Nostalgia is my second novel, a magical-realism sci-fi drama about memories, family, addiction and the dangers of living in the past.
The story so far: Paul Angest is informed by his estranged sister Brydie that their father Ivor has passed away. But Paul is unable to process the information, as his thoughts are constantly trapped in the past, especially with his ex-fiancé, Meredith. Paul’s landlord and always-inappropriate best friend Mick suggests a double-date to boost his spirits, but Paul has more important matters to deal with: His mother, June, is in a dementia care home and Paul has to break the news to her. Paul believes it to be a futile task, but his mother’s carer expounds the benefits of a sensation called a memory bump which can soothe the patient’s symptoms…
I remove a black suit jacket from a temporary canvas wardrobe and give it a sniff. It will have to do. The day will be long, but I will be leaving unannounced at the first opportunity.
I step from a taxi into a cul-de-sac which looks overgrown and more hemmed in than the last time I saw it. The black funeral limo is already waiting, and a small gathering of mourners observe the coffin from the pavement.
I’ve no idea who anyone is… neighbours of my dad, maybe distant cousins. He was an only child, so there were no close relatives to speak of. One of these people recognises me, though. A grey man, wide of girth and flushed of cheek, slaps me too hard on the shoulder.
‘Didn’t recognise you there. I was just thinking to myself Who’s that big git?’ Whoever he is, he laughs.
Mouth slightly agape and with an uncertain look, I nod and move away without a word. Honestly, these days it’s becoming harder and harder to disguise my raging irritation. Whoever-he-is grabs my arm and continues talking at me. ‘How’s the world of high finance?’
All I can do is frown at him with contempt.
‘You work for a bank, right? Your Dad was always talking about how much you were raking in!’ he says, practically salivating. I’m tempted to tell him the truth. That my Dad practically disowned me for quitting the bank. That he yelled at me for throwing it all away, that I was meant to be the success of the family. Oh the shame my decision had brought upon him.
‘I used to. Not anymore. I quit,’ I bluntly tell him.
‘Oh. So… what’s keeping you busy these days?’ asks the gammon in a suit with some concern.
‘I teach history to University students.’
Those words do the trick, and the conversation is over.
As I walk towards the house, I can imagine the gammon must look somewhat offended at my perceived rudeness, but I don’t know him and he certainly doesn’t know me well enough to slap me as hard as he did.
Outside my sister’s house is a reassuring sight: The crooked posture of my older brother, Wayne; slouched against the side of the brick porch with the usual cigarette on his lip, looking even more weathered and gaunt than usual. He’s in his late forties but looks much older. He’s dressed in a crumpled black suit and white shirt, his best attempt at looking presentable.
Wayne discards his cigarette with a whip-snap throw as he paces to me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders in a bear hug, squeezing the air from my lungs in a rough embrace.
‘Worst part’s over, son. He ain't dying today. Did you get Brydie’s message about letting Mum know?’
‘I did. It’s done. I don’t see why everyone seems to think it’s my responsibility, though.’
Wayne shakes his head, lighting another cigarette.
‘Na. Na. Don’t want my last memory of Mum being some mad woman who don’t even know what day it is.’
There’s no point in putting Wayne straight on our mother’s condition. He’s always been John Blunt and everyone close to him has always tolerated it. It’s just how Wayne is.
Our younger brother Elliot is helped through the front door by a couple of distant relatives (I’m not even sure how we’re related exactly). Elliot is all snot and flailing fat tears. He’s always been doughy, but he’s noticeably larger since I saw him last Christmas. Or was it the Christmas before? My mind begins to sweat as it tries to recall when I last saw any of my family, prodded by doubt and suggestions of my failing memory.
Elliot sees me, and I have to prepare for the onslaught as he totters over me like a lost toddler calling out for mummy. He clings to me, and the burden almost drags me down. All I can think about is how weird it is to see Elliot in a suit, as opposed to t-shirts with prints of Donkey Kong levels, Hong Kong Phooey or obscure references to Tusken Raiders.
Wayne steps in, supporting his kid brother with a comforting mantra of ‘Come on son, you’ll be alright…’
Inside my sister’s compact kitchen, I find a tea towel hooked on the door and wipe the wet patch off my shoulder. My sister Brydie barges past, busying herself with plates of cling-filmed food. Always the strong one, always getting on with it.
‘You’re cutting it close. Car leaves in five minutes. Did you see Mum?’ asks Brydie without looking at me.
‘Yes. You should go see her. Hello, by the way, Brydie.’
‘Couldn’t spare the time. The kids, Clive... They’re so upset.’
I glance through to the living room where three lumpy teenage boys in hoodies mindlessly thumb at hand-held games, along with their Dad.
Brydie continues talking as she places clingfilm-wrapped plates of food in the fridge. ‘Missed you at Christmas. Shame you couldn’t be here.’
‘Couldn’t be helped,’ I mumble, not wanting to get into it.
‘It was such a nice day. Pity you weren’t here.’
‘I told you I couldn’t make it. It wasn’t deliberate,’ I huff.
‘Never said it was. But you must be thinking that to say it.’
I can’t believe her gall sometimes. But today isn’t the day for putting her straight.
‘Well. Only a few months 'til Christmas,’ she says, erring on the soft side of her passive aggression.
Not long until the antagonising can continue, then. Can’t wait.
Inside the chapel, I stand with my brothers and sister at the coffin. Elliot sobs uncontrollably. Brydie sniffs. Wayne places one hand on the coffin, stone-faced. I stare up at a reflective golden light fitting, pinching the back of my hand as hard as I can.
I drew the short straw of the reading. Wayne “doesn’t do stuff like that”, and Elliot is emotionally incapacitated. So I read When You Are Old, by W.B. Yeats. I rattle through the words on the paper, desperate for it all to be over with. I try to blot out all the eyes on me but I can feel a trail of sweat trickling down my neck. I think of the impending buffet, and weigh up whether a few drinks will help me through the day or just loosen my tongue. I reach the end of the poem without an answer.
I swap places at the lectern with Brydie, who struggles through her speech as a slide show of faded photos projects onto a screen.
‘The day I’ve been dreading all my life is here. Dad was many things. A husband. Father. Friend. He loved his children without limitations. When we were kids, we had so much fun. That’s my memory of Dad. He made time for us. He was the perfect role model. Wise, big-hearted. Never a single cross word. We were blessed. Today is my final opportunity to thank him. Something I never did enough when he was with us.’
My lungs balloon with sadness, not because Brydie’s words are beautifully moving or emotionally succinct. Because her relationship with Dad was not my relationship with Dad.
I’m still marvelling at Brydie’s fairy-tale recall as the final piece of music plays. The Pet Shop Boys’ hi-NRG version of ‘Always on my Mind’ shatters the mood, as my old man sets off behind the red curtain. Brydie instantly scowls across at Wayne, who feebly gestures a limp, open hand, devoid of understanding.
The red curtains draw to a close, and Dad is gone.
I’m one of the first to file out of the Chapel, yet somehow Brydie is already giving the Chapel staff an earful. I’ve no idea what her problem is and frankly, I don’t care. She’s always got a wasp up her arse about something.
Outside the Chapel, I see Elliot escorted away, supported at the forearms. He looks almost catatonic now. Consoles glued to hands, Brydie’s husband Clive and their hunched teenage boys shuffle past, eyes down on their Nintendos.
A cigarette lighter clicks close to my ear and smoke wafts around my face. Wayne. We watch and overhear mourners congratulating Brydie on her eulogy. I raise a questioning finger. Wayne speaks before I can. ‘Yep. I heard what she said about Dad. It was real for her, I s’pose.’
This implication that Wayne had it worse rattles me, given how many times Dad came to his financial rescue over the years. The best I can manage is disinterested ‘Hmmm.’
Brydie thanks the mourners for coming with soft eyes and sweet smiles. Her airs and graces evaporate as she strides towards us. ‘I told you. The Bee Gees ‘Don’t forget to remember’ followed by ‘Always on my mind’ by Elvis bloody Presley!
‘That’s what I asked them for!’ Wayne slurs through his cigarette, visibly annoyed.
‘Bloody Pet Shop Boys,’ tutted Brydie. ‘Dad was into Elvis, not Pet Shop Boys!’
‘No he wasn’t,’ I state, knowing it to be fact. Dad was strictly The Stones, Chuck Berry, Jeff Beck, The Hollies and Bowie’s less weird stuff. His favourite song was probably ‘Green Onions’, but that’s not so funeral-friendly.
‘Oh, what would you know, Paul?’ tuts Brydie, brushing me aside as she tots off in a strop of clicking heels and scowls.
‘Could’ve been worse. She originally wanted ‘Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep,’ says Wayne, in his usual bone-dry way, before bursting into the opening lines of “Where’s your Papa gone?”
Through the softly chatting mourners, I lock eyes with a woman; in her mid-fifties, I guess. She’s not dressed sombrely. I don’t recall seeing her inside the chapel. Yet she’s staring straight at me.
‘Who’s she?’ I ask Wayne.
‘Dad’s mistress, hoping for a free bar. What am I? The official tour guide to Dad’s funeral?’
Thanks for that, Wayne.
The buffet inside Brydie and Clive’s poky living room could feed the five thousand, so the mourners have no option but to congregate in the back garden. As if to make a point, Brydie selects the Elvis version of ‘Always on my Mind’ on her iPhone, and it plays through wireless speakers.
Brydie flutters around the room like a trapped butterfly. I swear if I hear her tell another person Dad died of a broken heart I will die of nausea.
So far, the conversation has been predictable: White-haired men whose pink skin is visible through their thinning hair who once had a passing acquaintance with Dad bemoan the state of the world as if they envy Dad’s death. This, naturally, leads to reminiscing about “The Good Old Days”, which were nothing like the awfulness we have to currently put up with.
This fabled better time, when our country belonged to us and not them, and the music was better. Films too. You could say whatever you liked and everyone took it all in their stride and with good humour, apparently. As the rose-tinted daydream skirts around racist and sexist jokes, I squeeze across to the buffet where Wayne loads up his plate with all he can. Going through the motions, I pick a couple of cocktail sausages, when all I fancy is cake and a billion glasses of wine. I know I mustn’t. I’ve got to keep it together. I make a deal with myself that I’ll swipe one of the boxes of wine when I leave.
Wayne talks, presuming that I’m listening. ‘I want to go how Nan did. Doped up on morphine in a hospital bed, hallucinating that she’s in an airport departure lounge about to go on her hols. Remember that? Haha! She had a smile on her face. Had no idea who I was. She kept winking at me, whispering to Dad ‘Who’s that nice-looking boy?’ Wayne rattles a smoker's wheezy laugh, before shoving a sausage roll in his mouth. I talk to the back of Wayne’s head as he vultures along the buffet table.
‘Where did Dad die? Who found him? Nobody’s told me anything,’ I ask.
‘Y’know that little car park near where Martin Sharpy lives? The one with the newsagents and the shop that sells tat?’
‘Not really.’
‘Someone found Dad slumped at the wheel of his car ‘n called the police. Speaking of which, did y’hear the rozzers arrested me for fraud? Took me down to the station. Talk about guilty until proven innocent. And they’re saying to me “You must give a DNA sample voluntarily or else we will restrain you and take it by force.” Took four hours to convince them I wasn’t Raj Patel. I said ‘Do I look like a Raj Patel?’ World’s gone mad. But it’s the same old same old, like when I got into a punch-up in the pub…’
How many times have I heard Wayne tell this story? I show an inordinate amount of interest in a platter of microwaved spring rolls in hope of silencing Wayne’s regurgitated tales of rebelling against the system.
‘I didn’t start it. They jumped me. I was only defending meself. Dad gave me a right good finger-wag. ‘Brawling at the pub? You’ll be the death of me, Wayne Angest, mark my words! Ha. Proved him wrong…’
‘You’re a chip off the old block, Wayne,’ I say. What I mean is Dad used to repeat the same old stories too. Wayne pours himself a coke before offering a can of beer to me, which I refuse.
‘I prefer to get depressed on my terms these days. Honestly, I don’t drink.’
‘Since when?’
‘I stopped after Meredith left.’
‘Don’t most people start? Go on. Get one down ya. I’d knock it back it one right now if only the Doctor hadn’t said another drink would kill me.’
Wayne isn’t going to relent, so I accept the beer and abandon it when he isn’t looking.
Moments later, I’m wedged into the corner of the living room with Kirsty Maccoll’s ‘Days’ in one ear and Wayne in the other. His lecturing sentences are punctuated by mouthfuls of food. ‘Never discuss religion… politics… or small children. No, Time-travel - never discuss that. Never work with small children.’
‘Unless you’re an au pair,’ I mutter, hoping Wayne will detect my boredom.
Brydie appears beside us, carrying a tray of hors d’oeuvres. ‘The buffet is going like hotcakes, isn’t it?’
On cue, a random elder mourner congratulates Brydie on the ‘nice spread’. She beams, tilting her head with pride at the sight of Clive and their boys on the sofa, engrossed in video games.
‘Ttt. Ah. Anyone can be a father. It takes a special person to be a ‘Dad’,’ says Brydie with a loving head-tilt.
‘Who said that? Adolf Hitler?’ Wayne does ask for it sometimes. Brydie sneers; handing Wayne the tray of hors d'oeuvres. He blankly stares back. ‘I’m not gonna eat all this.’
Brydie’s not in the mood for Wayne’s humour. She guides me to one side, amping up the motherly tone. ‘Elliot’s upstairs sleeping. I think we all need to rally round. You should spend more time with him. Be like the old days.’
‘All he ever did was run to mum, grassing me up about stuff I didn’t do. He wants that again?’
Brydie takes a pause, but I know she’s only buying time to think up the next poke in the chest. ‘It’s like Dad knew he was dying…’
Here we go.
‘He wanted to spend as much time with us as possible. Like, real quality time. He would ask us about our lives. Genuine interest.’
‘That’s nice for you,’ I say with detectable sarcasm.
‘He wanted to spend time with you too,’ says Brydie.
Brydie pats me on the shoulder, drifting away. I look to Wayne, who spits smoke by the open patio doors. In return, he raises a sly eyebrow, shaking his head with an amused grin.
A framed photo on the sideboard catches my eye. The whole family in younger days, all arms around each other and smiling. I hate that photo intensely. Rather, I hate myself in that photo, with my head hovering behind the wall of people, straining to be seen over Wayne’s shoulder. My presence barely scraped a cameo appearance.
Like most of the family Christmas get-togethers of the past, I retreat to the bathroom and lock myself in. I sit on the floor with my back against the wall and reach for a fresh towel which I place over my head to block it all out.
I don’t do goodbyes and sneak away having dutifully remained until late afternoon. Feeling the winter’s chill, I put my coat on, buttoning up as a voice calls out.
I search the cul-de-sac, spotting the mystery woman from the chapel across the road. Round-faced, shoulder-length hair which is greying at the edges. I detect an accent when she speaks.
‘Paul?’ Australian, I think. She carefully approaches me. She’s cradling some sort of metallic container. Looks like an expensive flask.
‘This belonged to your Father. They don’t know, not yet anyway. But it’s only right.’
Australian. No disputing it. She holds out the container for me to take. I accept it, nonplussed.
‘He was proud of you. He was just wasn’t good at showing it,’ she says, before backing away. Her eyes anxiously dart around the street.
I call out to her. ‘Wait. Who are you?’ I follow her up the street, but by the time I get close, she’s in her car.
‘What is this? Did you know my Dad?’ She pulls away in a hurry, stalling the car, coasting before the engine starts again. Gears clunk, and she’s gone.
I hold up the flask for closer inspection. There’s a security tag around the seal. The label reads ‘Ivor Angest’.
Copyright © Andrew Wright 2023