Hayestack

It was a big wrench. After all I had known her for about 55 years, not counting my pre-conscious years when she had spoon-fed me mashed up roast dinners and I was still wondering who she was.

Myra’s Memorial Service took place last Thursday (17th April) in the church where she had been christened, confirmed, married and where, as head mistress of the local school, she had often taken groups of children for concerts, carol services, award ceremonies etc.

This was her final visit to her old parish church and she would have been pleased to have seen it so full of her friends and relatives.  She must have been well-loved.  Actions speak louder than words.  I should be glad to get close family and the odd passer-by to my funeral.

Her old school choir sang and did actions for “We are climbing Jesus’ (sic) Ladder” since it was one of Myra’s favourites. (Why do young boys always look so bashful when they sing?  I suppose they always prefer to be off kicking a ball somewhere.) I read the Gospel about the death of Lazarus, brother-in-law Hayden gave the eulogy and grandson Luke read the poem “Do not stand at my grave and weep”, reputedly by Mary Elizabeth Frye (Dayton, Ohio) and based on dubioue theology, but none the less moving for that.

The mood was celebratory and not at all gloomy. Whoever had arranged the flowers by laying the long stalked irises next to Myra’s urn was, no doubt, setting a booby trap.  I fell into it, of course, and sent them flying to the floor.  The next victim, Haydn, did the same.  Myra would have laughed.

While we took tea and biscuits in the meeting room afterwards, we looked around, playing the game “can I recognise old friends and relatives?”  They had all grown so old.  Did I look as haggard and ancient as they did?  I had to assume so.  Oh, the ravages of time!

“Remember me? I’m your cousin Maureen.” A woman, who moments ago I would have denied ever having seen before in my entire life, no matter how many cocks crowed, and would have walked past her in the street without a second glance, stood before me.  “Of course you are” I lied, though as I stared at her I did see a kind of family resemblance.  Was it the mad look in her eyes?

I stood, sipping my tea, surrounded by old age and infirmity.  My other sister, Pat, who  had defied diabetes and made the supreme effort to be there, was sitting at the side chatting to two old admirers. ( I wondered if she felt 18 again?)  I pondered the wrinkles and white hair that surrounded me.  “Should I get in early and book my funeral now?” I asked the vicar (an old friend from choirboy days).  He thought I was joking and chuckled.  By now the Brownies wanted the room so we had to leave.

As we headed home up the motorway I couldn’t help feeling what a pleasantly warm, life affirming service it had been and that Myra, now at peace, would have been pleased.

For Georgina and I, a long car journey can hold a considerable element of surprise. They say (women mostly) that men cannot do 2 or more things at the same time. Well, in my case, they are right. Yes, I can pat my head and rub my tummy at the same time, but I have yet to find a practical application for this. (If you have any ideas please let me know.) I cannot, however, drive a car and faultlessly navigate at the same time. Georgina likes bats (the flying rodent type), so being as blind as a bat generally works in my favour.

“Look at the deer in that field,” she says.

I visually scour the field. Nothing, apart from a large area of green, presumably grass.

“Over there!” I follow the direction of her finger. Still nothing.

It turns out to be not one deer but a whole herd.

“Munich is that way,” she says as we hurtle past the junction. I look at her hands to see if there is an indication whether she means left or right. I suggest she has “L” and “R” tattooed on the appropriate hands. She ignores me.

“I didn’t see a sign,” I protest.

“Why does that not surprise me, even though it was the size of a double-decker bus?” She can be very hurtful at times.

“Turn around and go back!” Her tone is unnecessarily imperious.

By now we are at least 3 miles past the turning.

“We’ll take the next right and link up.” I hate going back. It seems such a waste of time (and an
admission of a mistake).

“How will you know the way?”

“Just trust my sense of direction,” I assure her.

She makes no attempt to stifle an ironic and, I may say, a rather cruel snigger. It only serves to harden my resolve.

Two hours later, a city looms up ahead of us. “See, I said I’d get us to Munich,” I announce triumphantly.

“Then why does the sign say “Frankfurt”?”

“I didn’t see a sign,” I protest.

“Well, at least we can buy some sausages.”

Georgina has the gift of sarcasm. If she read the telephone directory she could make it sound sarcastic. It’s an endearing trait.

Our problem (the navigation one), is not made any easier by the fact that Georgina She can have the soundest and most refreshing sleep since Van Winkle hit the sack, but, once in a car, she has nodded off before it’s left the drive. It’s on a par with Pavlov’s dog...cannot keep awake in a car.

Five hundred miles later she will wake up.

“Where are we?”

“Just passed Nouvion on the Brussels road”, I reply confidently, though I have a sneaking suspicion that we are hurtling towards Paris.

She picks up the map. She and maps just don’t get on. They sulk, they hide things from each other, they do not communicate.

“Find where we are? “ I ask in all innocence.

She ignores me.

I must say, though, that Georgina’s skills are improving. Navigation is no longer a threat to our marriage. Driving to unfamiliar destinations is now a positive pleasure.

Back in the summer, Georgina and I were trailing my brother-in-law David’s car as he took us to see my sister Myra in Bordeaux. About 10 miles out we hit congestion. We sit and watch snails overtaking us. Suddenly, David shoots down a side street. Left, right, right, across the junction, left, around the roundabout.. A trail of breadcrumbs would not have taken us back home. We are awestruck at the extent of David’s local knowledge.

“It wasn’t me,” David later confessed. “It was Jane”.

David has a new friend? No. You’ve guessed it we are talking satnavs. Jane is one of the names of his satnavs voices. Ours are “Emily”, “Daniel” and an American voice that sounds remarkably like Drew. These little remarkable boxes are the greatest invention since the wheel, when man ventured beyond his village into the unknown thereby making the satnav invaluable. They are a little short of miraculous. “Emily” knows exactly where we are, even the name of the road. She can plan a route from home to Timbucktoo in a matter of seconds. It would take me a day and we’d still end up in Warsaw. She knows how far we are from the next junction and where the fuel, parking, shops etc are. She knows the instant I take the wrong turn and finds a solution without shouting at me. I suggest that the satnav will save many marriages and decrease much blood pressure.

I was a skeptic. Now I am a firm believer. After all, you wouldn’t go into a strange, dark house without a flash-light?

We are having a great time here at Biscarrosse in south west France. Myra is improving by the day and is strong enough to get out of bed for short periods. She is eating some soup and drinking tea. Dave is pleased with her progress and brings back good news at the end of each day. It was good to see Sara when she came over for a flying visit on Sunday to see her Mum.

We have enjoyed a couple of glorious days and have been cycling to the lake where we saw a Mummy deer and her two young offspring wandering through the forest. Dave thinks they may fall foul of “la chasse” and end up on someone’s dinner table. Quels braves, les francais!

We return on Thursday 9th Aug. See you soon.