The Weird Dreams Are Back.

I'm not sure why that is.
     Possibly because I've been gorging on so much junk food, possibly because work has been so stressful lately (and that's not right. Cleaning shouldn't be stressful. Physically hard and exhaustive; sure. Dirty; absolutely. But stressful? Foul!), possibly because it's that Special Time Of The Month again, possibly because I've been worried about mother, possibly a delayed reaction caused by Dad's demise...
     ...or possibly all of the above.
     But for whatever reason, the weird and startlingly vivid dreams are back, and with a vengeance.
     Sometimes they are disjointed and jumbled, jumping from one subject to the next (and sometimes back again) without warning and zigzagging wildly around until I am left in a confused blur; a feeling that continues for some while after I wake up. And other times they tell a definite story. It doesn't necessarily make any actual sense, nor is it usually in any way anything that can happen in real life - or if it is, bits of unreality are casually thrown in - but still, it progresses from start to finish in a nice and orderly easy-to-follow fashion.
     Like last nights offering. It's really long, so I'll do it in parts.

So, ladies and gentlemen! Without further ado, I bring you;

Alice (as Nomi) Meets Doctor Who: Part 1.

Before we begin, I should interject that no matter what circumstances the dreams have; where they go or what they do, the experience is always, or has always been so far, a first person one. Not that I AM actually ME. Sometimes I am, but usually I am someone else. I've been many people (as well as various animals and a few 'things'), from a downtrodden female slave to a circus performer to a male Dwundlint alien captured by Captain Kirk of the Star-ship Enterprise (and his twin sister at the same time, incidentally) to a ten year old possessed by a Szionic Spirit to a fifteen-year old red-headed orphan girl with semi dormant clairvoyant and telekinetic abilities transported back in time into the body of her great grandmother. The list is goes on. But anyway, the important thing is while the person in the dream may not be the me that I know in waking life, it is still me living through whatever comes to pass (Does that make any sense?).
     Anyway, on with the dream...

***

I was in a bad mood. A very bad mood. I was having a bad day. I had woken up late; I had forgotten some of my workbooks in my rush and various teachers were furious with me throughout the day; I had bickered with my friends; I had been forced to opt out of swimming in P.E. because of the unexpected start of my period (two weeks early)...it was not a good day.
     But by the end of the day, that didn't matter. None of it did. Because something happened that would cause everything else to fade into insignificance. Something wonderful. Something frightening. Something supposedly impossible. Something wholly and completely and marvelously unexpected.

It came to pass while I was trying to find something out for a science project.
     The project was to find out how many times I could spin and then be able to walk in a reasonably straight line straight after without falling over. Something to do with momentum and inner ears and such. A stupid thing to try to ascertain and I was thoroughly bored and sick of it (very sick, literally). As I was already in enough trouble as it was, I knew I had to get on with it, but as I did so, I closed my eyes and wished - that I could be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Doing anything else. Like...like helping my grandfather put the decorations on the tree the night before Christmas Day. That would be a lovely place to be; why couldn't I be there? I wished I could be. Oh, how I had wished...

And then...it happened.
     There I was.
     I was so surprised - and dizzy - upon opening my eyes that I fell over. Thinking it was an illusion brought on by the violent spinning, I lay quite still and blinked hard several times. But the scene didn't change. It stayed as it was; on its side, of course, but still the same scene I had seen upon opening my eyes. Cautiously I sat up. The scene stayed there. I blinked some more, then rubbed my eyes.
     Then I saw him.
     My grandfather was coming toward me, smiling.
     Tears welled up on my eyes. I had not seen him for years. Not since I was a little girl. He had died so long ago; when I was ten years old. I was nearly sixteen now. Six years, almost, since I had laid eyes on him, since his heart attack had taken him away from me and life had turned sour. And yet here he was. Large as life; his beard bushy and his body large and his eyes sparkling as they used to.

"Now then, you silly thing," he said in his booming, singsong like voice; "what are you doing on the floor? Did you fall down?"

I think I nodded but later I wasn't sure. I had meant to, I know that.

"Here..." he picked me up easily as he always had and hugged me to his chest; "...there, all better! You weren't trying to climb the tree to put the star on, were you, all by yourself?"

"No poppa," I managed to get out. My voice, muffled by his shirt, sounded very strange, but I didn't care. I was clinging to him, burying myself into his chest and breathing him in greedily. He smelled lovely, just as I had remembered; of talcum powder and aftershave and chocolate and scents from the furnaces and boilers that he had stoked and oiled for all his working life. His beard tickled my forehead and I remembered that it always had.

Burying my head deeper, I mumbled it again; "No, poppa. No."

"Good. Mustn't have that. You could hurt yourself. Or worse, you could succeed and supplant me and then where would I be?"

His belly shook as he laughed his booming laugh and the lump in my throat got bigger.
    Oh, I had missed him so...

Putting me down, he led me into the kitchen to fetch the milk for Santa and as we walked past the mirror a glance revealed why my voice had sounded so strange. I was little! Not little as in shrunk, but little as in young; very young. I must have been no more than six. Maybe even younger. Maybe as young as four.
     Pausing, I stared at myself in disbelief and awe and my younger self in the mirror stared back at me with the same expression. Then both versions of us smiled.

"Come along," poppa urged, and I did.

After pouring the milk for Santa poppa poured me some too and I drank it. It was delicious; cool and thick. Full fat. I hadn't had full fat since he had died. It was skimmed in the foster home; skimmed or nothing.
     Following him back into the sitting room I glanced at myself in the glass once more as I walked past it to observe my younger self glancing back at me but didn't stop or slow down. I had more important things to do. Like put the star on. This was the the first part of our grand finale of our Christmas Eve ritual. After that we would turn off the main light, turn the fairy lights on, light our advent candle to burn the last of its wax away overnight, place Santa's milk along with a plateful of cookies by the unlit fireside - had to be unlit, poppa always said, "so Santa doesn't get a burned bum!" - and then, finally; the Christmas poem on the sofa by the light of the candle before bed.
     All this happened, as I knew it would, and it felt as I remembered it feeling, only  it was sweeter because it had been so long since it had happened. So very warm. So very soft. So very kind. So very perfect...
     As he carried me upstairs I wanted to tell him to stop, that this was a dream and that if I fell asleep as I knew I would, that would be it; it would be over, but I couldn't. How could I explain it? And even if I did, how could I stop it from happening? I could feel myself falling asleep...
     As he laid me down in the bed I had longed for ever since the last time I had slept in it six years ago, I lunged forward and hugged him as tightly as I could, breathing in his scent as deeply as I could, for the last time. Laughing gently, he untangled my arms from around his neck and kissed my cheek, then my forehead. Then he pressed a coin into my hand.

"An offering," he said with a smile as my little fingers closed around it and held it tight; "in case Santa needs to be bribed."

I had forgotten that he used to do that.

"I love you poppa," I murmured, feeling myself drifting away and torn between sublime happiness and utter sadness at the same time. "I love you."

"I love you too, Nomi," he replied, turning out the light.

I closed my eyes. And let go. I had no choice...
     ...Opening them again I was back in my room in the foster home, as I had known that I would be. But not in bed. I was on the floor. And Helen, the head warden in the foster home, was looking down at me.

"What happened?" she demanded to know.

"Science project," I managed to croak out, after swallowing a couple of times.

Eyes narrowed, she walked over to the bed. Leaning on my elbows, I saw her pick up my science book, lying open on the pillow, and read it. Then, dropping it, she sighed.

"Bloody schools," she muttered. Louder, she added; "dinner will be in fifteen minutes. Don't be late."

As she walked to the door again she gave a lingering glare toward the bed.

"Do it carefully," she warned; "if you don't you'll break your neck."

Dumbly, I nodded and she gave a curt nod back. Then she left, closing the door behind her.
     Stiffly, I sat up, rubbing my elbows. As I dragged myself to my feet, I could hear her thumping her way heavily down the stairs. She was a large woman, Helen; fair haired and with a face that was striking, rather than beautiful. Attractive, but not pretty.
     Biting at a bit of loose skin on my lip, I walked over to the bed and sat down on it. Then, looking down at my science book, I burst into tears. Burying my face in my pillow to muffle the sound, sobs racked my body. Poppa was gone; my grandfather was gone, gone...
     A few moments later I pulled myself together and sat up, rubbing at my eyes and nose.
     There was no point in crying like this, I told myself sternly. I had fainted, due to spinning too much, that was all. I had had a dream; a lovely, vivid dream, and now it was over with. It was sad, yes, but I had lost poppa a long time ago and cried my tears and broken my heart for him then. It would not do either of us any good for me to do it all over again. I had to concentrate on my life as it was now. And it was not, all things considered, a bad one. I had a roof over my head, food to eat, clothes to wear. The other kids in the foster home were OK: we weren't all buddy buddy - in fact, apart from at dinner and breakfast, we barely acknowledged one another's existence, let alone spoke to each other - but there was none of the unpleasantness that there might have been, the sort of stuff you heard about happening in other places. I went to school, I had friends, I was even a member of a couple of clubs. I was lucky. Lucky.
     Taking a deep breath, I gave a final sniveling sniff and stood up to go and help set the table. It was my turn on Tuesdays. As I walked to the door I fished in my pocket for a hairband.
     It was then that I found it.
     As I touched it, I stopped dead. I was right in front of the mirror on the wardrobe door and I watched myself as I slowly drew my hand from inside my pocket and into the light, turning it over and then opening my fingers to reveal what was inside.
     Biting my lip, I stared at it, then back into the mirror.

And there both versions of me - reflection and real - had stood, looking at one another, at 5:45-PM on a Tuesday evening that ought to have been as ordinary as any other. A day that had started out as ordinary as any other;

With the coin poppa had pressed into my hand lying flat on my palm.

***

Alice xxx

A Shitty Day

To start with, everything at work was completely filthy due to both supervisor and me having to have two days off at the same time having been struck down with a stomach bug - with the pleasant but useless blond (hereafter; PBUB) also off for the same reason. Not that that made all that much difference, since her overall effect is minimal at best and counterproductive at worst (the latter, generally) - which left Male Colleague (MC) all on his own.
     So, yeah. Lots of catching up to do.

THEN while enjoying a drink and a chat with Best Friend 1 I realized that I had lost my high visibility waistcoat - specially brought and paid for by moi, so that I could wear one that was at least close to the right size - leading to high panic.
     After retracing my steps to The Store (after remembering that moment in the car park by the burger van when I distractedly hunted about in my stuffed to overflowing shoulder bag for my sunglasses not really paying all that much attention as to whether or not anything fell out of it), I was informed that yes, someone HAD found a HVV; leading to a frantic search for said person - one of the many 'Dave's'. Dave is a popular Store name - before he could mislay it or, worse, hand it in to the warehouse as lost property thus ensuring that I would never see it again. Thankfully, he was caught before he could take either action and smilingly handed it over.
     God bless Dave.

THEN I return home to find my mother in a crumpled tearful heap on the sofa. The migraine that had forced her to give in and miss the West Midland Light Orchestra's spring concert last night had developed: she was now in complete and utter agony and feeling very sick.
     She is in bed now. There was and is nothing I could and can do for her, except fetch and carry water and dry crackers and occasionally put my arm around her and give her a comforting hug. All either of us can do is wait until it passes.
     Poor old mum.

THEN while fetching crackers to aid the aforementioned migraine victim I found a large cardboard box in the kitchen; addressed to me. The things the widow had promised to send, things she says dad would have wanted me to have, had arrived.
     I waited until mother had retreated up to her sick bed before opening it.
     I'm too upset to go into any detail about what it contained. That's for another day. Suffice to say that I sobbed many tears and am now spent.
     Oh, and I've also comfort binged on a mass bread and ketchup. And a packet of arrowroot biscuits.

....4.31-PM.
     I'm longing to give the day up as a loss and just have a stiff drink and go to bed, but unfortunately I can't.
     I need to be here and alert in case mum needs me.

...Plus the dog hasn't had his walk yet.
    Oh, crap...

Alice x

Learn Something New, Etc. Etc.

Did you know that the word "slug" is classed by the Worcestershire library's computer system as a "key word that can lead to websites of a pornographic nature"?

No, nor did we. 

But thanks to clicking on a link labelled "slug"* on the RSPB website during our quest to find out about woodland creatures for a science lesson mother was planning, we do now. 

...Yeah.

     The librarian we talked to - upon being confronted with a white screen containing a big red circle with a cross in it rather than the page of pertinent facts complete with helpful picture that we had been presented with when we had clicked on all the other links (fox, wasp, robin, beetle etc.) - couldn't explain the reason the safety filter that Worcester County Council had set up to protect innocent library computer users from "inappropriate content" had decided that, either. 

...and no. 

     We don't want to know what slugs can possibly have to do with pornography, either.

Learn something new, eh?

Alice xxx

* in case anybody is interested, this is what the link we clicked on should have led us to: 

http://www.rspb.org.uk/wildlife/wildlifegarden/atoz/s/slug.aspx 

As pornography goes, I'm sure you'll agree, it's pretty disappointing.

     Ah well. 

     =shrugs=

Are You There Dad? It's Me, Alice (final):

The day of the funeral dawned; appropriately dark and gloomy with storms predicted by evening.

Once mother had gone to work - she had no choice, unfortunately; it had been booked in advance - I set about preparing dad's little memorial. Having sought out three nice pictures of him, I laid them out on the biggest of the nest of tables we used in the living room in a sort of upside-down pyramid. Then I placed three tea-light candles, representing Father, Son and Holy Ghost, around them in a triangle shape. To complete the memorial I tied the helium balloon, representing dad's soul, that we had collected the previous day to the back right hand table leg. That done, I texted MJ to let him know all was ready and to remind him that I would be starting at 2-PM (the same time as the funeral began), moved everything out of the way of the dog and set about finding inane and distracting things to do for the next five and a half hours.
     I managed quite well until 1-PM. Then I began to feel fretful; anxious and jittery, unable to properly concentrate. Needing to get the vegetables ready for dinner helped - we were having beef casserole. It needed to be ready so that I could bung it in at 3-PM to give it the two hours it needed to cook - and I pottered around the kitchen as I did so; wiping this, swilling that, straightening such and such...
     At 1:30-PM I tried ringing MJ for the third time. The first two had produced no response, nor had he answered my texts, and I was beginning to worry. If he had decided not to come, that was fine (I had made sure to stress that), but I wanted to know, so I was mentally prepared...
     Just as I was about to hang up, he answered. His voice was groggy and I asked, incredulously, if he had been asleep, to which he replied that he had. When I told him that there was now only twenty five minutes before I lit dad's memorial candles and was he coming or not, he told me - in a bored voice - that yeah, he'd be there.
      Just before 2-PM, he arrived. After faffing in the kitchen for what seemed an eternity - in reality only a minute or so - he finally sat down in the chair, even more unkempt than usual and eyes red and sleepy but apparently ready. Bracing myself and mentally counting to ten as I moved the table into the centre of the living room, I explained again, as he seemingly hadn't listened any of the times I told him or read the texts I had sent to him either, that I would be lighting each candle individually - representing the Father, Son and Holy Ghost - then we would sit and look at the candles and say prayers, either individually in our heads or together out loud. Did he want to say prayers together? No. OK then. That was fine.
     I lit the candles. Then sat back and said my prayers. Then I looked at the candles, and dad's pictures, and said them again. Then I sat still looking at the candles and thought about him, hoping that if it hadn't been so before, dad's spirit would now be commended to God and be guided home in His hand...
      Three minutes in, MJ began to sigh. Not big angry sighs. Little, bored, fed up, when-will-this-crap-be-over sort of sighs. Trying not to be affected by them, I carried on with my quiet reflection a while longer, during which the sighs got a touch louder. Then I offered if he was ready, which obviously he was, to move the table back into the corner with the candles still burning, where they would be out of reach of the dog. He gave a sort of non-committal shrug and grunt, and was outside the backdoor lighting a cigarette before I had even finished moving it.
     Walking into the kitchen he waved for me to come outside and when I did began moaning about the fact that his neighbours had kept him up all night, and that after finally managing to drop off he had had less than 4 hours sleep before my phone-call had woken him, and how in any case he had thought that all this 'stuff' (meaning the memorial, said dismissively) was being dealt with later that evening. Biting my lip to stop myself from blurting something I might later regret, I told him, yet again, that as I had said - over and over again - the main memorial was to be at 2-PM so that it coincided with the funeral, but that so that mother could be involved, we wouldn't be releasing the balloon (something MJ had already derisively claimed as a "stupid idea" anyway) until late evening.

"Oh," was his nonchalant response, coupled with another shrug.

     Watching him standing there, cigarette in hand, his posture disinterested and his expression unconcerned, a surge of anger raged through me then immediately abated; replaced by grief nestled in a painful hollow of realization. Turning without another word, I retreated into the kitchen to finish preparing dinner.
     As I did so, recollections of MJ's behaviour over the past 48 hours came to mind with a distressingly unsurprising clarity. From the moment that the decision not to go to the funeral had been made to now, his manner had switched from a man in conflict and struggling with the idea of failing in his duty to a man off-the-hook; a man with no duty at all. I knew exactly how he saw it. In his opinion, he had done his bit; he had been prepared to consider facing it, been prepared to go, but the decision was taken out of his hands, so now it was all over. He didn't need to bother with it anymore. That was how he saw it. And the moment that the decision had happened, he had stopped caring.
     All the times I had tried to talk to him about my plans to honour dad, trying without success to involve him, to get his input; his responses had been both minimal and telling. "Yeah," he had kept saying whenever I mentioned it; "yeah, yeah, yeah". ..."whatever", he may as well have said; "whatever. I don't give a damn"...

As I fried up the onions and browned the meat, waiting for the oven to heat up, I wanted to cry but couldn't. It had all gone wrong. I had wanted this to be the moment of catharsis; the time that I said my goodbyes and cried long and hard, letting it all out. But it hadn't been. All it had been was a mistake. Having him there had been a mistake. I should never have asked him to come. I should have realized, given past experience, that this was how he would behave.
     Meanwhile, MJ pottered about, chatting about various things - I can't remember what now - and moaning happily about his lack of sleep and his neighbours and the fact that he had a headache...once dinner was in I sat back down in the living room and gazed at the candles. The CD player that I had turned on in the kitchen was playing nice, soothing string music and I let it run; sat in the dark, watching the candles flicker.
    Meandering in, I saw MJ look longingly at the television. Glancing at me, however, he realized that I was in no mood for it decided not to ask (to this day, considering everything else, that surprises me), opting instead to go outside for another cigarette then settling himself down in the chair, head leaned back. Every now and again he would shift position and moan slightly - ramming home the point that he was uncomfortable - and sighing.
     He sighed an awful lot that day.

At a little after 4-PM mother arrived home. She already knew that things had gone badly because I had texted to tell her, siting that I would explain once we were alone, so settled for giving me a cuddle and watching the candles with me. MJ complained yet again about his headache and mother offered to drive him home, as he hadn't been too keen on the balloon idea in the first place, but he refused.
     At 5-PM we sat down at the table and ate dinner (MJ went outside and had another cigarette), then sat down in the living room again with the candles - which were just about ready to go out - while it went down.
     At 5.20-PM, hearing clattering in the kitchen, we became concerned. Calling MJ in mother asked him what he was doing, receiving the reply that he was cooking some pancakes; he hadn't been able to until then, he pointed out, because the oven  had been in use (said a little grudgingly. Me using my own oven at times convenient for me had been a bone of contention before). Mother agreed that of course he could, but that we would like to release the balloon that evening and soon it would start to get dark, so if he wouldn't mind waiting an hour...MJ frowned at this. He was starving, and anyway; when, exactly, he demanded, would it begin to get dark?
     Mother told him it would start at 6-PM becoming completely dark within half an hour after that. Well, he said triumphantly, no problem then. He had 40 minutes till 6-PM and only needed 30 to both cook and eat. Mother queried doubtfully whether or not that would give him enough time to let his meal go down, after all the bank leading up to the bench she and I had selected was quite steep, but he shrugged it off impatiently. He wouldn't need it.
     At a loss as to what to say or do without causing an argument, mother backed down and he stomped into the kitchen to fix his meal, leaving me more angry and hurt than ever and anxiously watching the clock.
     6.05-PM MJ was finally ready, having forced his feet complainingly into his Wellington boots (like me, he has funny feet and finds getting into boots difficult), and we left. Dad's balloon deflated a little as I walked to the car and I became upset, worried that it was going to deflate completely before we were able to release it.

"Don't be stupid!" MJ sneered; "it's just reacting to the change in temperature. The gas contracts. Stuff you learn about in middle school."

Biting my lip, me and dad's balloon got into the car.
     Arriving at Kinver Edge, the light was fading fast; a fact that MJ noted with grievance in his voice. As we made our way carefully up the bank he continued to moan, about his headache and the fact that the Wellingtons made his feet hurt and the fact that it was cold and pouring with rain (it was drizzling) and getting dark and how he was tired.... I strode off as fast as I could and left him (and mum and the dog, though they hadn't done anything wrong) to it. By the time I reached the bench I was several minutes ahead, my heart was pounding in my ears and my breath ragged in my chest and I was so angry I wanted to scream.
     He just didn't care, he didn't care at all! He didn't care about dad, or me, or anyone but himself. He hadn't wanted to come today, even for my sake to support me; he had only bothered because he had wanted those wretched pancakes that we kept stupidly buying for him. How could anyone be so mean, so selfish and uncaring...?
     Eventually they all arrived at the bench; Bingo first, then mum, then - dragging his feet - MJ. Squeezing my hand, mother warned me just before he reached us that because of the wind dad's balloon might not go straight up as we wanted, but reminded me that the important thing was that the balloon, like dad's soul, would be free. Perfect words spoken from a pure and loving heart that made the tears that had refused to show themselves earlier rush to the surface. Some escaped, but as before, before I was ready they sank back down again, leaving my eyes heavy and strained and my head fogged.
     With mother and MJ sat on the bench - the first frozen but oozing love and support from every pore, the second sat in stony and bored silence - and with me stood beside it, the few tears that had been released still damp on my cheeks, I said goodbye to dad's soul and released his balloon. As mother had carefully predicted, it didn't go straight up, instead shooting backwards past our heads and towards the trees, eventually fading into the dusk out of sight.
     That done, I took a deep breath and began praying again, then spoke to dad directly in my head, saying whatever came to mind. The light was fading fast; it was nearly dark already, and very cold and windy, but I didn't care. I felt connected to him up there and I was staying until I was good and ready to leave...
     Several minutes later I relented and we made our way back down the bank. The light was now so poor that we basically had to feel our way. Mother had accidentally left the torch in the car, so of course it was no help, a fact that MJ complained about bitterly - along with everything else he had already complained about, with a few new things pitched in - all the way.
     Reaching the car with relief, mother drove home. Once we got there, MJ loaded his bag with contraband (see other posts for details) and left.
     After I was sure he was gone, I told mother everything. She listened in stunned silence.

"Well," she said, at last; "you have been very, very brave. And though it may not feel so now, one day you will look back on this day and feel glad that you gave your brother this chance, whether he took it or not."

Standing up, she told me gently that she was going out; that she wouldn't be long. Five minutes later she came back, bearing a quarter of whisky, and told me to fetch another candle. I did; a big one this time, tall and thin. Lighting it, I sat back down and mother handed me a glass, before turning off the light and settling down beside me.
     Hand in hand and watching the flames dance, we raised a silent toast.
      After several minutes of respectful and thoughtful quiet, mother squeezed my hand.

"You've been such a brave girl," she said. "Utterly wonderful. He'd be so proud of you. I know I am."

And that was it. The moment of catharsis.
     I started crying.
     And I didn't stop for a long, long time...

The next day I mooned about, feeling sorry for myself. Just sat around, watching odds and ends online, sniveling and crying in turns and chatting to dad (whether his spirit happened to be listening or not). I didn't wash or dress, or even brush my teeth; just lounged about in my nightdress. The curtains stayed closed, the candle stayed lit (and when it died another took its place) and I didn't go outside.
     MJ rang at some point to ask what I was up to. I told him I felt awful; that I needed to spend some time all by myself. He sounded surprised, but thankfully didn't argue. Then later, when mother came home, we shared another stiff drink (after she had kindly walked the dog and got dinner for me, in-spite of being terribly tired) and raised another toast to dad, before settling down to watch Family Fortunes and then crawling into bed.
     So that was my day.
     Friday was better. I got up, feeling refreshed; renewed. Washing and dressing almost immediately, I came downstairs in a much happier and more positive state of mind. Of course I couldn't go anywhere - as far as the rest of the world knew I was on my way back home from Scotland - but I could open the curtains, tidy and clean up a little, go into the garden and savour the sunshine while I hung the washing out...just potter about. Dad's candle stayed lit, and his pictures stayed in place (we had decided it would be so until Saturday morning), but this time when I talked to him, it was in a jolly and cheerful and chatty sort of way, rather than an anguished one. Later MJ came round. With a nice space between Wednesday and then, I was able to be civil and pleasant (not that he would have understood if I hadn't have been); and we watched something or other until mother came home, before feasting on fare from the local chip shop. After that we all walked the dog and then when MJ had gone home again, mother and I shared our final A-Toast-To-Dad drink with the candle and a brand new episode of Johnathan Creek.

The next morning, I got up as usual and went to work.

Life, as they say, goes on.
     And that (as they also say), was that.

Alice xxx    

Are You There Dad? It's Me, Alice (part 4):

In the end, we didn't go.
    The main factor in the final decision was the journey. After researching it fully we knew that at best and with all running smoothly, there would be 10 hours travel, then an overnight stay, then the funeral, then another overnights stay, then 10 hours travel home. The more we found out, the more conflicted MJ became. He knew as well as we did that even if it had been possible to get it all over and done with in one day he would not have coped well, if at all. The prospect of three full days, most of two of them stuck on a train or bus, was positively terrifying for him. And yet, like me, he still felt torn. As though he ought to go, as though if he didn't, he would be doing something terribly wrong, not just by his father but by the man's widow, as well.
     Then there was the money. Now, I want it understood that in actuality, this wasn't a problem. It was expensive, yes (around £600 for the two of us including travel and accommodation), but mother and I had already discussed it and the money had been set aside; a gift from her to us. We had also had offers of help from various family members, with it made clear that no matter what my father's past behaviour had been (or MJ's for that matter), nobody begrudged us the cost of attending the funeral, providing that that was what we wished to do. But MJ...he became fixated on it, saying over and over again how it wasn't fair that after dad had abandoned her and left her in thousands worth of debt, mother should be out of pocket again because of him.

In the end, overwhelmed and desperate, I sent a message to the widow outlining our predicament.
     She rang back, immediately.
     The exact details of the conversation have been lost in my mind, obscured in a haze of mental exhaustion and tears, but I can remember the main gist of it, along with the fact that she was kind and gentle, but frank. She told me that she had been worrying. She quite understood that we wanted to honour our father and she in no way wanted us to feel unwelcome, but she thought that for practicalities sake we ought not to come.
     Her reasons were similar to mine: a certainty that MJ wouldn't cope with the journey, an uncertainty whether I would be able to cope with both the journey and MJ not coping, the uncomfortable feeling that we would be saying goodbye to the Mike Collison that she had known rather than the one we had...she was also concerned about the weather; there had been flood warnings in her area and parts of the Scottish boarder - including the part our train would pass through - was flooded already with water levels rising. Public transport was being disrupted and according to the news reports might stop altogether within the next few days, which could leave us stranded.
     So all in all, she believed it would be for the best to do what I had wanted in the first place and honour him at home. She would be fine; her mother and brother were there with her and the man conducting the service was someone that both she and dad knew quite well. And as for dad himself, she assured me through her tears (we were both blubbing for most of the phone-call) that she was sure that he would understand. He wouldn't want me or MJ to go through all that just so we could watch a coffin go through a curtain. His spirit was free and could be celebrated anywhere...

Relaying all this to MJ the next day, I watched his face for a reaction. There was none until I mentioned concerns over whether the trains would run due to the flooding, and then his expression changed from grim misery to something else. Hope.
     Using my computer, he checked for himself. Sure enough; public transport in Scotland was in turmoil. It looked as though the journey was not merely inadvisable, but impossible.
     The relief in MJ's face was so great it seemed to radiate. The previous evening mother and I had wondered between ourselves whether or not MJ might be looking for what the Americans call an "OUT"; a reason to not go that was not directly to do with him and therefore was not due to any decision he had made, i.e. not his fault. The theory was a good one. It would certainly explain why he kept bringing up the subject of mother having to fork out the majority of the cost of the journey; not so as it was something he wanted to blame her for, as much as that it would not have been his; a factor out of his control. And now, sat in the living room the day the final decision had to be made, the theory had been proven. MJ had his "OUT".
     Right then. All well and good. We would honour him here. I had already previously booked the time off work; three days to cover travel there, the funeral and then travel back, and as far as the company would be concerned (at least until it was too late), that was exactly what was going to happen. That way I could do what I needed to do and then have the time I needed - ready for when I almost certainly went to pieces - to recouperate from it. So that was that. We would deal with things in our own way, in our own time; perfect.
     Or so it should have been.

The best laid plans, etc. etc...