Yesterday I had a day in Oban; mainly driving and talking, with the odd visit to a charity shop thrown in.
This is a short, short, story. Charlotte went to school fine, all cheery in fact; with her packed lunch and books. James was cheery too until, at the school gates, a fellow pupil started asking him about pokemon. His acute embarrassment at having to interact in front of his family was almost glorious to behold! He ignored the wee boy and shuffled into the playground with his head down and his steps all jerky. Dash the dog was delighted, as this morning was doggy day care day. As soon as he saw Mike coming up the path his whole body started waggling with excitement.
Wendy sat in the car at the station until the last moment (as usual) and dashed out the car with the usual “Oh Fuck!” when the train arrived.
And I set off for Oban. The car was covered in frost in the morning and my coat was smeared with a white haze of ice that had fallen from the window scraper.
It was a great day for driving; some clouds but a lot of sun. The mountains covered in snow but the roads dry enough that the windows didn’t get dotted with crud.
On the way to Loch Lomond a pheasant clattered out of the hedge, missing the car by inches. Past Tarbert I looked across the loch at the youth hostel and remembered that time, all those years ago, when we walked the West Highland Way.
There was no music because there seems to be no radio signal for most of Argyll once you leave the coast.
I love when we get to Loch Awe and there are small islands scattered over it; looking half sunken and I love when we get to Connell and under the bridge you can see the swirling rapids of the tide; the hump of the wave of water which you would surely drown in.
Once I was in Oban, finding the different addresses I needed to go to, I loved the click of my shoes on the concrete, somehow there is something satisfying about that solid contact. And it was good to stare out at the Islands and the fishing boats and the ferries; the seaweed all along the foreshore.
Hope Kitchen was fab, the soup lovely, thick and potatoey and full of carrots and the people were lovely too. Oban F.M. was great too. I wittered for an hour; felt, not only brilliant, but welcomed by everyone.
The bit I really remember, was driving back home in the dark. There was such a bright full moon, and there were clouds for atmosphere. Sometimes you would be driving towards the V of a dark glen and that gap would be filled with a smoky yellowy brightness and the darkness of forest. Sometimes you would come to the top of a hill and you would see the soft glow; the sky and the bright round moon; wonderful! At other times; driving by the still lochs, the water would glow and shimmer in this quiet, ethereal, awe inspiring way; making you want to stop and sit and just stare at the moonglow.
Finally, after I had picked Wendy up I went to bed. We had talked, or rather Wendy had talked but I had just been too tired to concentrate on her words. I left as soon as I could with a brief kiss and then; snuggled in bed, which was cold because of the night time frost, I realized that I have been getting this all wrong.
I am grieving but at the same time I am not. I do not think I have any right to grieve, I feel guilty that sometimes I can sense an undertone of being upset. Everyone is so busy getting on with life, even Mum ,who is not sleeping, is busy doing the life bit and so am I. I am working; when I look at my diary, I see I have filled it for weeks ahead and it feels like a blow to my stomach because I do not know if I can face all that intensity, that focus, that enthusiasm. I don’t want to sit and mourn, as in remember Dad or cry but I do want to curl up and walk the dog and stare into space and just rummage around in me for some sense of connection; so that I can talk with Wendy and the children, without trying to do so through a layer of wool.
I feel so terribly remote. I would like to be walking up a glen with that moon on the path and in the trees bundled up in warm clothing just walking into the sadness.
I would like to be drunk; I would like to be asleep. I would both love to feel and yearn never to feel again.
I contemplated texting Wendy that I had got this dead dad stuff so wrong but I didn’t. I fell asleep and woke to find Dash the dog wriggling around to get comfortable on the bed besides me. In the end he lay his head on my hips and fell asleep before getting up later to find a different sleeping place.
I woke at 2.00 am and stayed awake till 5.00 am, not thinking anything much, just being awake and finding the radio annoying.
Wendy, as usual, saw I was not quite right in the morning, dragged my story out of me, talked of all sorts to do with grief and then said that it would have been her dad’s birthday today. It was good to talk, a relief, but I wish I could have been more helpful over her memories of her dad.
Now I am on the train home, ripping through the freezing fog; the white, frost laden fields. I wish the train was warmer. I want to work and I want to walk and I want to do nothing and I suspect I will do nothing, not in the way where you breath a sigh of indulgence and gratification but where after a while you shift around, fidget at the waste you are making of these dull hours.
I must look out for that moon again tonight, I must learn how to speak and I must learn just why I think I have no right to grieve for my own father.
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