Goodbye Max

GOODBYE MAX

The chill of the air matched the numbness of the situation. Christine,
like most adults, had experienced this before, the strange detachment
of the funeral. Why was the inside of a church always so cold, she
mused, perhaps the iciness emanated from within? It certainly caught
the mood.
The were few mourners in the Chapel of St Catherine, their black clad
bodies silent as shadows. The only evidence of their humanity betrayed
by misty plumes rising from mouth or nostril. The sombre faces reminded
Christine of the waxworks of Madame Toussauds, unrelenting in their
inanimation. Rigid masks to suppress the flood of emotion, in the name
of social propriety.
Gazing around the thirteenth century building Christine surveyed the
other mourners more closely. They were without exception elderly and
all unknown to her. She knew that they must be close friends; Max had
no relatives.
Christine's mind wandered and once again she was fourteen. It had not
been an easy time for her. An only child, living in a succession of
cheap tenancies, the memory of the lingering smell of rotten walls and
the urine soaked carpets of the shared hallway were as sharp and
repugnant as ever. Even this had been an improvement on her
pre-pubescent years. Then the heavy hands of her father had been the
beginning of retribution for whatever sins a child may commit.
She had greeted the news of her father's incarceration with a savage
joy that only the young can know. The elation, however, proved to be
short lived. Her mother, Maureen, once free from her husband's tyranny,
demonstrated no better judgement than when she said, "I do."
Even now Christine held little resentment towards her mother, though
in truth little affection either. Maureen, who had been unable to cope
with her husband, was just as incapable of coping without him. She
descended into an alcohol-induced stupor, punctuated with all too brief
interludes of lucidity. Christine had soon lost count of the number and
names of the 'uncles,' who paid nocturnal visits with unseemly
regularity.
Looking back Christine could see clearly, a lost, lonely girl, lacking
self-respect and desperate for affection. At the time she thought of
herself as a brash rebel, scoffing at authority and lashing out at an
unyielding world.
She hung around with the other tough kids, unbeknown to them bonded
only by their shared alienation. She fought, bullied and harassed
anyone she could, and stole as a way of life.
Every distraction from the pain of continued rejection was grasped
with increasing despair. There was the sex with numerous boys and men,
deeply unsettling and mechanical, driven by the unfulfilled desire for
genuine acceptance. The drugs and alcohol worked better but their
effects decreased with use. Even worse the aftertaste was bitter, as
you landed badly back into the real world which seemed more grey and
intolerable than before.
The plan had been simple and exciting. A break into a shed in an old
man's garden. It was to be Christine's first experience in burglary;
her previous stealing had been mostly from shops. Everything proceeded
perfectly, a hammer swiftly dispensed with the lock and Christine and
her two accomplices grabbed what they could and prepared to flee.
Christine had managed to steal a toolbox and was content it would
fetch a small amount in the right pub. As she prepared to squeeze
through a hole in the fence, bringing up the rearguard for her friends,
Christine gave a quick scan.
To her surprise she could see the old man. He was a comical figure,
easily in his seventies. A portly, bow legged man, bald with wild white
eyebrows bristling under his furrowed forehead. He wore the high
waisted trousers elderly men always seemed to favour, held over his
striped shirt by bright red braces. He was stood on the back doorstep
and was looking directly at Christine. Their eyes met and the hint of a
smile began to form on the old mans lips.
'Christ,' thought Christine, panicking. She could only think of one
reason the old man might smile, he'd already called the police. Damn
him, he must have been on to them from the start.
Christine clutched the toolbox hard to her chest and threw herself
through the gap in the fence, splinters lodging in the exposed flesh of
her arms. She raced down the alleyway he feet beating to the cadence of
some frenetic percussionist.
She ran for as long as she was able which was no more than a hundred
yards. Little exercise and a smoking habit begun at eleven saw to that.
Christine was uneasy. There were no police. Why was the old man
smiling?
Taking the tools from the box, Christine was surprised at their
anachronistic appearance. She was about to congratulate herself on an
antiques haul when she spied something else in the box. An old
photograph, grainy and weathered, showing two men holding between them
the very tool box Christine now cradled in her lap. She picked the
photograph out and studied it. There was a middle-aged man and a young
man, probably a teenager, both dressed in outmoded suits. The reverse
bore the words:-
'My father passing on the tools of the trade to me, 1920."
Somehow this was different from stealing a pair of jeans from some
nondescript multinational corporation. Christine realised she had taken
a part of this man's life. She tried to push the feelings down, but
they persisted.
For three days she brooded trying hard to rationalise the
unanticipated pangs of conscience against her own self image. Christine
found herself on the old man's doorstep that very evening.
She swayed, self consciously trying to steel herself for the coming
confrontation. Eventually she knocked on the door, rapping loudly and
assertively, in direct contrast to the uncertainty she felt.
The door opened, the face of the old man appeared and as he caught
sight of Christine she noticed his bristling eyebrows rise in
surprise.
"Hello young lady," he said. His voice was strong and fluid belying
his obvious age.
"Hey! I ain't no lady," she retorted on reflex but the inflection
showed no venom.
"My apologies. May I help you?" The hint of a smile played about his
face again, like a bud preparing to flower.
"No. Look, I know you saw me, so stop being nice. I've brought your
bloody box back. All right?"

"That's more than alright. That toolbox is very precious to me. Please
come in child." He half turned to allow her access into his
house.
"I ain't no bloody kid either." This time the rejoinder sounded weak,
Christine was grinning to herself before she had completed the
sentence.
Christine felt uncomfortable as she sat for tea and biscuits. She was
soon on first name terms with Max and learnt a little bit about him. He
had been a carpenter by trade and had been apprenticed to his father
who had given him his first tools, the ones she had stolen. At a young
age he had married, never had children and lost his wife to cancer a
decade ago. He had fought in the war and as a result of a bullet to the
hip, walked with a limp.
After a time Christine plucked up the courage to ask, "Max, why did
you let me take the tool box which seems real important to you?"
"If you were willing to take it I thought maybe you needed it
more."
The coffin was picked up by the professionally sullen bearers and
carried aloft into the graveyard. Christine followed with the small
congregation. All her pretence at stoic impassivity had evaporated. Her
moist cheeks glistened in the subdued winter sun. She trembled like a
doe in a gunsight.
She had found herself visiting Max more and more often until, apart
from returning to sleep at her mother's house, she practically lived at
Max's place. He spoke with her about any subject and his love of
knowledge was infectious. Christine soon found herself borrowing from
his copious book collection and then to her teachers' great surprise,
attending school regularly.
Even today, looking back, Max's gently applied wisdom and wit still
enthralled her. The evening she confided in Max about her affection for
Ian, a shy boy in her physics class that before she met Max she would
have ridiculed, was a case in point. Max had listened carefully to her
frustrations at Ian's shyness and her nervousness about approaching
him, and sympathised without supplying any real advice.
Later that night the conversation had turned to poetry and Christine
opined eruditely that, "It is all crap." Max had laughed gently and
replied that sometimes poetry could say things more clearly than other
ways of speaking and went on to quote Thomas Carew:-
"Give me more love or more disdain,
The torrid or the frozen zone,
Bring equal ease upon my pain,
The temperate affords me none,
Either extreme of love or hate,
Is sweeter than a calm estate."
The following Saturday Christine and Ian went on their first
date.
Christine couldn't pretend that she had changed over night and there
were often relapses to her old behaviour or times when she felt low or
unworthy. Max would never get angry or judgmental, just offer
unconditional support and a shoulder to cry on, often literally.
She had, of course, moved on now. She was a confident young woman; a
fully qualified family therapist and a devoted wife and mother. Would
she have been any of these things without Max? Christine doubted it,
although Max would have been too modest to accept any credit.
Now, Christine accepted setbacks as a natural if unpleasant aspect of
life. As a young woman she could have barely coped without help.
When she was suspended from school for fighting with another girl,
Max's advice had again slipped in from an unexpected angle. They were
working together on Max's garden and in his advanced years he seemed
grateful even for Christine's inexpert assistance.
The suspension had upset Christine and as usual she was trying to find
ways to blame others. The issue played on her mind and her temper was
lost to frustration. She lashed out at a bush, ripping branches off
with her gloved hands and kicking the base, swearing all the time. It
all seemed so ludicrous in retrospect but at the time the emotions were
very real.
"I don't know if destroying things is a good idea," commented Max
softly.
Christine had half regained her composure and feeling guilty wanted to
defend herself.
"Well, we cut the grass and kill the weeds," she said half defiantly,
half apologetically.
"Yes, we do. I think sometimes to create we have to be destructive,
but if we take pleasure in it we only succeed in harming
ourselves."
The vicar had finished his summative words. Christine couldn't help
but feel that any eulogy would be inadequate
The bearers lowered the coffin into the grave. Christine stepped
forward to cast a flower onto the coffin, followed by a book, which
thudded against the wood to the slight consternation of her fellow
mourners.
The book was a leather bound copy of her doctoral thesis. Max had been
overjoyed when her three years of effort had come to fruition and had
insisted on calling her, 'doctor,' thereafter.
Inside the front cover was an inscription:-
To Max
My father, teacher, trust and hope. You were and, in my heart still
are, a better therapist than I could ever hope to be. All my thanks and
all my love.
Forever
Christine.
Christine stayed by the grave a long time that day, but in the end she
had to leave. After all she had people to help.