16

FAREWELL TO BIG ISOBEL

Life, the universe and everything were just as complex as in the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, so they were. I found that late night debates over Yellow Pack coffee in student digs were a good place to increase my understanding of the big issues of life, death, world hunger and the possibility of intergalactic travel. Students proposed very sensible solutions to the world’s problems between midnight and 2 a.m., though after this time the discussions usually deteriorated into stupid arguments or just plain slabbering. Byron Drake knew everything about everything, especially late at night when I suspected he had been smoking marijuana again.

‘No offence, Tone, but I can’t believe that in the twentieth century someone like you could reach the age of twenty and have so little experience of life,’ said Byron, breathing heavily into his Yasser Arafat scarf in an attempt to create some heat in his freezing flat.

‘Twenty one,’ I said, cupping my hands around a tepid CND mug. ‘And you haven’t had sex yet either!’

‘Don’t comment on things you know nothing about, Tone.’

‘Well, I’ve yet to see you even going out with a wee girl. At least I can snog Lesley any day of the week, apart from weekends when I go home to get my washing done.’

‘Listen, Tone. I date women from England, not “wee girls” from Ireland, and what happens in the sack in Essex, stays in Essex,’ Byron said cryptically.

I was confused. Why would anyone want to have sex in a sack? I remembered doing sack races on sports days at school and the sack was always dead itchy on your skin, so it was bound to wreak havoc with your jimmy joe.

‘Okay, then tell me about the last time you had sex,’ I said.

Byron tapped his nose sagely. ‘I know how to please a woman in every conceivable direction.’

I wanted to repeat the words of Duran Duran, ‘Please, please tell me now, is there something I should know?’ but I wasn’t prepared to give Byron the pleasure of knowing he knew more than me, even though he already knew he knew more.

‘Every direction? Like, do you need to use a compass?’

‘Ha, ha. Very droll, Tone, very droll. Let’s just say the women I make love to have no complaints.’

‘Aye, in your dreams, big lad!’ I said, noticing once again how working class I sounded when I had an argument with Byron.

I accepted that I had lived a very sheltered life growing up on the Shankill Road in the 1970s, but I wasn’t as naive as Byron thought. It was true that I had no significant personal experience of sex, but I was certain I would get a chance at some stage in the next decade.

‘Life is not an episode of Doctor-fucking-Who, you know, Tone,’ Byron said, letting his ginger fringe flop over one eye.

I was appalled that anyone would dare to use the F-word when referring to Doctor Who. This was just as bad as the time my big brother said ‘shite’ during one of his increasingly rare appearances at church. He used the offending adjective during a solo of ‘How Great Thou Art’, and while I agreed with his critique of the soprano’s performance, this sort of language was completely unacceptable.

Byron went on to suggest that I needed to listen to The Smith’s latest album because Morrissey had something really, really dark and really, really deep to say to our generation that would awaken me both intellectually and sexually. While he was explaining how Morrissey’s songs were almost Nietzschean, I fell asleep.

Benny and Björn had awakened me to the fact that ‘the history book on the shelf is always repeating itself’ but apart from this it was becoming clear how little I really knew about life. I wasn’t too familiar with death either. Apart from the normal day-to-day deaths of the Troubles, I had very little personal experience of it. Our neighbour, Mr Oliver, had been murdered by cheering gunmen in our street, and apparently I had a twin brother and sister who were stillborn, but I didn’t know them personally so, apart from the nightmares I had about them, these deaths had very little impact on me.

Of course, I had extensive experience of animal death due to my inability to keep alive any of the pets I had purchased to date, but my primary understanding of human death came from the news and the horror movies I saw on TV. These sources provided plenty of good advice on how to avoid death; I learned not to walk past an empty car with its headlights on in Belfast city centre, and I knew that it was unwise to walk across the peace line after dark. I knew that whenever I was stopped by wee hoods and asked if I was a Protestant or a Catholic it was best to answer according to which side I thought they were from, rather than give a truthful and potentially fatal answer. I also understood the dangers of having a shower in a motel room in America and that it was unwise to explore a deserted castle in Transylvania when you’re far from the nearest town and your car has run out of petrol. Furthermore, thanks to the work of Ridley Scott, I was fully aware of the potential dangers lurking on derelict alien spacecraft, especially when you were about to go into stasis. I knew how to avoid death, all right; but I had no idea how to deal with grief. I was as upset as everyone else when Captain Mainwaring and Sergeant Wilson and Grace Kelly died in quick succession. I was upset for months after Adric died helping The Doctor to stop a freighter controlled by the Cybermen from crashing into the Planet Earth. However, I had not experienced proper grief until my grandparents started to die.

My father’s father had died when I was too young to remember. Everyone said he was a real gentleman. He’d played cricket for Woodvale Cricket Club and Ireland; my Auntie Hetty still had his international cricket cap in her roof-space and my brothers had both inherited his cricketing genes. My father’s mother was known as Nanny, and she was a proper granny with kisses and presents and nice blue cardigans and false teeth and knitting. When she died everyone was very sad and I had never seen so many adults cry, but Nanny was old and tired and her passing seemed natural. When my Great-auntie Doris with the pearls and proper accent died it was very sad too, but she was even older than Nanny. Everyone said she had been a real lady and very glamorous in her youth but that she had been away with the birds for a few years. On her deathbed she kept repeating a verse from Psalm 23, ‘And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever’, which didn’t sound like being away with the birds to me.

When my mother’s father died it was traumatic for my mother and the whole family. Wee Francey had worked in the bookies for most of his life and loved a wee stout. He retired to be a security man on the door of the local pub, and my mother always worried what would happen to him if the IRA decided to blow up the pub. Granda was also very old and seemed quite fed up, but he died after his bed caught fire while he was having a wee smoke and everyone was just as upset about the way he had gone as the fact that he had gone. I was late for the funeral because I had misjudged how long it would take me to drive to Brown’s Funeral Parlour on the Lisburn Road.

‘You’ll be late for your own bloody funeral!’ my mother had said through her tears.

The passing of my first three grandparents was very sad. Waking up and remembering that Nanny and Granda were gone forever was my first taste of grief, and when I saw my parents’ obvious distress I couldn’t help but wonder how I would cope without them when it was their turn in forty years’ time.

‘That’s us movin’ up into the first division now!’ my Uncle Sammy said to my father at Nanny’s funeral.

In many ways Big Isobel was the biggest grandparent in my life, aside from her vast physical proportions. She was the family matriarch, an enormous personality, and an important part of my life for as long as I could remember. My earliest memories were of getting the bus down the Springfield Road to visit her and holding my mother’s hand as we walked up Roden Street, long before they built the Westlink motorway through the middle of it to make a peace line. I must have been only four years old when Granny gave me a shilling to go around to Mrs Adair’s wee sweetie shop for a Lucky Bag and Sherbet Dip. Every time I visited Granny’s house I would check if the tiny toy soldier I had found in my Lucky Bag was still irretrievably stuck between the paving stones in her minuscule front garden. I remembered the days we arrived while Granny was out at the shops buying a nice ham shank for Granda’s dinner. I was amazed when my mother simply reached into the letterbox to find the front door key dangling on a piece of dirty string and let us in. Big Isobel knew everything about me and I knew nearly everything about her, including some of her more intimate medical conditions, which I didn’t want to know about. Granny spoke of mysterious ailments like ‘the change’, ‘trouble with the waterworks’ and ‘problems in the back entry’, and she swore by the healing properties of Valium when you were ‘bad with your nerves’ or ‘your head was turned’.

The thought of Big Isobel passing away was difficult to contemplate, in spite of the fact that, for as long as I could remember, she had been saying, ‘I’m in my coffin already, love. They just can’t get the lid on!’ Every time I had been to visit her since I started university she remarked that I was ‘all growed up nigh’, and ever since meeting Lesley she always made sure to enquire about the state of our relationship.

‘How’s the big Lesley girl, love?’ she would ask.

‘Aye, dead on, Granny,’ I would reply briefly.

‘In the name of God, don’t you go havin’ a wee notion of none of them other wee hussies up there in Coleraine and breakin’ that wee girl’s heart!’ was her sage advice. I was shocked at Granny’s doubts regarding my loyalty to Lesley, and she could read this in my face.

‘Don’t be lookin’ at me with the face trippin’ ye! You wouldn’t be the first Holy Joe to run off with some wee whouer!’

I wasn’t sure whether to use my spiritual or feminist credentials to argue that I was not a ‘Holy Joe’, but I decided not to bother as Big Isobel would just accuse me of getting all swanky on her again. Since the age of four, she had distinguished me from the other grandchildren by describing me as ‘the wee swanky one’.

‘Ach, wise up, Granny, you’re scunderin’ me!’ I said, prompting an enormous hug from Big Isobel and a typically hearty laugh that made her sofa shake.

‘And don’t you be gettin’ that wee girl into trouble neither,’ she warned.

I was astounded at how she could move from suspicions of infidelity to concerns of unplanned pregnancy in a matter of seconds!

Given her volatile temperament, this was a good outcome from an exchange with my granny. She was not averse to shouting at you to ‘get out of the house and never darken my door again!’ because you had questioned the morality of hiding behind the sofa and pretending no one was in when the tick man called. She would often threaten violence when upset. On more than one occasion she offended my pacifist sensibilities by threatening to ‘draw my hand across your bake, ya cheeky wee hallion,’ simply because I refused to ‘run the wee brush over the carpet, love – this place is startin’ to look like a real dunderin’ in!’

Big Isobel was quite outspoken on political and constitutional matters too. ‘Well if it wasn’t for the Big Fella we’d a been sold down the river long ago,’ was her analysis of the achievements of Rev. Ian Paisley. According to her, the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, James Prior had ‘a face on him like a scalped arse’ – and of course, Gerry Adams had ‘the sorta bake you’d never get tired kickin’!’

Granny also had her own distinctive views on art and culture. She was a dedicated viewer of Crossroads, and she was completely intolerant of any talking in the room during an episode of Coronation Street, frequently telling us to ‘shut yer bakes while Carnation Street’s on or I’ll warm the ears of the whole bloody lotta youse!’ Big Isobel was also very excited about a new Irish country and western singer from Donegal called Daniel O’Donnell, who she said was ‘a lovely wee fella, and he’s good to his mammy.’ Though her less-favourable musical reviews could be quite cutting.

‘Look at the neb on yer man on the piano,’ was her description of Barry Manilow; and as for Boy George – ‘For the love and honour of pig’s gravy, what is the world comin’ til? Would ya look at the cut of thon wee lad all dressed up like some wee doll!’

Big Isobel was so full of life it was hard to imagine her life coming to an end until that unhappy day finally arrived. It was Lesley’s birthday, and we had been on another trip to Dublin for student leadership training in her Renault 5. As a special treat we had gone to McDonalds in Dublin because you couldn’t get a Big Mac in Northern Ireland. I presented Lesley with a padded pink birthday card and a fine gold bracelet from Argos. It had been a truly happy day, but when we arrived back at my house in Belfast I noticed that the venetian blinds in every window were closed even though it was still daylight. This was usually a sign that someone had died in our street, so I wondered immediately if something was seriously wrong. I didn’t say anything to Lesley in case I was just catastrophising, but as soon as we entered the house I sensed the gloom. I could hear my mother and my Auntie Doris, who was a lovely singer from Lambeg, weeping in the sitting room. My father came out and delivered the bad news.

‘Your granny died this morning, son,’ he said.

I gave my mother the longest hug I had ever given her, and she sobbed on my shoulder the same way I used to cry on her shoulder when I was a wee boy. There was a steady stream of visitors to our house and plenty of cups of tea and triangular egg and onion sandwiches served by Auntie Emma and Auntie Mabel. Lesley helped with the dishes like she was one of the family, and Auntie Doris took the time to admire Lesley’s lovely gold bracelet even though she was grieving the loss of her mother.

It was strange that Granny had died on Lesley’s birthday, because I had been born on Big Isobel’s birthday. She always said I was her best birthday present ever, and when I thought about this I had to go hide in my room to cry for a while because men weren’t supposed to cry. Neighbours and distant relatives I didn’t see very often called at the house and everyone said that Big Isobel was a character, so she was, and she’s in a better place now, God love her. Rev. Lowe called in to shake everyone’s hand firmly and say a prayer. He seemed genuinely upset, even though he buried people every day. He always had great craic with Big Isobel, even though her faith was a little unorthodox for a Presbyterian. I didn’t know anyone else who said they loved the Lord as much as Granny, but in the next breath she would call her neighbour – who you were supposed to love – ‘a sleeked wee bastard’. It was hard to believe that Big Isobel was really gone, but within a few hours we had visited the funeral home on the Lisburn Road to pay our final respects and the awful truth began to finally sink in. My parents and my brothers and I took turns to say our own personal goodbyes to Granny. She was laid out in a small dark room that smelled of death and lilies, with stained glass windows and wooden panelling on the walls. After all those years of hearing her say the words, Big Isobel really was in her coffin but they hadn’t put the lid on yet.

When it was my turn I hesitated at the door and approached the coffin very slowly, half-expecting Big Isobel to shout, ‘C’mere over here and see me, son, and stop all that oul futterin’ about over there!’ Granny looked so still, so quiet and peaceful, but her spirit was not there in that room with me. Her body was just a shell. I felt an overwhelming sadness I had never felt before, and I realised she was gone. Big Isobel was gone. In her own words, she had ‘gone to the happy huntin’ ground’. My tears dripped onto one of the shiny brass handles on the casket, and when I wiped them away I caught the reflection of my own sad face, twisted like in one of the crazy mirrors at Barry’s Amusements in Portrush. I kissed Granny on the forehead and talked to her as if I was four years old again, thanking her for all the birthday cards, the Christmas presents, the hugs, and even the shouting matches. I told her I loved her very much and that she had been a good granny to me, so she had, in spite of all her oul shenanigans. Finally, I said farewell to Big Isobel.

‘So this is grief,’ I thought.

The funeral was not without incident. The church was overflowing with Granny’s relatives, friends and neighbours from the Donegall Road, as well as many family friends who all turned out to pay their respects and offer their condolences. There was even a group of mourners from the Westy Disco. There were lots of flowers and handshaking and everyone said they were awful sorry for our loss, even old men I had never met before. Lesley sat beside me and held my hand during the prayers. Rev. Lowe led the service, and he spoke warmly and personally about Isobel Taylor. It was obvious that he really knew her and really cared about our family’s loss. Some ministers just saw burials as a chance to tell a crowd of non-churchgoers to get born again, before it was their turn to go to hell.

When it came to doing a lift of the coffin I was one of the first.

‘You’re in the second lift, son,’ said Uncle Freddie.

What if I drop her? I thought, panicking. What if I fall over and cause a commotion and let the whole family down?

No one had ever explained to me what a lift was or how to do it properly, but I just took the lead from the other men and the undertakers and I managed it all right. Big Isobel weighed over twenty stone, and as the edge of the coffin dug into my shoulder I understood the term ‘dead weight’ for the first time. I had to put one arm around my big brother’s shoulder, something I had never done before, and hold one of the brass handles with my other hand. As we walked slowly along the wet tarmac road behind the hearse my right cheek touched the cold, polished wood, and it felt as though Granny was kissing me on the cheek one last time.

It was at the graveside that Big Isobel made her final mark. The cemetery smelled of freshly dug earth and freshly cut lilies, mixed with the musk of death. After the saddest part of ‘ashes to ashes and dust to dust’, the undertakers began lowering the heavy coffin into the grave using large grey straps attached to the brass handles. Suddenly, there was a crack, and one of the brass handles detached from the coffin. There was a collective gasp from the mourners. The coffin lurched to one side and threatened to topple over. I imagined the casket flipping over, the lid falling off under Big Isobel’s immense weight and Granny diving out of her coffin and into her grave in one final grand gesture. Fortunately, the undertakers imagined a similar disaster and moved swiftly to steady the swaying casket. For years Granny had told me she was in her coffin already, they just couldn’t get the lid on – today it seemed as if she was saying, ‘Look! Even when I’m in my coffin they can hardly keep the lid on!’ I was sure Big Isobel was watching this from somewhere in her happy hunting ground, laughing one of her great big laughs that made her sofa shake.

I was back at university the day after the funeral, getting to grips with an essay on the promotion of capitalism in television game shows. For weeks, my first thought every morning was that Granny was dead. I felt an empty, gnawing feeling in my stomach, and I understood this was loss and grief and all part of being an adult. It was only when my first thoughts of the morning returned to Lesley and my final exams and Doctor Who that I realised I had emerged from a period of mourning for my dear granny. Dealing with death was a major part of growing up but, ironically, now that Big Isobel was gone, no one would ever again tell me that I was ‘all growed up now’, so they wouldn’t.