November

Isn’t the light beautiful today? At this time of year, it’s at its best a little later in the day. I know it’s only three o’clock, but it’ll be dark before too much longer. The sky is almost clear of clouds, with warmth in its hue of blue. It may not be as brilliant as on a hot summer’s day, but the sensation of winter sunshine on my face is all the more welcome for it only turning up every now and then. When the sun is low like this, it is the perfect hour for those starlings, roosting over there on the upper boughs of the oak tree. The tree may have been late to gain its leaves but it lost them on the first breeze of autumn, and now it’s wearing a replacement cloak of starlings, more tightly packed together than the leaves ever were. Listen to them chirping away to each other incessantly, as noisy as a bus full of schoolchildren. Cheep, cheep, cheep. They can’t be quiet, nor can they be still. If you watch them, you’ll see that they are constantly dotting about, swapping places, so it’s impossible to keep tally of which one is where. I’m trying to choose one to focus on while we talk, but as soon as they hop branches, I lose track.

And there they all go. For no reason that I can see. Something must startle them, because every single starling lifts off the tree at the same time, all at once. Did you feel that whoosh as they lifted off? The impression of air rushing past our faces as it races to fill the gaps created by a thousand birds rising together. I don’t think I’m exaggerating about the numbers, my dear, do you? How bare the tree now looks, denuded once again. The murmuration may be flying across the fields now, like our own private air display, but they’ll be back. Round and up, flitting between silver and black as the birds shimmy and shake themselves. If we wait, some may break off and rest on that field, then they’ll take off and others will land behind them. They follow each other, you see. They like to sit on the telephone wires, particularly those across the far end of the field over there. But eventually they’ll return to the oak. Then they’ll disappear and we’ll think they’re gone forever, but behold, when you’re least expecting, they’re back on that wire. They line up on there, so much so that it stretches under their combined weight. It cannot quite hold them all, some bob off and go down to the ground. Others pop up to take their place. They take turns. They are mesmerising.

Would you believe, my dear, the starlings are sleeping on those telephone wires? Birds line up to sleep, you see, you can tell because the birds on each end face in different directions. Look, they’re coming back now, watch them organise themselves, can you see? Borrow my binoculars. See, not all of them are in the same direction but the two at the ends are contrary. That means the birds are sleeping. The two on the end are using half their brain to sleep, and half to keep watch. The others can sleep with both sides of their brain, safe in the huddle. Astonishing, I know, but I swear to you it is true. Everything sleeps, you see, everything. Everything also poops, and that many birds, they poop everywhere. The ground is dotted white with it.

I’ve stood watching them for too long now, I’m feeling the sharpness of the chill in the air. So I’ll start digging while we chat, if you don’t mind. It keeps me moving, slowly but enough to warm me up a tad, helps to creates that wonderful sense of the sun as it shines on my face. There’s no warmth coming with the sunlight, you see, only a hint of what it can bestow. The only heat you feel is that you’ve generated yourself through movement. Unfortunately, I’m slowing down. I’m useless at leading with my left leg, I have to dig with my right one, and my hip aches with every push down into the ground, so I have to pause in between. I’m getting old. I experience winter before it arrives, I feel it coming in my bones.

*******

I was six years old when I saw my first murmuration of starlings. Mother pointed them out to me, I wouldn’t believe they were birds. Not friendly birds anyway. I didn’t like them. I thought there was something foreboding about them, the way they all danced as if to a tune I couldn’t hear. Mother was fascinated and waited, watching, wanting me to be thrilled too. But I was scared, no sooner had they flown past us than I’d hidden in Mother’s cloak, trying to stay out of their sight. Sinister, they were.

Our life was fraught at that time, so it probably didn’t take much to give me the frights. The war had ended two years before, but we still had rationing. Of course, you had to buy the things you had coupons for, and I was never sure whether the reason we had so little was because we weren’t allowed to buy more, or couldn’t afford to buy more. Mother never let me forget how fortunate we were, frequently reminding me of the hunger and the cold that afflicted those on the continent. She was attuned to the hardships of war even then. Any time I seemed like I might be thinking of moaning, Mother soon had her ‘think about how lucky you are’ look on her face, the one that told me in no uncertain terms to keep my mouth closed if I wanted to eat again before bed.

I never complained around Father. He had been in a prisoner of war camp for years. My first memory of him was when he came home after the war had ended. He wasn’t very nice to me. I had drawn him this card, I wore my prettiest dress. I was excited to be meeting him, but he didn’t want to be bothered by me. Mother said he needed time to adjust, that I was to be patient. He had a chair he would sit in by the fire, smoking his pipe, lost in his thoughts. I would try sometimes to speak with him. Mostly, he brushed me aside, but occasionally, he would share a few words with me. Once he even let me sit on his lap, momentarily. Over time though, his frown became heavier and his pipe became smokier, and Mother discouraged me from disturbing him. He couldn’t work. Mother made sure he ate well even if it meant us going without something else. She said he needed to build his strength back up. But it didn’t seem to work, no matter how much food we gave him, no matter how little we ate ourselves, he didn’t seem to get well again. He sat staring into the fire, sometimes listening to the radio, but mostly sitting there in silence.

Let me give you an idea as to how bad things had become that winter. I had not long started going to school. Everyone else there was as poor as we were so there was no shame in our condition. The opposite in fact, Father was a war hero, he had returned against all odds and people were grateful for good news. But I suffered a growth spurt when Mother wasn’t prepared for it. She hadn’t saved enough money to buy me a new pair of shoes. New to me, I mean, not brand new. I cried when I walked, so tight were my shoes, so she cut them. She took a knife, sharpened it on the stone, and slashed the front of my shoes. She cried as she did so as she couldn’t sell them afterwards, not destroyed as they now were. I wore those shoes with my toes poking out for three months, with the weather getting colder, until Mother had saved enough for another pair. My old shoes were taken apart for scraps, they were good for nothing else. I was eager to never see them again.

Thankfully, we had the promise of a new home to keep us going. We were one of the first families to be moving to the estates, on account of Father’s war service and his injuries. Until then, we survived in our two-up two-down shack with a toilet that was no more than a box with a hole, which we used for our ablutions. It was basic, even for 1947, no matter how fortunate I tried to feel. But they were building all these modern houses, on the outskirts of the town, with factories at the end of each street. There were posters in the village, drawings we gathered around. We were waiting for ours to be finished, Mother said, and then everything would be better, I’d see. She never let me get sad, or feel sorry for myself. She said we owed it to Father to keep our spirits up, to be cheerful for him. I tried my best, but I found it difficult. So when the starlings swooped and swirled around us, I was finding life challenging, and Mother wasn’t as reassuring as usual. I felt unsettled, alarmed, more than the normal cloud of dread which accompanied each return home, wondering what sort of mood Father would be in. It was the moment when I should feel brightest, the move upon us, a better future beckoning. But the starlings unnerved me.

*******

Mother could talk of nothing but packing all week, in truth we had so little that it didn’t take long. The hardest part was waiting until we’d finished using something. Mother was forever going back into the boxes to find something she needed but had already packed. Then it was our last night in our house, and I had anticipated I would feel sad about leaving the only home I’d ever known. Instead, I was overcome with a sense of hatred for it. For its tiny size, its cold dankness. For its spiders, who roamed without fear no matter how many I squashed. For its grimy feel, irrespective of Mother’s cleanliness. I couldn’t wait to leave. I went to bed early that night. I had a wooden cot, and although it was a little small for me, at least I slept in my own room. But that night, I lay there listening to one of my mother’s habitual attempts to prompt life from my father. Their shouted whispers, their meaning not available to me but their tone unmistakable. Mother pleading, cajoling, mollifying. Father dismissing, disparaging, distancing. A louder shout, a bang, then silence.

I pretended to be asleep when Mother poked her head around my door. She paused to listen to my breathing and pretending to believe I was asleep. It was better for us both that way. If I let on I was awake she would feign happiness, and I knew enough to know that it sapped her energy to do so. I heard her retire to her bed, and I overheard her tears. I was old enough to know she needed the release, to lose all those negative emotions and freshen her nerves ahead of another day of coping with our lives. As often as not, Father didn’t come to bed at all, but slept upright in his chair by the fire. Whether or not he had nightmares, neither Mother nor I knew. He never made a sound.

I woke early, with the first light of dawn. The November morning was dull, chilly, and damp. Dread overtook me, try as I might, I could not rediscover the excitement I had for our new home, palpable only a few days before. Mother’s tears had been cleansed away by her night’s sleep, she was bright and animated, chatting and buzzing around, looking out the window, impatient to make a start. Wisps of fog hid the ends of the street, which gave her an excuse to keep watch. Father didn’t move from his chair, he was brooding more heavily than ever. I ate watery porridge by his side, trying to absorb some of its heat and improve my own mood. Instead, I triggered an insight into my condition, a stirring of understanding that my fear stemmed directly from Father. He would prefer to stay in this house, and I was certain I would prefer to move without him. In that moment, I wished for it to happen, for divine intervention to make it so. Thoughts I could never forget I’d had, nor forgive myself for.

*******

We were moved by a cart and horse loaned by the brewery. Before the early fog had burned off, it arrived in our street. There were two stunning shire horses, huge, long-haired, beautiful creatures. Their breath formed long plumes, and they whinnied and stamped on the cobbled street in their impatience. Two boys had joined the beer man, Eric Jones, who was loud and rather cherry in the face, but well-liked in our neighbourhood. He delivered barrels of ale to the local pubs, and he had the build of a coal merchant. The boys seemed superfluous, he lifted two boxes to their one, and it was soon all piled up on the cart. Father’s chair went last, and Mr Jones encouraged Father onto the cart seat beside him. He was patient, reassuring and respectful towards him which, I must admit, surprised me to see.

The cart pulled away, and Mother and I began walking. It was three miles away, but Mother was enthusiastic, saying that the cart would be unloaded by the time we arrived, and all we would need to do would be to settle ourselves in. My final view of the street was of our neighbours, scurrying out to scoop up the horse manure. Fertiliser or fuel, it wasn’t to be left to rot or wash away. The more steps I put between my old home and my new, the lighter my heart became. We ambled along, past a few common fields with horses grazing, strolling into the new town. On the outskirts, two factories were being built, and new roads were being laid. There were men at work digging foundations, placing bricks, sawing wood. Then, as I was flagging, we passed onto finished roads, where the houses had their windows in place. Everything was sparkling and new. Not every home was the same, some were bigger than others, some were bungalows, but there was not a single two-up two-down in sight.

“This is our road here, Maureen, look how lovely it is.” Mother had been quiet until then but now she couldn’t stop chattering. “Look at how big all these houses are, why that one has a garden all the way around it, and those nets at the windows are lovely, I’ll have to call in and see if they’ll give me the pattern for those, here we are, this is us, oh my, Maureen, this is our new home, how lucky we are, and it seems Mr Jones has done a fine job, that cart is virtually empty already, oh look, a neighbour, wave Maureen, we don’t want to appear standoffish now, do we?”

Our new home was twice the size of our old one. It was semi-detached, with a large living area, a big kitchen with room for a table, and an inside bathroom. I skipped through the house, twirling in and out of the rooms, racing up and down the stairs, stairs which were carpeted, rooms which had been painted white, a house that was ours. It was so clean. All our boxes were downstairs, the three bedrooms were still completely empty. I took my time using the toilet. It was luxurious, my first ever winter wee which I didn’t have to rush. Then I ran back up the stairs, seeing my cot had been placed in one of the rooms, throwing myself on it again and again. I was so frantic, I missed Mr Jones leaving.

No sooner had the door closed than the mood altered, the heaviness returned, dragging us down. Father sat by the fire in his chair. It wasn’t throwing off any warmth as yet, but the orange flickers were leaping in the crisp draught of a new chimney. The look on his face was no different, he had not been diverted by his new surroundings. Mother tried her best, talking about making tea, busying herself finding the kettle and the cups, insisting I help her. She distracted me, making sure I didn’t disturb him, didn’t bother him, she didn’t need to, I wanted to avoid him, was glad to help her unpack. We had so few belongings, they were drowned by the size of the cupboards in our new kitchen. We took our time though, deliberating over the new home of each item. Mother telling me that things would pick up now we were in our new house, with all these new factories, a new school, new friends, everything was going to be so much better now, I would soon see. She was so convincing, I almost forgot about the old, dark vortex in the living room, draining the energy and excitement from us. Almost.

Before I knew it I was being put to bed, yawning deeply, looking around in confusion at the familiar blankets on my cot, in a bright white room without curtains, the moonlight bouncing as if in a hall of mirrors. Mother sat on the bare floor by my side, stroking my hair, crooning. In the morning I could choose a paint colour for my bedroom walls, there would be curtains soon, not to worry about it now, I could fall fast asleep. Those were the last words I heard until I woke the next morning, the early rays of sun shining onto my forehead, Mother’s screams rebounding in my ears. She’d found Father’s lifeless body, hanging from the banister, swinging over the freshly carpeted stairs of our new home.

*******

I’m sorry, I need to pause for a moment . . .

Even after so many decades have passed, it is painful to recount it all again. I can still picture him, flaccid at the end of his rope, swaying like a broken bough waiting to fall. In my mind’s eye, he is smiling, the happiest I’d ever seen him, but perhaps I’m misremembering. Agony and joy, sorrow and relief, over time, I’ve experienced many varied emotions about my father’s suicide. Grief is a funny beast, you assume you’ll feel really bad and then it’ll ease, steadily lessening until it only feels bad occasionally. It’s not like that at all. I felt shocked at first, numb, and scared. But then I felt happy. It would be Mother and I, alone together again, the way it used to be when I was little. No longer would there be Father, sat there grumpy in the corner, making us unhappy. I thought his death was a good thing for us all. But then, as I grew older, I saddened. I grieved as much for the father I’d never been able to meet as the one I had known. I made Mother tell me story after story about him, eager to learn about the man he was before the war. The vibrant man she loved and dedicated herself to, rather than the hollowed trunk the war returned to us, ready to be felled.

I spent some time feeling angry, when I became a parent myself. Something about bearing children makes you look afresh at your parents, your perspective alters, and this pushes you to re-think some of your assumptions. When I was pregnant, before I even knew I was carrying twins, Frank made it obvious he wanted a son, someone to fish, box and watch the game with. It wasn’t unusual, I had many friends whose husbands felt the same. It made me wonder whether Father might have been different if I had been a boy. Whether I might have engaged his interest a little, helped him out from his darkness and into our world, even if only for a short while. Of course, it doesn’t work like that. Frank bonded with his girls and never talked again of having a son. Father had been seriously damaged by the war, a son would not have been enough to save him. Nothing could ever be enough to undo the harm he had endured.

You may think that, with something as important as the death of a parent, you know everything there is to know about it. Yet, I’m amazed how rarely people speak about such things. Mother and I talked about how Father had been before the war, and occasionally we spoke of how he was when he came home. Only when I told Mother about Frank’s death was she candid about Father’s suicide with me. Until then, I didn’t realise how many assumptions I’d made. I had always known that it was moving house that had proved too much for Father to bear. It had settled into my memory so firmly, it had become a fact. If we’d stayed in the old house he’d have stayed alive, instead Mother and I lived in our new home, without him. Ashamedly, for most of my childhood, it seemed a good swap.

Mother held a different view. She told me something I should have realised sooner, something I would have realised if I’d spared it a moment’s thought. It was Father who qualified for the new house. It was him for whom it was built, the war hero. Without him, Mother and I would have stayed living in that slum. But as he died after we moved, Mother inherited the tenancy from him and was able to live there for as long as she wished. He had fought, clinging to his life, deferring the peace his dead companions had been gifted, waiting so that we were provided for after his death. He did that for us, he acted from the part of his heart that could still recall that he loved us. Mother understood. Father died in the war, but he strove on, suffering for longer, battling to hold on, for us.

I wish I’d thought about it sooner, tried harder to understand. I let him down by judging him the way I did. Worse, I deprived myself of the pride I should have felt when I thought of him. But I needed the altered view that becoming a parent gave me, the experience of being a protector, a provider. I grasp the scale of his sacrifice now, better than anyone else.

*******

There is so much to adore about November that I refuse to give in to this melancholy. The change of the season is sharp, like spring, it sparks, it reminds me I’m alive. Summer is wasteful of her edges, she bleeds into her neighbours without care, she creeps up upon you and then sneaks away as you’ve begun to take her for granted. Winter is stark, sure, he declares himself, trumpeting his arrival and his eventual departure. It’s not possible to forget about him, but we shouldn’t let him dominate our minds. Think of the sunlight, for a start. November’s glow is the most beautiful light of the year. Soft, warm, the pleasure of basking in its occasional caresses. And we’re not the only ones making the most of it. Everywhere you look, there’s the energy of nature, the activity of winter preparations. Plumping itself up, nestling itself down, nature’s inventiveness, building its barriers against the harshest moments to come. It survives. It will emerge into the spring sunshine once again.

I shouldn’t be outside in this weather, truth be told, feeling my age ache through my bones like this. It might not be raining but the weather’s turned. The water hangs in the air, dangling, resisting the fall to the ground, the sun not strong enough to evaporate it. Everything is soggy and moist. But even if you hadn’t come to visit me today, I would still be out here. I need the daylight, you see, however weak it may seem. Only the very worst weather should keep us indoors, we aren’t hibernators, it won’t cause me any harm to get a little chilly and slightly damp. But if I went a few days without seeing any daylight at all, well, that would be a different matter. So, outside I go, I am not doing much, though. I’m leaving alone the few leaves that have fallen here. The trees send them as their gift, drifting to the ground to be recycled. They offer some cover from the frost and then they rot down to feed new growth. If we eradicated them, we’d be taking away a source of nutrients while freezing the plants. Pointless, counter-productive, make-work. Best to leave them undisturbed, a protective blanket through the dark days which are yet to fall, but will soon be upon us.