing his name in stone or brass. I can’t quite equate it to my life, although I know I have to come to terms with it.
It was here, at Micklands, that Cyrus met David May, who became his best friend - a friendship shared by both Zac and Steely, and which lasted through junior school, senior school and beyond. Whenever Cyrus was home on leave he would call David. Their personalities were so different, but their tastes and builds were similar; both were tall, slim and athletic, conscious of their looks - particularly about their hair. David’s was fair, whereas Cyrus’s was dark strawberry blonde. David would poke fun and call him ‘ginger’. Both loved clothes, shoes and girls - but Cyrus was loud and fearless while David was shy and quiet. They shared a love of football, music and an identical sense of humour, and would spend long hours in the garage talking and laughing, listening to music and, as they got older, smoking and drinking, playing computer games. Pro was one of their favourites, but they also loved kicking a football around the garden. David became a huge part of our lives - he was included in family meals and holidays, and was never far away if Cyrus was around.
David is now the drummer in a band called The Kixx, and soon after Cyrus’s death he wrote a song, which is now on their album. It is his tribute to a much loved and missed friend. The words reach out and are relevant to all friendships, but I know when I read the lyrics that it was written for Cyrus - and it’s achingly sad.
Breathless
What happened to forever?
The promises we made,
The summers spent together,
Those silly games we played.
I guess promises get broken,
But not with you and me, yeah
You were everything I hoped -
I hoped that you would be, yeah.
So tell me what to do with all
The dreams that we had planned
I’m breathless.
I’ve never said how much I cared
And I’m sorry
That, my friend, I wasn’t there.
I’m speechless - I’m falling - if I was there
I’d take the blow, oh no
Then you’d be coming home.
I wish I had the time
To say what I wanted to say -
To say how much you meant,
Before it all got taken away.
I waited here for days, for you
To come back now.
A taken heart so young -
Tell me, where’s the sense in that, now?
So tell me what to do with all
The dreams that we had planned.
I’m breathless.
I never said how much I care,
And I’m sorry
That, my friend, I wasn’t there.
I’m speechless. I’m falling - if I was there
I’d take the blow, oh no
Then you’d be coming home...
You’d still be coming home.
Wh
at happened to forever?
The promises we made,
The summers spent together,
Those silly games we played.
I’m breathless.
I’ve never said how much I care
And I’m sorry
That, my friend, I wasn’t there.
I’m speechless. I’m falling - if I was there
I’d take the blow, oh no
Then you’d be coming home...
You’d still be coming home.
All these tributes, flowers and wreaths on the grave, well-wishers, messages on Facebook, cards and letters, texts and phone calls... It was a shame that there was not so much as a brief call, or even a note in the post or a flower on the grave from Rob’s dad, saying he was thinking of Cyrus and us. This was the outcome of a phone conversation six weeks earlier, when he had told me that he wouldn’t talk about Cyrus as it hurt him too much to even say his name. I’d told him that he should be proud of Cyrus, and not pretend he didn’t exist, but he is stubborn beyond belief, and I know it will be down to Rob to make contact, as he knows that his dad would rather never speak again than bow down and make amends.
