The Word Cloud

The story begins with the end, in a quiet street, in a poor town, located somewhere between the city of Manchester and oblivion. It is an understated place with a bad reputation. To me it will always be home.

We will focus in on one particular house in this street: a council built, semi-detached red brick house. It’s quite serene to look at and to look out from. Across the road, two large acorn trees stand proud and tall, the left one a little smaller, and both bearing scars on their bark from numerous car accidents. They flank the house opposite, which is almost a replica of the house we’re interested in. They stand like watchmen, guarding the gates. The gate itself to our house, as we approach is a tall and black gate, hand built by the protagonist of this story himself. It is glossy black and smooth. Not perfectly so, just enough roughness to feel real and solid enough to deter at least some wayward criminals.

The small, perfectly square front garden is well kept. Daffodils used to grow in the soil surrounding the island of grass, but that was a long time ago; now it’s just soil. In the middle sits a very large pebble, it’s white and grey and so very smooth. Always cool to the touch, it looks like the surface of the moon. It’s such a beautifully simplistic item in a very mundane garden that makes it stand out just so. As a little girl, I used to stand on top of this pebble. I call it a pebble but it is in reality the size of a basketball, irregular shaped - not quite oval and not perfectly round - a state of in-between that is seemingly the theme the whole house attempts to convey. To your right are the straight bushes, cut evenly and neat, separating the front path from the rest of the garden that spills off around the side of the house. It is an irregular triangle, coming to its peak where a five foot tree of flowers stands rooted on a slight hill overlooking the rest of the garden. Along the outskirts is the same neatly cut bushes rising over seven feet, obscuring the view from the street. It’s a lovely garden, well kept, trimmed and so very green. A perfect picture of what you would want a family home to look like.

Without much further distraction I will take you into the house. The wallpaper is old and stained by tobacco smoke. The carpet on the stairs is worn and dark and irregular splotches of colour are visible in the thread. The front room, the main room, is to your left through a very modest and slightly damaged plywood door. The room is dark and occupied. Two old and unsightly chairs are positioned directly to your right, facing in to the room. On the first; is a pale young boy, quiet and looking like he could fall asleep at any moment. On the second there is a young girl; roughly the same age as the boy, her face a picture of boredom and anxiety. Their eyes betray sadness and a maturity beyond their teenage years. They don’t speak. The girl sits curled on the chair, facing the large central window. This is the only source of light and it doesn’t seem to reach far into this small, over-crowded room. To the right of the girl there is a bed, its occupant is - for the moment - subdued and the room is silent. Next to the bed, perched on the end of an amber wooden table is a young man. Older than the two teenagers, his face is a picture of stern responsibility. He watches the occupant of the bed closely, his hands clasped in front of him. A resigned and tired sigh sounds from his lips, betraying a desire for some kind of relief from the limbo in which he now sits, quietly waiting.

The figure in the bed stirs and moans very slightly. He is an old man. Looking at him, you’d be forgiven for thinking this man was as old as 80 or 90 years, however, this man is only a modest 55 years old. The paper-thin, creased skin and the yellow pallor to his complexion, are a product of a body riddled with disease and one in its dying throes. When he wakes, he is groggy and unaware of his surroundings. The young man, his son, dutifully and firmly attempts to keep the older man in his bed, much to the older man’s dissatisfaction. His once muscular frame is all but a skeleton of its former self; muscles have all but wasted away as his body tries to fight off the cancer that resides within him. Trying to push the young man from his path, he demands to know who this intruder is and why he isn’t allowed to get up and continue on his daily routine. It is funny how the brain returns to a basic state of mundane living, when the body itself can no longer obey the commands.

“I’m your son.”

The young man utters firmly and assuredly, a fact he has long since come to terms with.  Finally recognising his seed, the older man relaxes a little, yet, still demanding to be allowed out of bed. The sad matter is; that even moving - for him - is more or less impossible. His ankles have swollen with excess fluid, his muscles are too weak and all bodily functions are now maintained by devices and tools that only man can devise, in his attempt to stall death. Succumbing to the grim determination of the younger man’s resolve, he falls heavily back onto the bed and again returns to drifting in and out of our world, as we are aware of it. His son clearly irritated by the affair, immediately phones the services - trained and qualified to help in these situations - only to be told that; an ambulance can only be sent in due time. You see, death itself, when irreversible, is not considered an emergency. The logic is there; the ones who will live and need emergency treatment are the priority for the ambulance service. You can’t really blame them. It is called triage on a battle field, it is logical, despite lacking in a certain degree of humanity.

Death had never been so real for these three children, never so grey and tangible. The two younger siblings didn’t speak and the girl seemed to curl even tighter into the chair, as if willing herself to disappear to a place, a place anywhere but where she was.

The ambulance arrives, the paramedics are friendly while doing their job with a cool, dispassionate head, they ask who will join the older man. The eldest son and the girl agree to go, both in their own way trying to shield and protect their younger brother from the grim truth they are all facing. The younger brother merely shrugs and heads home, it is impossible to tell what he is thinking at this time, some thoughts are meant to be private. The small truck is clean and cramped. The brother and sister face each other. The novelty of riding in an ambulance is not lost on the girl, how ironic that in a moment of mortality, the human spirit finds something new and special in each passing second, something that is always remembered and taken away with each individual and replayed countless times, in countless minds, never truly fading into the abyss of time. The hospice is as warm and friendly as any place could be - not forgetting that this is a place where people come to die - its atmosphere is one of warmth and understanding. The older man is made comfortable and is cleaned by the attentive nurses. The young girl excuses herself and heads to the toilets. Her thoughts are blank, her emotions are hard, just another day to survive. She heads back to the small, bright, room and as she does so, the younger of the two nurses meets her enroute.

“I came to look for you. I think it’s time.”

The girl nods in understanding and enters the room. Standing next to her is her bigger, older brother. Silently she takes the jaundiced, withered hand of the older man in hers. Hers are so small and pale by comparison to the older man’s once strong hands. Even now they dwarf hers. She squeezes very softly. His chest rises and falls and then a tiny bubble of fluid it bursts on his cracked lips and the chest goes silent.

No one speaks, no one moves. A minute passes. The hand held by the girl is still warm, still soft, she doesn’t let go. Not just yet. Her older brother succumbs finally to the anguish and grief inside; turning to his younger sister he rests his head heavily on her much smaller shoulder and sobs, loudly, unashamedly. At a loss of what to do, the teenage girl relinquishes her father’s hand to rest a small, comforting palm on the shoulder of her brother. The nurses moved by the sudden and quiet passing also give in to their tears. Compassion for a fellow human being crosses all boundaries between friends, family and strangers. The brother stops crying, the girl glances at him with wry amusement.

“If you continue, we’re going to need a bigger boat or at least someone with a bigger shoulder.”

She smiles at him. Laughing lightly the brother wipes his eyes.

“Yeah I’m sorry.”

She shrugs and looks at the nurses.

“We’ll keep him here for now, there is a living area where you can wait if you want, we’ll clean him up and you can come back and say goodbye.”

The siblings nod and thank the nurses and exit to find a comfy seat. Leaving the room, they’re greeted by friends of their father, each one as distraught as the next. All of them feeling the need to be able to comfort the young adults, but not quite knowing what to say. Hugs are received, condolences and tears are shared, between family and friends alike. The girl having shed no tears, feels uneasy at the prospect of revealing her pain and suffering to others, for her, it isn’t something that needs to be shared.

The days pass quickly, arrangements are made and family arrive. The day of the funeral is again a mixture of sadness and joy. The joy being; the warmth and camaraderie that obviously existed between the older man, his friends and acquaintances. The girl relishes the chance to sit in the hearse, morbid though that maybe, it is a new experience. The church ceremony is simple and eloquent, the speech from the Vicar moving and gentle. The girl cannot hold back all the tears this time and they fall freely down her cheeks, her distant family comfort and understand. One of the most notable is her Grandmother, a tiny, frail woman, no bigger than four foot. She exudes more strength and resolve than people half her age and with a lot less to lose.  It is a bright day, with a little wind and a tiny amount of drizzle.  The crowd gathers around an unmarked plot. The Vicar has joined them, her white visage a stark contrast to the black suits and clothing of those who have come to mourn. A few words are said and the pale wooden coffin is lowered into the ground. A song requested by the man himself is played.

‘Coz I got high.’ An appropriate song filled with humour and underlying meaning, as the surrounding family know all too well. Everyone laughs; it’s what he would have wanted, always the one with a twisted sense of humour. The day draws to a close. It is the end of the day. The crowd disperses to join together at a local pub and to drink to their fallen friend and share experiences and memories of times long since passed.

This is where I join you, let’s raise our glasses and remember a man, a father, a son, a brother and a husband, a friend and an outcast. This is where I introduce you to my Dad and our story can truly begin where it all truly started. Please relax and get comfy, as I tell you his story from his birth, to his death. A story filled with laughter, with pain, sadness and life, so he can always be remembered. No one I have ever known has lived so much in just a mere fifty five years on this Earth, and these are the stories I choose to share with you.  

I give you the Stories of the Two Faced Man.

 Early days

I take you now to a place that lies outside of my memory. Baguley Sanatorium is a place I can only piece together from pictures and the memories of others. It is an old hospital built in 1902. In 1912 it became a 150 bed sanatorium for TB patients, although its origins predate this. I can only post a picture of the original building to give you an idea of its stately architecture. Welcome to Wythenshawe Hospital, as it was known during the time that we will be visiting. Now this hospital became well known in its own right during the Second World War.

“Wooden huts were constructed and used to treat injured soldiers who had been injured or burned. As a result the hospital became an early pioneer of plastic surgery.”

Source:  http://www.wythit-heritagetrail.btik.com/p_Wythenshawe_Hospital.ikml

 This story takes you to a time shortly after WWII. We arrive on Friday13^th June 1947. Lying in the maternity ward is a small woman roughly between the ages of 25 and 35, I’m afraid I can’t narrow it down any further than that. She is waiting to give birth. A lot of births, at this time, could be carried out at home; however, this case is special. The woman eventually gives birth - I will spare you the detail - to twins. A girl arrives first and then a boy follows soon after. Both healthy babies, they are soon allowed home, to a modest council house on the estates of Wythenshawe.

Growing up the young girl is considered ‘delicate’ and as a result is sheltered by her siblings and parents. Being the only boy and the youngest child in a family of five girls’ means the boy is subject to the strict temperament of his disciplined father. He once had an older brother, who sadly died before he was born. This, the eldest child of his mother and father, was tragically killed while on his motorbike in a freak accident, where a truck banked too sharply around a corner and crushed the poor man to death. Our young boy never knew his brother. Maybe the firm hand his father dealt him, was his own method of trying to keep him in line and alive.

Now being an older sister myself, I understand the base urge to torment your younger brother for no other reason than; because you can. The young boy had to play dress up for his sisters on more than one occasion and if he did not comply with their wishes, his father would beat him, as was the discipline in those days. At some point in his early life the young boy’s father was stricken to a wheel-chair. Details as to why or how this occurred are sketchy at best, so all I can give you is; that his father’s health deteriorated in the young boy’s early teen years. His mother worked hard to provide for her family and like her eldest boy, rode a motorbike to get to and from her work.

Life continued like this throughout his school life. When he was 14, he left school; it was customary to do so at this age. His mother got him his first job, delivering milk on a horse and cart. This may seem quite archaic for 1961 but, this is a poor area of Manchester and time seems to move much more slowly for the working class people of Northern England, at this time anyway. At some point in his early teens, this hard working young man was sadly hit by a car and he suffered a fractured skull. This was followed by a prolonged stay in the hospital. When recovered, this seemingly foolish adolescent, decided to learn boxing. He did this without telling the ring Doctor about his head injury and managed to continue for some time until he was finally found out and banned from doing it again.

At the age of 15 or 16 years old, when most children are leaving school for the first time in, our present climate, the young teen lost his father. No details again as to how or why he died, just that he did. For any child to lose a parent; it is traumatic, but for one so young and to lose someone so strong, the loss must have shaken this boy’s world apart. His mother found another partner in due time and when he moved into the family home, the young boy, for reasons unknown, left. For a short time in his life, the young boy had to survive by living on the dirty, cobbled streets and underground cellars in the city of Manchester. Once he found a pair of Hush Puppy boots. They were unfortunately too small for him, but, for lack of anything else to wear, he claimed them. He suffered terribly with rotten feet and this affliction haunted him in later life.   

Life wasn’t always so desperate for our boy. As an older teenager, he found work in the local hospital, probably the very one in which he was born. Training to be a theatre technician the teenager worked hard and diligently as a body porter for the morgue. Life granted this young man with a twisted sense of humour, thus enabling him to deal with the difficulties in life with humour and a joke that many among us may find inappropriate. Such as in the case of the dead, fat man. The young man and his colleague had to move a body to the morgue from an upstairs ward. The lifts/elevators were offline and this unfortunate fellow was not to be understated in his size. In their attempts to get him down the stairs, they kept dropping the body due to the sheer dead weight of the corpse. This they found quite hilarious as the poor man’s body had far more broken bones and bruises than he had probably suffered in his life previously. Although obviously contrite, the young man could not help but see the funny side to this rather morbid and inappropriate incident.

Even trying to picture it in my head now, I can’t help but smirk at the oddities that seem like something taken from a ‘Carry On’ film.

A small romantic existed inside this young man. When he was 18 years old, he obtained a rowing boat. With his girlfriend in tow; a pretty girl with long, red hair, he rowed out to Radio Caroline which was anchored off the coast of the Isle of Man. I have posted a picture of this floating radio station for posterity and to emphasise the sheer romantic nature of our man’s actions.

This was probably one of the final things the young man did in his home town of Manchester. For in his early twenties he moved to Babbacombe and spent much time in the South as a deck chair attendant on the beaches near Torquay.

Never again, did he return home.