Day 19 of Lockdown: My uncle passed away today. He was 100 years old. Born on 31st May 1919, he would’ve been 101 by the end of next month. My cousin in Glasgow, the “glue” guy that holds our family together, informed me. His daughter will be devastated, more because she won’t have been able to see him or arrange a proper funeral, after all their time on this Earth together.
I couldn’t get to his centenary celebrations because I’d broken an ankle the week before, on the Isle of Bute. Unable to walk or drive, my husband away, I was finally transported home by a relay of friends. I was isolated for weeks; alone with my cat. My cousin offered to drive me to Glasgow and back but I was in too much pain. I regret that now. My uncle was a kindly man, and always gave my brother and I a half-crown each when he visited – as long as we didn’t tell my mother, he’d say with a wink.
He was the last of his generation. Dad was the youngest; he was the eldest. He served on the HMS Ramillies in WWII when it was torpedoed by Japanese midget submarines, while moored at Madagascar. He survived to tell the tale and continued to bring stamps home for my brother, and me, from ports around the globe. Now he’s gone and I can’t pay my respects to him. No-one can. Only his nearest and dearest, of which there is only one daughter and her family left. He’d had thirteen siblings. Born just after the ‘war to end all wars’ and fighting for survival and freedom in the next, all he had hoped for in the future was that his daughters and their partners and children would never see another war. I never really understood what he meant until I had children of my own. Now I have worse fears for my grandson.
…
I lie on the single bed, in my son’s old bedroom, looking at the sky-blue ceiling. He said a parcel is arriving for me today, in the next few hours. Possibly flowers for Easter, which is a lovely thought – but I have nothing for him. I sent him a card, and put some money in his account for a luxury chocolate egg. It was all I could do. He is a grown man, but still we hold on to these traditions. My husband was going to deliver some little things we’d bought for my daughter and grandson too, but she asked him not to. She wanted us all to stay safe. I appreciated her thoughts and agreed to post my grandson’s Paw Patrol pyjamas and the Peter Rabbit Cookbook that used to belong to his mother. The wee one is lactose-intolerant so no Easter eggs for him. My husband went bird watching instead, and I planted the pink hyacinths that I’d chosen for my daughter, in the spot by dad’s rosebush.
The sun shines through a chink in the curtains. Perhaps I’ll get started on cleaning out the summerhouse today. The birds have come back to the feeders in force, now that our pet cat has passed away. I see the shadow of the Japanese Maple’s branches weave in the wind through the muslin screens and I try to imagine what it must’ve been like for my uncle and his comrades floating about on the ocean in a dreadnought built for the First World War, never knowing what lurked in the waters below, or what might appear from the fog. The phrase, ‘sitting ducks’ comes to mind. As we are now, during this pandemic. Waiting for the unseen enemy to strike, and hoping to God that we survive the consequences when it does. Is this the future that people like my uncle fought for?
Spring is well on its way. Usually it’s a sign of hope but I don’t feel hopeful, which is unfair because last night we had a meet up with friends in Glasgow, using Zoom and we managed to laugh and joke. It felt like old times. Later in the evening, my husband played The Beatles’ Rubber Soul and Imagine by John Lennon. Both took me right back in time but especially the latter as I imagined myself listening to the album, lying in my best pal’s purple bedroom, with white furniture and round, orange handles, as we wondered what the future would hold.
I see the sleeve of that album now; Lennon’s face appearing through a mist, suggestive of something powerful yet elusive. It is the iconic image that we all remember most, but it was always the back cover that held my fascination. Lennon lying on the ground, gazing up at a clear sky, with only a hint of cloud above. My friend loved his dreamy eyes and voice. I loved his dream. We used to sit amidst deep purple walls – she on her white painted rocking chair, me on her white nylon bedspread, discussing the war in Vietnam and how we would never fight or permit our husbands and sons to do so. ‘What was the point?’ we thought then. We tuned in to Lennon’s lyrics and wondered if there could ever be a world where there would be no fighting, no famine, no religion and everyone was equal. We had hope then. We were dreamers. We were the lucky ones. Or so we thought. We were the generation that had escaped the horrors of the wars that our grandparents, parents and uncles had lived through, but what we didn’t understand was that piece by piece, the world was crumbling and generations on, we are the ones who, in Lennon’s words, have become ‘crippled inside’.
We could never have imagined what we are facing now.
...
PS – Mass burials in New York revealed yesterday as the UK death toll outnumbered the worst day in Spain.
PPS – Day 69: UK passes 40,000 coronavirus deaths.