48 Hours: postscript

My father Clive Brown when he was Editor of the Lincolnshire Free Press (image: Lincolnshire Free Press)

In my previous post, “48 Hours: my father and I”, I wrote about the unexpected death of my father in hospital on Easter Sunday. I had travelled to Lincolnshire to care for him on his expected release from hospital but that was not how it worked out.This post adds some thoughts on what happened in the following days and weeks.

At times it can seem as if this world is full of bad people doing awful things to each other but this period in my life demonstrated again how people can be wonderful. I was helped by friends, family, neighbours and my father’s South Holland Rotary Club chums. And I received many cards, phone calls and messages with words of love and support.

My father, Clive, was aged 82 and retired. His last job was as Editor of the Lincolnshire Free Press and Spalding Guardian newspapers, which are run as a twice-weekly newspaper. The photograph at the top of this blog was taken, I believe, when he converted the Free Press from broadsheet to tabloid format – how delighted he looks with his work.

One of the first calls I received after my father passed away was from the newspaper, apologising for disturbing me but asking for help in producing a tribute article. The journalist, Lynne Harrison, was patient and sympathetic and did a super job despite clearly having many calls on her time. You can read the online version of her article.

In order to help Lynne I visited the office with a selection of photographs of my father for possible inclusion with the article. I met Denise Vickers, the Editor’s Secretary, who had worked with my father, and we chatted about him while she took copies of the pictures.

While I was there a strange thought came into my mind…

“I have told family, friends and neighbours about my father’s passing, and now I am in the newspaper office helping produce an article about him for everyone to read. But all this is based on what I’ve said after that fateful night in the hospital.. What if I imagined it all, got it wrong somehow, and Dad didn’t pass away…”

There were other unreal events. The funeral directors asked if I wanted to view my father, or, perhaps I should say, my father’s body. I said yes because it seemed the right thing to do. And so, one morning, I went to town to see him.

I was ushered into a private room and there he was in the coffin, in the smart suit, tie and shoes Kathie had found for him to be dressed in. To be truthful, the tie had a food stain on it but it was the tie that matched the suit so my wife Kathie Touin and I had decided it would be ok – the stain would be hidden by his jacket, and my father was known for spilling so it seemed appropriate, a little joke between the three of us.

I think he would also have been amused because people’s appearance does change after death and, although this was clearly my father, he reminded me of an old Soviet leader lying in state.

I thanked him for all that he had done for me, and all that we had done together.

The vicar,  Rev David Sweeting, was brilliant. As so often happens these days, my father was no longer a church-goer and David did not know him. But he spent an afternoon at the house asking questions about my father. And, helped by some articles my father wrote, which Kathie had found, David produced a service and a tribute which captured his spirit really well.

Anyone who has been through a bereavement of a second parent will no doubt say, as I discovered, that it is an incredibly busy time. There were constant decisions to be made, letters and emails to write, phone calls to make, about the funeral, the house, the contents, the bank accounts, insurance policies, pensions, power supplies. It was exhausting.

Kathie was worried that folk would think we were sorting the affairs with undue haste. But living as we do more than 600 miles away, and across the water, we were not in a position to constantly pop back to the house. Besides, I think there is something to be said for sorting affairs promptly and allowing yourself to get on with your life.

It is not as if my father and my mother, Mary, who died in 2001, do not feature in my life here in Orkney. Several times a day I think of funny occasions we shared, or places we went together, or my parents’ sayings and habits.

McAdie & Reeve’s removals lorry and trailer outside my father’s house (image: Graham Brown)

And Kathie and I sent back to Orkney a collection of paintings and pictures, photographs, books, papers, ornaments, knick-knacks, a Welsh dresser and two large model railway locomotives. Seeing the removal lorry – and trailer – from Orkney which manoeuvred through a housing estate of narrow and curved roads, and parked cars, to my father’s house was impressive.

Incidentally, a word on our removals company, McAdie & Reeve – they seem to have a removals lorry out and about around the UK every week. The driver makes multiple calls and gradually the lorry and trailer are filled up with a staggering variety of goods. On the run to pick up our goods from Lincolnshire he was also collecting, among many other things, specialist cement, a gate and fine art from London.

As it happened the lorry which called at my father’s has a distinctive registration and we were able to identify it as the same vehicle which moved Kathie and I, well, our possessions, from London to Orkney in 2010.

Oh yes, the house. We chose an estate agent while we were still in Lincolnshire and it was sold to the first people to view. The legal side went through relatively quickly to completion – something of a relief in these uncertain economic times. It is strange to think of other people being in the house, but also good to know that someone is caring for the property and making their plans and futures there.

Once I got back to Orkney I was thrown into a busy period – the centenary of the loss of HMS Hampshire and 737 men was approaching and I was a volunteer with the project to create a new memorial wall. For more please see our project blog.

Then after a brief break I was booked to work for a month at the RSPB’s office in Stromness, about nine miles from where I live. It is the longest period I have spent in a formal work situation since leaving the BBC in London in early 2010.

The gardening has suffered this year because I have been away from the house so much but we will catch up later in the year – or, more realistically, next year.

Kathie and I – with our dog Roscoe – have just taken a welcome weekend break which will be the subject of my next blog.

But for now I want to say thank you to everyone for helping at my time of loss – for the letters, cards, emails, telephone calls, kind words, meals, visits, invitations to homes and events, practical help, helping honour my father’s memory, the list goes on.

Thank you.

Graham Brown

 

 

 

48 Hours: my father and I

We were younger then. My father and I, in the early 2000s, on the Waterloo Memorial in Belgium (image: Graham Brown/Frank Bonte)

This is a true story and not a very cheerful one, you might think, though it does have its moments of redemption.

On Good Friday this year I left Orkney for a month, my longest absence since moving here six years ago. I did not want to leave Orkney behind, or Mrs Brown (Kathie Touin), or our dog, Roscoe. In fact, saying goodbye to Roscoe was in some ways the most emotional and difficult part – perhaps because it is impossible to explain absence to a faithful hound.

But I was on important family business. My father, Clive, aged 82, in Lincolnshire, had undergone a planned but serious hospital operation three days earlier and we had agreed that I would care for him for four weeks when he was released home. After that he was due to go to his sister’s for a further fortnight although, pre-operation, he clearly thought he would be sufficiently recovered for that to be unnecessary.

I flew from Kirkwall, via Edinburgh, to East Midlands Airport. At Edinburgh Airport I got some lunch and listened to a BBC Radio 4 programme I had downloaded about the hymn I Vow To Thee My Country. This was a favourite of my late mother and I found myself, sat in Costa, getting tearful. I don’t think anyone noticed in the airport hubbub.

At East Midlands Airport I was met by a taxi driver for the 60-mile journey to my father’s house in Pinchbeck, just outside Spalding. He was an engaging and chatty travel companion.

One of the subjects I raised was the distance between the home I had chosen, in Orkney, and my father’s home, more than 600 miles away. This is something over which I have carried some guilt ever since we moved.

“You cannot live your life for other people,” he said.

I arrived at my father’s house and found his brilliant neighbours, who were going to be out for the evening, had left me a home-made curry to heat up.

The next day I went to Morrisons supermarket in the morning, stocking up for my father’s release from hospital, trying to choose food and ingredients I thought would be good for him and would suit his medical condition.

Back home I had a quick lunch and then I was off to the Pilgrim Hospital in Boston to visit my father.

His ward was on the fifth floor. He was in a room of four beds, each containing an elderly gentleman. I knew he had undergone a major operation but I was not prepared for how tired and pained, how old, he looked. He greeted me and asked how my journey from Orkney had been.

But there was not much more conversation as he dozed, and he was not up to reading the newspapers and magazines I had brought him. He did not sleep much either because, I think, he was not comfortable with his level of pain or with his position in the bed.

The nurses – brilliant, ever cheerful and patient – visited a number of times to try to make him more comfortable and to complete their checks.

My father had been speaking, before the operation, of going home on the Monday after my arrival. It was clear to me he would not be well enough. I asked the opinion of one of the nurses, who agreed with me, but she said he might be well enough by the end of the week.

As he dozed through my six-hour visit I read a little and was able to take in the surroundings. The windows had a commanding view across the flat Lincolnshire countryside. The crows came and went in the trees. The pigeons chased each other.

And the smell. What is that hospital smell? A mixture of disinfectant, warm bodies, I don’t know. But when I think of that afernoon I can still smell it.

Towards the end of my visit my father asked me to find his watch in his bag and put it on for him. This was a mistake. With little else to do, he checked the time every two or three minutes.

Eventually I said I should go home for dinner. “Yes, you don’t want to stay here,” he said, or something to that effect.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said as I left and moved to shake his hand. He clasped my hand unexpectedly strongly.

Walking out of the hospital I could not find a working car park pay-terminal, and while searching got caught in a sudden downpour that soaked through my clothes. While sheltering back inside the hospital entrance I met some helpful folk who pointed me in the right direction.

On my drive back to my father’s house I stopped in the village of Surfleet to get fish and chips, at the wonderfully named Cod Squad. There was a conversation with the friendly guys behind the counter about my Scottish bank notes, which I produced to pay, and why I was visiting. They wished me and my father all the best.

I knew that when I got home I would be into a round of telephone calls and conversations about my father’s condition so I decided to eat my supper in the car in the lay-by to get a few minutes to myself.

That night I was not early to bed but I did not worry because I did not have to be up early in the morning, hospital visiting did not start until lunchtime.

I slept soundly until… suddenly, I was awake, my mobile phone was ringing. It was 1.15am. There was a nurse from the hospital at the other end. Could I come to the hospital now?

“Why, what has happened?” “You just need to come now.” I was told to go through Accident & Emergency to get into the locked hospital.

By the time I was out of bed, visited the bathroom, dressed, and got the car out of the garage, it was close to 1.30am.

The journey to the hospital was relatively quick, about 25 minutes, there not being much traffic. On the way I did not, for some reason, want music so for distraction I listened to a talk station, Talk Radio. They were discussing that night’s big boxing match and how one of the boxers had been rushed to hospital. Hmm…

I left the radio on but wondered to myself, as I drove, why I had been called, presumably it must be something serious? I got through A&E, where they seemed to be expecting me, and made by way through the hospital.

In the lift I noticed the clock said 3am. How can that be? Oh yes, I thought, we are moving onto British Summer Time tonight, the clocks are going forward.

As I walked into the ward I caught sight of one of the staff make a small head and eye gesture to a nurse to indicate my arrival. The nurse showed me into a side room and a doctor was called in. I was starting to realise what was happening.

He told me so carefully and sympathetically what had happened to my father that I remember saying to him, to be sure: “So, he’s dead then.”

Yes, he was. I will not go into my father’s personal medical details but there had been developments, complications, during the night. He died at about 1.30am, about the time I was setting off for the drive to the hospital.

The doctor, who was the surgeon who carried out the operation, was visibly shaken himself at this turn of events.

Did I want to see my father?, the nurse asked. Yes, I said. I was thinking to myself, here I am, aged 58, and I have not seen a dead body, until now.

My father was still on the ward, in his bed, surrounded by a curtain. Despite having seen him hours before, when he was clearly seriously ill, I was struck now how small, how diminished Dad looked. I touched his hand, I think I told him I loved him – not something we ever said in life.

I collected his belongings from the nurse, including his watch, and was shown out of the hospital.

On the drive back many thoughts went through my mind. One was the realisation that my father had died on Easter Sunday, which seemed ironic; another was that the car I was driving, my father’s, probably no longer had valid car insurance with his passing.

I rang my wife when I got home and then wondered when would be an appropriate time to ring my father’s three siblings. I needed to tell them soon, but was there any point in waking them? My calculations were complicated by the clocks changing.

Eventually, through the early hours, I spoke to everyone and then, at about 7am, went to tell my father’s neighbours, who were very close to him. There was shock, some tears and cups of tea.

The end of my 48 Hours.

Graham Brown

 

London Calling, and the Isle of Wight too…

 

Red Funnel ferry between Southampton and the Isle of Wight (image: Graham Brown)

Do you remember The Clash song London Calling? To be fair my headline is not quite how it was. “London calling to the faraway towns” is what they sang. But we all have to start somewhere, to mis-quote Spike Milligan, and that is how I am starting this blog.

Regular readers will know that my wife Kathie Touin and I moved to Orkney from London. Time races on and we’ve been in the north for nearly four-and-a-half wonderful years. Our only return visits to London have been travelling through Heathrow Airport, and one brief overnight stop en route.

But we have just returned from our first proper visit to London since decamping to Orkney. We also spent a week on the Isle of Wight with my father. These are some of my impressions…

For those not familiar with the British Isles, the Isle of Wight is England’s largest island and is situated just off the south coast of England. A few folk thought it funny that we travelled from one of Britain’s most northerly islands to one at the bottom of the map.

The Isle of Wight is a big holiday destination and there is a choice of six ferry services from mainland England. We took the Red Funnel ferry from Southampton to East Cowes. There is plenty of shipping to watch on the way, and indeed from the island when you arrive – everything from gigantic container ships to tiny sailing boats.

The island is busy but in early September not unpleasantly so. Car journeys take time but the traffic moves along steadily. Quieter country roads are narrow and twisty so there’s no opportunity to race along there either.

A refreshing glass of Fuggle Dee-Dum beer from Goddard’s Brewery (image: Graham Brown)

Our first impression coming from the fresh and breezy atmosphere of Orkney was that the Isle of Wight was too hot and humid, at least for us.

Second impression: in some ways the Isle of Wight feels a little like England in the past – no motorways, small towns, quaint villages, friendly people.

In keeping with this we noticed that old-style Mini cars are still popular on the island – I suppose it makes an ideal runabout but they are becoming pretty rare elsewhere in my experience.

It also seemed to me that there were more people smoking than I remember at home. This may be a false impression created because it was pleasant weather for smokers to stand outside, and they were not huddled out of sight in a windswept corner like they might be in Orkney. But some of the restaurants had outside smoking areas, which surprised me.

The railways on the island are also a throwback. There is the Island Line, part of the National Rail network, operating between Ryde and Shanklin – less than nine miles – and using 1930s London Underground stock. Fantastic.

Ajax locomotive on the Isle of Wight Steam Railway (image: Graham Brown)

Meeting the Island Line at Smallbrook Junction is the Isle of Wight Steam Railway, a largely volunteer-run heritage line which goes five-and-a-half miles to Wootton. We had a great day on the steam railway, watching the trains, looking at the restoration projects, travelling up and down the line.

The locomotive in steam was Ajax, built in 1918, requisitioned by the Ministry of Munitions and sent to Persia (modern Iran). She worked there for many years, latterly with the Anglo-Persian Oil Company, before returning to England and working at various industrial locations until 1968.

Jimi Hendrix statue outside Dimbola Lodge, Isle of Wight (image: Graham Brown)

Among the other island attractions we visited were: the Isle of Wight Bus Museum, where you get to sit on the old buses, not just admire them; Dimbola Lodge, home of Victorian photographer Julia Margaret Cameron, which was hosting an exhibition of Chris Packham’s photographs, and which – as a hotel – hosted Jimi Hendrix when he played the 1970 Isle of Wight Festival, hence his statue in the garden; Waltzing Waters, which has to be seen to be believed, a choreographed water fountains theatre show set to lights and music; and we took a cruise to Portsmouth harbour on a glorious sunny day, watching the scenery and the boats, including Royal Navy ships.

Kathie Touin returning to East Cowes after boat trip (image: Graham Brown)

We could have done much more but we were too busy doing nothing much other than watching the sea and the ships, and enjoying some of the island’s lovely food. Crab salad, anyone?

Our week was soon over and we were off to London from Southampton by train, via an overnight stop seeing friends in Horsham, West Sussex. We arrived in London at Victoria station and the immediate impression walking onto the concourse was noise. Really loud noise. Our time in Orkney has acquainted us with a quieter life and we were not prepared for this.

Because there was no Northern Line (weekend engineering work) we took a number 82 bus from outside the station, almost to our friends’ front door in North Finchley. This was a happy accident as travelling by bus allows you to see the world. Kathie told me off for constantly pointing at the sights. “People will think you’re a tourist,” she said. Truth is, I am now, London is no longer home.

We spotted some fantastic sculptures that were new to us: a huge horse’s head at Marble Arch; a life-size bear, recently installed just off Oxford Street, see video (not mine) above; and the beautifully poignant Animals In War Memorial, unveiled in 2004 but which somehow passed me by when I lived in London. Later that day my friend told me she cries every time she sees this.

The Animals In War Memorial © AIW 2000 – 2014

The Animals In War Memorial © AIW 2000 – 2014

The following day we travelled from North London on the Piccadilly Line – our first Tube journey in a long time – to our home for the next three nights, Ealing. In fact, we stayed not far from our old flat and on the first evening went back to our favourite local restaurant, Monty’s on Northfield Avenue.

Looking out the next morning into the garden of our friend’s house there was wildlife which we do not see at home in Orkney: a magpie, playing with stones; a grey squirrel, running along the fence; and, in a tree just beyond the fence, a ring-necked parakeet, now a familiar sight and sound in Ealing – they are extremely noisy, but great to see.

I was also struck walking around the Northfields area of Ealing to see appeal notices and countless yellow ribbons tied to lamp-posts for missing teenager Alice Gross. She was last seen not far away near the Grand Union Canal on 28 August. Sadly, as I write, there is still no news.

Later in the trip we visited the main shopping area at Ealing Broadway, still recognisable after more than four years away though there is lots of development taking place. Sadly, this does not seem to include the old cinema which remains as it was when we left – a front wall, held up by a huge iron structure, but everything behind flattened. I hope one day the front of this classic cinema will be revealed again in all its glory.

What else did we do in London?

We visited an old BBC haunt of mine, Albertine’s wine bar in Shepherds Bush, near Television Centre, for a get-together with former work colleagues. It was great to meet folk and swap stories, jokes and memories. And, as someone said, the wine bar is “refreshingly unchanged” – it is friendly and homely, a quiet oasis in a busy city.

The author outside BBC Broadcasting House, London (image: Kathie Touin)

We visited Broadcasting House, the headquarters of the BBC, where our friend (a member of staff) was able to show us around the new part of the building, familiar to TV viewers from the comedy W1A and the BBC News. We saw inside the BBC newsroom and were lucky to stand – very still and quietly – in the news gallery, watching the news being broadcast live by a remarkably calm team.

We took a tube to King’s Cross/St Pancras and witnessed the remarkable transformation taking place in the area. When I was first in London in the mid-Eighties I would drive through here with the car doors locked and, if on foot, I certainly would not hang about outside the stations. It was a run-down area known for drug-dealing and prostitution.

King’s Cross Station (image: Graham Brown)

Now it is almost continental, both King’s Cross and St Pancras stations are tastefully modernised, the fabulous St Pancras Hotel is restored and open, as is the Great Northern Hotel, and there are people meeting, talking, laughing, getting lunch from the cafes.

And behind the stations is an enormous redevelopment site of which I suspect we saw only a small part. For example, the University of the Arts London is housed in a former granary building – which once held Lincolnshire wheat for London’s bakers – now restored with fountains in the front. Nearby we crossed a bridge over the Regent’s Canal.

University of the Arts London, King’s Cross (image: Graham Brown)

A couple of general observations: I had forgotten how grubby you can feel in London, how you want to wash your hands – at least I do – after each tube journey. But, speaking of tube journeys, they are becoming more comfortable. On the Hammersmith & City line we travelled on pleasant new air-conditioned trains which are also walk-through from end to end. They are gradually being introduced throughout the network. And the buses in London are modern and comfortable: while at King’s Cross we took a ride on one of the New Routemaster buses, also known as Borisbuses and – here’s a throwback – they have conductors.

A New Routemaster bus near King’s Cross, London (image: Graham Brown)

Finally, I must mention our brushes with fame in London…

While at King’s Cross we visited Kathie’s friend Adam Helal at his recording studio in Tileyard, then took lunch with him at the Vinyl Cafe next door, along with the charming Andrew Wincott who was recording an audio book with Adam. Andrew is perhaps best known as Adam (another one) in The Archers.

Waiting for Kate Bush to appear at the Hammersmith Apollo (image: Graham Brown)

And on the last night of our trip to England we went to the Hammersmith Apollo to see the masterful Kate Bush in concert – I suspect you will read more about this on Kathie’s blog at a future date. My modest capacity with words does not stretch to arts criticism, and I don’t want to spoil the event for those still to go. Suffice to say it was a wonderful evening, Kate was in great voice, the audience loved her, the show was imaginative, theatrical, and the band was great. On a few occasions I even found tears welling up – an emotional final evening to round off our visit to England.

Graham Brown

PS There are more photographs from the trip on my Instagram account: http://instagram.com/grahambrownorkney

To find out more

Wikipedia on the Isle of Wight: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Isle_of_Wight

Isle of Wight Steam Railway: http://www.iwsteamrailway.co.uk/

Isle of Wight Bus Museum: http://www.iwbusmuseum.org.uk/

Dimbola Museum & Galleries: http://www.dimbola.co.uk/

Waltzing Waters: http://www.waltzingwaters.co.uk/

Animals In War memorial: http://www.animalsinwar.org.uk/

Albertine wine bar on Twitter: https://twitter.com/AlbertineWine

Broadcasting House: http://www.bbc.co.uk/broadcastinghouse/

New-look King’s Cross: http://www.kingscross.co.uk/

Kate Bush: https://www.katebush.com/