Lady Valetta Writes

This one’s personal. With a rather odd, blue tinge to the photo – of my Dad. A difficult man, but an extraordinary man.

A FINAL JOURNEY

By

Samantha Hill

I’m back again, by your side. Your whole world shrank into this room some years ago, and now it seems you’re on your way to leaving it. Your breaths shake with an unease I can’t associate with you; you haven’t opened your eyes for days. We’ve not heard your rich, actor’s voice for many years. I’ve already mourned that.

Oliver’s gone home. He needs some family time, so it’s just me. Every now and then, your body shudders, jerking uncomfortably. This lasts for some minutes, as if the essence of who you once were, is trying to burst through the carcass that has been its home all these years. It doesn’t want to be here, I am sure. You don’t want to be here. Can I take you away? Can we escape by the power of my voice, this time?

We’re scudding through the arboreal guard of honour on that long route through Northern France. We left home ridiculously early this morning, the car laden with everything that means holiday to us. From my back seat, I can hear the “swish” of every tree, and I look anxiously at Oliver to my left, crossing my fingers behind my back that his motion sickness is at bay. We haven’t stopped for a few hours; surely, we will soon? I know that Oliver will need to and I long for an Orangina. I think Orangina will forever be the taste of my holidays.

We’ve made this trip so many times. You won’t contemplate flying to your colleague’s villa on the Costa Blanca, where we spend a month each summer. You relish the three-day drive through rural France and the dry, dusty summer countryside of the Iberian peninsula. You don’t ‘do’ motorways, so it’s the country route for us. I’m lulled into my own reverie as the car eats up the road beneath us. As evening draws in, we’ll find an auberge for the night, but not before you and Mum have disagreed heatedly about the route. It’s your dream to find an auberge used by French truck drivers, insistent that they know the most economical places to stay, with mattresses that lend themselves to the deep sleep the drivers need for their long days on the road, not to mention the hearty French country dining that is also your favourite, a cuisine you love to practice. Your boeuf bourgignon is a treat to be savoured.

We have yet to find one of those inns. One night, very late, way past mine and Oliver’s bed-time, beyond supper time so that our stomachs have given up sending us messages that we need food, Mum finally persuades you to stop at the next hotel. It’s a grand country house affair, alone on a road between towns that are probably hours away in each direction. As you negotiate with the receptionist for a family room, in your almost-perfect French, I notice the stuffed animals that adorn the walls, two life-size brown bears standing sentry at the bottom of the stairs.

We all collapse into bed and are up at dawn the following morning, shoving our holiday belongings back into suitcases, loading the car.

Disaster! Mum can’t find Oliver’s teddy-bear. She is adamant that he won’t sleep without it, we can’t leave until it’s found. Oliver is subjected to intense interrogation but, so young, is incapable of revealing any information.

We trail behind you through the hotel, back to the reception desk, as Mum turns our room upside-down. You yet again employ your command of the French language, and even at such a young age, I appreciate the irony as this time you enquire of the receptionist, while observed by stags’ heads, the two sentry bears and a stuffed fox, if anybody has found… a blue bear. No joy. We head out towards the car, when an upstairs window is flung open, your name is called. Mum leans out the window, waving the blue bear in her hands; found in a drawer; I certainly never leave a hotel room without a final sweep of all drawers.

Has your breathing changed again? You shift, you moan. Are you uncomfortable? Do I call someone?

Let’s go back again. Was it that same holiday when the car suffered its inevitable breakdown? I’m staring out the window at arid open countryside, my face bathed in heat as the sun increases its intensity as we head south. I am jolted by a harsh mechanical stuttering, revving; that’s not right. Now I can feel the tension rising inside our little metal box, and before long we have stopped at the roadside. The bonnet is up, your head buried deep inside the engine. It’s the fan-belt, apparently, whatever that is. You demand a pair of Mum’s tights. Yes, really. I’m curious at the request, Mum is dumbfounded. All these years later, still speechless that Mum took a pair of tights on our Mediterranean holiday. Whatever you did with them, we were once more hurtling through the countryside, making it to the next town with a garage. Your talents always seemed endless.

An hour later, evening, I’m still here. As one of the nurses said, you are very stubborn – as if I don’t know – it could still be days. I decide to head home for some sleep, see my boys, return tomorrow. I kiss your forehead, grateful that you are now calm.

Just gone midnight, my phone rings. A gentle voice tells me that it’s happened, you’ve left us. As with your sister, Ann, you decided to take that final step alone. The physical effect is visceral and I experience what it means to “burst into tears”. I call Oliver. Despite being on the opposite side of London, despite the hour, he wants to drive to collect me so we can both go to see you, finally. Another car journey together, Oliver sitting to my right this time as he takes your role, navigating the streets of our childhood. London in the early hours of Sunday morning throngs with activity; it doesn’t seem hostile, just ongoing. We sail through the quieter neighbourhood of your own childhood, and I know that this is how it should be, another journey on this night.

We’re here, the kindness of the nursing staff somewhat overwhelming as we sit with you; they’ve brought us a cup of tea, which seems odd. Sipping tea, nibbling a biscuit, next to the dead body of my Dad. There’s no doubt you’ve left us behind, you’re on your own journey now. Your features remain, the outline of your body has not changed but it really is an empty shell. I lift the sheet to take a final glance at your elegant hands, so often animated to emphasise and articulate your thoughts. Slim, graceful, the hands of a ballet dancer that served an actor so well, forever still.

We travelled together, but that last journey was always yours to take alone.

©Samantha Hill, 2023