LETTER TO MY SON

Cardross

14 March 2021

Dear Calum

I sometimes go to a writing class at a drop in centre near me and todays exercise was to write to someone I haven’t spoken to in a long time. So here goes.

I sleep in Wendy’s old room with Dash the dog besides me. He is a beautiful and very affectionate Australian Labradoodle; the focus of much of the families love and cuddles, especially the children when they are fed up with us adults and yet need that hug.

Last night he started whining and barking at one in the morning. I very reluctantly got dressed in my dressing gown and went out into the howling gale with him where he did loads of wees and made up on the poos he hadn’t done in the day. I think his earlier experience trying to make babies with his new girlfriend had unsettled him but do not know for sure.

Either way I slept well again with the occasionally intermission from showers of rain rattling on the windows, and finally roused myself to do some work at 6.30. Dash looked very startled when I put the light on and a bit disgruntled! I worked from bed and only for an hour. But it was long enough for me to finish my first draft of my report on contact and support for mental health via zoom phone and near me. I love writing up the reports of my consultations however weird they may seem. There is something very satisfying in seeing themes emerge and in revisiting stories and ideas I have forgotten I have heard. But nowadays it takes ages for the first draft to turn into the version that ends up on the Commission’s website so I must remember I have only passed through stage one of it!

It feels strange that I haven’t said anything at all to you in all the years since I have started living with Wendy and her children or all the years that I have been working at the Mental Welfare Commission. I am not going to go into any detail, but some of it has been very wonderful like when my memoir was published, or when I spoke at the United Nations, but in many ways the best bits are when Wendy is being silly and rude and we are all laughing together or when I am walking down by the sea in the summer. And, of course, there are bad bits; Wendy’s Dad’s long death, your grandad’s death, my continual compulsory treatment, James’ sudden trip to the sick kids and the ICU, my recent 3 months off sick.

There is a gap in my mind when I say that because how would a dad and his son not have shared or talked about such huge things? How would someone’s son only know the bare minimum about his dad’s life? But then you have at last unblocked me from facebook so maybe you occasionally see what I get up to on the rare occasions you visit it and maybe you don’t. You say you avoid family stuff as much as possible and your page is sparse in the extreme!

I have long since realised that little is certain and there is no one good way to do things or live life but I do sometimes wonder how life might have been different. A sort of ‘What if ?’ thought.

I would prefer to tell you about today. So, to carry on! I switched off my work lap top when I looked at my diary for next week and realised that I am working two more days than I should do and so could spend today with the family.

I went downstairs with Dash; waved at James, who was busy on his Xbox and who barked me a “Woof woof” hello as he still likes to say he is a dog. I peered in at Wendy and Charlotte fast asleep on the sofabed in the kitchen sitting room. Then it was off over the hill to Renton and Gary’s Garage to get the MOT done. I remembered to take my hat and gloves from the car but forgot my welly boots!!

Waiting for the train home was weird; that feeling that if I touch the door button I will get virus on my finger tips, and my other worry about buying the tickets when usually there is no need to because the conductor is never around for this part of the journey.

Wendy and Charlotte were just beginning to stir when I got in and were in a very happy mood. But by the time I got them their toast and honey Charlotte had decided that, as this was the last day of home schooling they should have the day off. Wendy, on the other hand, was trying to help her realise she only had about half an hour’s work to do in total.

The result was Charlotte curled up in a corner of the bed, refusing to speak to anyone; getting the blanket on top of her honey toast and dislodging another piece to lie sticky side down on the sheets.

By the time James had had breakfast Charlotte was curled up in the proper sitting room ignoring us even more but I did manage to get her back through eventually.

Somehow the school work all got finished but the day was so dark. Huge showers of rain and lowering clouds that made the sitting room feel like night was falling. I would occasionally encourage everyone to come on the Dash the dog walk but they steadfastly ignored my pleas.

And so I found myself with my walking boots on and my oilies and Dash and also a rare break in the clouds to accompany us.

I met the pharmacist lady at the bottom of the road with her two huge Bearnaise Mountain Dogs. We talked from across the road and I found out the path was very muddy and that when she let the dogs off of the lead at Kilmahew Castle they promptly went and sat in the muddy wee lochan besides it. She wasn’t looking forward to getting home with them! By then the sky was almost purple with the dark clouds.

I walked up the track and decided not to go into St Peters but up to the farm. I had my hat and gloves on and was kept dry from the rain but by and by the rain went and the clouds scattered to allow blue sky and sunshine to appear among the veils of rain in the distance. The hills were covered in snow and the wind was fierce.

I began to get hot and took off my hat and gloves, the feel of the air in my hair, on my cheeks, making my eyes water, the smell of the cows in the barn at the top of the road, the sound of them lowing, the dark smelly water flowing onto the track… wonderful.

I loved that walk. My heart swells when the sun makes the wet track seem like silver, makes the moss on the walls and the grass in the fields so much more vivid; the Clyde a sheet of glimmering steel.

At home we had a happy house again. Wendy was organising a treat of a lunch for the children to have when they went onto google meets with the rest of the class for their final home-schooling party. They had insisted in getting into their jammies for it as they were allowed to dress however they wanted and, in the sitting room, in secret, Wendy blew up balloons and piled sweets into little red paper cups as a final treat.

I went upstairs to write and found myself writing this, which is silly as I am meant to be writing the first three months of Blackbird Singing. I wrote and then I got sad and then I got tired and realised that waking early and working early are not always the best combination and so I lay back in bed and closed my eyes.

The radio was on but it is such a lovely feeling to know you are drifting into sleep on a Friday afternoon with no need to stop it; just to lie back, smooth, tired; drifting.

I must have slept for an hour and woke to find that my car would be ready by five which was exciting and lovely.

And so it was off down to the station again, all wrapped up against the cold. I arrived the find the train was cancelled; found a dry bit of bench and huddled on it, glad my oily top was stopping the worst of the wind. I got bored, took pictures of odds and ends of eroded building and weathered wood and the occasional daffodil.

On the train the conductors were behind a taped off bit of the carriage which made me wonder if they still check the tickets or leave us be, because of covid. Either way they didn’t ask me for mine and as the ticket office was closed at all the stations I went to, I didn’t buy a ticket at all.

Gary phoned when I was in Dalreoch to see if I needed a lift but my train was just arriving. I walked into the Garage, handed over my £170 and he handed over the keys; off he went home and so did I.

I arrived home just as Tom, the children’s dad, came to pick them up. There was the usual kerfuffle with James trying to stay on his Xbox as long as possible.

Then there was silence, a groan of relief from Wendy and relaxation.

I made her, her weird custard pancake for tea and got occupied with making an elaborate Mexican inspired dish, involving wraps and peppers and cheese sauce. Do you remember how I always used to make elaborate meals? I am just like my brother in that; little gestures of love from those who don’t have the words to say it properly. Little gestures that don’t always fall too well because the faff of cooking means that the wished for conversations do not get heard or said.

Dash was exhausted, Wendy was exhausted and so was I. I don’t know what I did for the evening. I spoke to your grandma as usual and, as usual, we agreed that lockdown is very boring. I must have watched telly or looked at Instagram.

I definitely drank whisky. I still drink as much as when I lived with you and I definitely went to bed very early with Wendy saying she would be in bed soon too.

I looked out an email I had sent a writer whose brother had died of schizophrenia and whose book is just wonderful and another to a mental health magazine but they hadn’t replied. It made me sad but not too surprised. It would have been lovely to have got an answer though.

I heard more on the radio about the lack of vaccine in Georgia and how the government there are arresting everyone from the opposition parties and worried about you. I remember your wishes for justice and your willingness to challenge injustice which is wonderful but can make people vulnerable and then I realised that you might not be in Georgia anymore. We never did find out if you were there for a long time or a short time when my sister managed to speak to you after your grandad died.

These are the small routines of my day. I walk a lot with Dash. I work at my tiny desk or, if I can get away with it, from my warm bed. I talk to and snuggle up to Wendy, occasionally feed the rabbits and fill the bird feeder. I cook and tidy and do odds and ends with the children.

It is a life I didn’t think was possible and it fills me with joy and wonder that it has happened and continues to happen.

I like these hints of life; like the fact that my toothpaste tube is so empty that it takes ages to get a little bit out, or that every night, if I leave the window open I will hear the owls and in the morning song birds and the raucousness of crows. I love that Wendy is so funny; that Dash tells us he needs fed by putting his paws on my chest. That for a number of weeks when I talked to my mum on Alexa I could only just see the tip of her head as the camera was positioned wrong.

I can’t even guess the little bits of your life. I know so little about you. What do people eat in Georgia? Can you speak the language? Just what on earth is cognitive semiotics and how did you get to be so clever? Do you have a girlfriend or a boyfriend? Do you still speak to your mum? Do you ever go windsurfing or skiing any more? I never knew I would lose all right to know such things when I left your Mum; I didn’t even think it meant I would be leaving you too. It must be over six years ago since I saw you for that brief weekend and you were smoking; you wore black, stayed up late listening to horror movies. There was lots that you didn’t and wouldn’t tell me, but you seemed interested in us and our lives. You were lovely to the children, you laughed and were curious about my diagnosis. I was so lucky to have those couple of days. And, now I remember; it may have been a year ago, but when you spoke to my sister you said you had a good life.

That is wonderful to hear. I hope it continues to be good and fulfilled. I hope one day to maybe meet in passing; to remind myself what your skin looks like, how your hair shines, to recollect the sound of your voice or learn about the things that make you laugh.

And maybe that will never happen but I can think of it and I can smile at the possibility.

I send you lots of love

Dad.

(Photo: weathered part of Cardross Station, March 2021)