Gift: A Son's Story (More Signs)

            The Registrar's appointment was at 9.30 am, but I got there a little early.  The office was in our local library, and an assistant showed me into the small, sectioned-off waiting area.  There was a table with a box of tissues on it, and some nice relaxing prints on the walls.  There was also a couple of shelving racks full of relevant publications and leaflets.  Stuff about managing bereavement, wills, etc.  And there was one book.  One single novel - obviously taken off a library shelf and brought in by someone, and not put back afterwards.  It wasn't actually a book that I would ever have associated with our library, which was quite small, and inevitably focused on very popular authors.  The author of this one was hugely popular.  But not for the same sort of audience, necessarily, as the likes of Lee Child, Stephen King, Martina Cole, Robert Ludlum or J K Rowling.  His was a niche popularity.  An 'outside the mainstream' popularity.  Those who loved him were usually devout.  But if you mentioned his name to most people, they most likely would never have heard of him.

            For all of which reasons he was one of my favourite writers - one whose works I'd read more than any others.  One whose works I came back to, because his stories and novels - mostly very thinly-disguised autobiographical tales - spoke to me very personally about my own life: the life of an outsider.  They were stories of a man who spent years in dead-end, no-hope jobs just trying to make enough to keep going in an endless string of crummy Los Angeles apartments, and through an equally endless string of failed relationships... all the while trying hard to make his name as a writer.  Which he eventually did, quite late in life when most would have given up.  He was a writer I identified closely with, and who also gave me hope.  And the novel of his on that shelf was also one of my favourite novels - not just of his, but of all time:

Post Office

by

Charles Bukowski

            I took it down off that shelf and just stared at it, and a huge grin spread across my face.  At that moment, Russell came in.  He must have seen my expression and wondered what was going on, incongruous as it was to the nature of the occasion - and in comparison to his own expression.  I held the book up and showed him.

            "I can't believe it," I said.  "Of all books.  I can't believe it."

            He looked at it.  It meant absolutely nothing to him.

            "One of my favourites.  And it was just waiting here.  On the shelf."

            He jerked his chin up, as if to show understanding.

            "Coincidence, eh?" he said.

            "Yes," I said.  "I suppose so."

            Another one.

            After the business with the registrar, we went straight to the bungalow for our daily stint.  When we arrived, there was an envelope on the doormat.  It was a card of condolence from Joan - the woman who'd been mum's cleaner for an hour a week, back before she became ill.  She was one of the people I'd rung afterwards.  She was a lovely woman who'd given mum company as much as anything else - though mum was still living independently at the time and going out alone.  Managing.  Joan had just done the heavier jobs for her.  I'd only seen her a couple of times and had no idea where she lived.  But I'd wanted her to know as I knew she thought a lot of mum.  As everyone did who met her.  Inside the envelope, she'd also put a £10 note for us to make a donation to any one of mum's favourite charities.  It was a lovely gesture.  I made a mental note to ring her later and thank her.

            We were a couple of hours at the bungalow again.  When we left, we dropped off a few more bits to some charity shops, then Russell took me home.  I put a few more items in the 'memento' case, which had become so full that I decided to split it all between two cases.  Both of them had belonged to mum and were both the same size, so they could be packed neatly away together.  I now had some notebooks and diaries of hers, plus the last book that she'd been reading.  There were some old Christmas and birthday cards that she'd saved, and a few bits of my writing.  Her favourite folding mirror.  Her tweezers, nail files and scissors.  A bottle of eau de cologne, which she'd had for many years and used occasionally.  Finally, some lavender bags.  Russell and I were finding them all the time in the sorting: in drawers and cupboards, between pillow cases, hanging on coat racks.  Some of them she'd made herself, hand-stitching pretty pieces of fabric together.  Russell said he now found it difficult to smell lavender at all because of the association.  But I found it quite comforting.  I even put a couple of the sachets between my own pillows so that the scent was constantly there. 

            When the cases were done, I showered and changed and went to Morrison's to get something for dinner.  On the way there, I had a strange feeling come over me.  I found myself speaking almost aloud to myself. 

            "I know you're still there, mum.  I know you're with me.  I can still sense you there around me, darling.  You're standing by me."

            Fortunately, there was no one much about to hear me or notice - not that it really bothered me, anyway.  It was odd, though - the spontaneous way it seemed to happen.  The incident with the novel at the registrar's office was still buzzing in my head, and I had that sense of lightness that I'd felt before - as if I was being carried along by something. 

            I got to the store and was walking along the bread aisle just as the old Ben E King song Stand By Me began to play on the in-store soundtrack.  I started singing to it as I wandered along the aisle.  Coming the opposite way was a jolly-faced middle-aged woman, and as I got closer I could see she was singing, too.  We passed each other just as the chorus started - and we both launched into it...

            Oh, darlin', darlin', stand... by me.  Oh-wow stand... by me...

            We looked at one another and both smiled.

            "Good tune, eh?" I said.

            "Sure is," she said.  "That's what I love about this shop.  The music they play."

            She stopped then, and so did I.  I could see she was wearing a large gold crucifix.  For some reason, I wanted to say a little more, and she seemed to know.

            "Excuse me," I said.  "I've no idea who you are, but I feel the need to tell you something."

            I told her about mum, and my time with her, and her recent passing.  I told her about the signs.  I told her I'd almost been saying the very words of that song to myself before it started playing, and it was almost as if it was playing just for me - in response to my thoughts.  I managed to say all of this without a single tear, but with a light heart.  When I'd finished, she put her hand on my arm and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

            "I'm a retired nurse," she said.  "I've nursed many, many people through their final times, as you've just done.  They send me messages all the time, to thank me."  She smiled.  "You know your mum is standing by you, don't you.  I can see it in you."

            "Yes," I said.

            Then she gave me a quick hug before moving on, still singing the song.

            I carried on my way to the end of the aisle and turned the corner into the next one.  And there was Joan - doing her shopping.  I hadn't seen her since before I took over mum's care.  She saw me and came straight over to give me a hug.  By this time, I was overwhelmed.  I thanked her for her card and donation, and said I'd intended to call her later.

            "Your mum was a very special lady," she said.  "I always liked going to her.  I'm so sorry about what's happened."

            "Thank you," I said.  "Yes... she was special."

            "How are you managing?  I know you were very close."

            "It's early days.  But I'm getting through.  I can still feel her presence around me, which helps a lot."

            "That's good," she said.  "They never completely go away from us.  They're always there."

            I got my bits of shopping and walked home again, thinking that things went on behind the scenes that even a cynical old rationalist like myself didn't know about, and couldn't comprehend.  Frankly, the comprehension of it didn't matter.  All I knew was that it was tremendously comforting.

            And I knew that mum was right there, as that woman had said... standing by me.