Remember, remember the 5th November

TW - Themes of grief and a brief mention of substance abuse

It was the 5th November 2014 - Bonfire Night for most - but for me, it was the day that I died.

It was a car accident, nothing particularly special; it’s not like I took a firework to the eye or fancied myself a burning Guy Fawkes. Nope, it was just another drive home from the office where I’d spent 4 hours in back-to-back meetings, 2 hours writing a report that no one would read, and the remaining time with my monitor turned playing a bit of Mahjong.

I know what you’re thinking, “She’s probably lucky she’s dead!”, and yes, you’d be right; my life was dull, uninspiring, and a bit depressing for the most part. That said, I had a husband and two fab kids, as well as a daft mongrel named Sue who had one eye, three legs, and just enough mouth to chew a sirloin steak (only on special occasions). Sue has since departed the land of the living, and - like me – she's regained her various limbs and body parts; the crash didn’t leave me in the best state as you can imagine.

I do miss my family of course, but that thing they always tell you, that “we’re always watching over you”, simply isn’t true. Truth be told, we have our own things going on; I have Judo on Tuesday evenings, Flamenco with the girls on Thursdays, and crochet at Friday lunchtime. Classes are readily available in just about anything, including those worldly pursuits that you never make time for, or give up on halfway through. Simply put, there’s a lot of time to fill in Heaven, and if we spent all of it watching you lot, we may as well have gone to the place down under!

I jest of course, and that’s not to say that some people don’t follow the biblical stereotype. Janey – one of our more recent arrivals – watches the living world all day and all night. She catches every gurgle from her little boy, every prayer from her parents, every whisper of gossip from her girls, and I respect it.

That was me at the beginning too, I mean the crash came at such a bad time. My son, Henry, was just going off to university in Edinburgh. My husband, Gordon, had just been made redundant, lecturing disinterested students on the economic instability of post-war Germany. As for my daughter, Violet, she’d just dyed her hair blue and referred to me only by my given name, when she was inclined to refer to me as anything at all that is. Like Janey, I needed to know they were okay. I’d watch them eat, sleep, bathe … anything, just to get a glimpse.

But it's been 11 years since then, and over time, that restless urge to be there and be present drifted away. They aren’t mine anymore, more like tadpoles swimming in a tank, growing into fully fledged frogs right before my very eyes. Gordon remarried a vibrant lady called Simone who volunteers at the local church. Henry graduated university – just about; he had a muddle with some poorly cut ketamine and packed in his studies for about 6 months. As for Violet, she never did get rid of her blue hair, and she wore it fiercely.

I’ll be honest, it’s been a while since I checked in at all, but today is the 5th November and the day you die is the heavenly equivalent of a birthday; the day you were reborn into something beyond. Once a year you’re permitted to go back through the gates of Heaven and walk amongst the living. For a while I didn’t take up the offer – you're not obliged too of course. Personally, I didn’t love the idea of returning to a world where only remnants of you exist, where you physically feel your presence fading. Belongings are stripped from bedrooms, clothes taken to various charity shops. People stop saying your name as much and you become a relic, brought back only in fleeting thoughts and whispers. But we’ve all moved on now, so it won’t hurt to pop in for a few minutes.

“All ready to go?”.

“Yeah - sorry Marv – I'll be there in just a sec”. Marv guards Heaven’s Gate, which sounds impressive, but he’s really just a glorified usher. He takes my ticket, adjusts the glasses on the end of his nose– checking for any signs of fraudulence – and puts it in the box with the rest.

“Best of luck down there. Have a terrific Death Day!”

The gates open with a steady creak, paving the way to a time gone by. The route down to Earth is quite spectacular, and just what you’d expect really, a winding marble staircase descending beneath the clouds. Placarded paintings hang in the air, depicting all the best dead people: Jesus, Nelson Mandela, Princess Di, Robin Williams – just to name a few, and the air is wispy and cool against the skin. It beckons gently, somewhat dulling the fear and uncertainty; an elegant comfort.

Going back down is almost as daunting as coming up. All I thought about on the day of the crash was Gordon and the kids, and now it’s no different, only, it is. When you die and you see the godly white abyss for the first time you think, ‘how will my family manage without me?’ On the way back down, the worries take on new forms and you dare not consider how they might be getting on without you; new wives, new partners, new stories, the lot, and you’re not a part of any of it.

Anyway, after 236 steps there it is, Number 54, still painted fireman’s red with the thick iron digits nailed in. So many memories were made behind this very slab of wood, but now there’s a family in there making new memories, and rightly so! They don’t need me barging in there and causing a ruckus.

A gust of wind blusters down the staircase and knocks me flying, face first into the livingroom. Thanks Marv.

The carpet’s rough and there’s someone singing in the kitchen. Probably Simone. She has a lovely voice I’ll give her that, but she needs to get a Rug Doctor hired ASAP; I think they’re thirty pounds a day or something like that?

Carpet judgement aside, the house still smells the same; faint wafts of pachouli incense over bacon and eggs. I used to do Gordon’s eggs scrambled with big buttery curds, but looking at his plate he seems to have taking a liking to a sunny side-up. Back when we were together, he wouldn’t do a fried egg because he didn’t like the gritty brown bits on the edges. Simone’s fried eggs don’t have brown bits.

Gordon looks happy though; he always was after a good breakfast. He’s reading some sort of book about Tudor children, full of short manuscripts and pictorial depictions. He’s smiling, and that makes me smile.

It’s strange, standing in a space that was once your own; let’s just say Simone has really got herself cosy after 6 years of marriage. There’s a three-seater oatmeal couch where my leather Camelback used to be, and plastic succulents on the windowsill in place of real ones - she’s even swapped out the curtains I bought. There’s a sweetie wrapper on the floor, books arranged by colour rather than author’s surname, as well as a golden monkey lamp in the far corner. I must say, it’s not at all my style.

A beam of warmth moves in from the upper windows and drifts along the carpet, brushing every surface with its golden hue. A rather hefty black cat rolls on to its back, pawing at the sun, belly out and dreaming. Podge I think its name is. Gordon picked it up for Violet shortly after the dog joined me upstairs. Podge is no Sue, but still quite the character. It looks at me briefly, blinking, then returns to its blissful slumber.

BBC Breakfast is on and it’s Carol Kirkwood on the weather. “Sunny spells and light showers” she says; perfect weather for remembering the dead. There was always something about Carol that made me smile, whether it was her cheery disposition, the maturity in her news reading, or just the fact that Gordon, the kids, and I would watch her together before school and football and work. It is nice to see she’s still going.

“When are they getting here?” Simone yells from the kitchen.

Gordon gets up and starts shuffling around. “Round about now”.

The doorbell goes and a stampede of feet barrel through the door. It might have been 11 years, but I know that stomping cadence anywhere; the unsteady thud of feet falling on top of each other, of always wanting to be first in. The sound of coming home.

“Hey guys, how’s things?”. Wow, my boy. He’s so big now, and bearded! “Pwoah, I love a bit of Carol” he says, dumping his body on the oatmeal couch.

“You’re a thug” says a voice from behind, a voice that materialises into a young woman who wrestles the remote from her brother. That’s my girl. It’s nice to see them all together, a proper family unit. Simone comes in with a tin of Custard Creams and plonks herself on the end next to Gordon. Both kids take two, one for each hand.

Gordon comes through into the living room. “Are we all ready?”

“Whoop!”

“Yes”

“Go on, Dad”

“Meow”

Huh? Gordon shuffles over to the TV, removes Carol Kirkwood from the screen, and pops in a DVD. Gordon always had a knack for finding good quality pirates back in the day; I remember everyone came over to watch our copy of ‘Die Hard’ before it officially hit the shelves.

The whole family scootch back into the sofa, struggling to get comfy amongst the piles of cushions and throws; I’ll just stand behind. Once settled, Gordon presses play and the film begins, the player whirring in the background as it always did. The film feels familiar, but not one I remember of the bat. The quality isn’t good enough to be post-1990 because it has that grainy yellow hue, like a home video. The camera pans down a tarmac road, and cars sweep past in a haze of blue, green, and red, spitting up puddles from the side of the pavement.

How strange, I feel as though I have seen this before.

The camera is jittery but off to the right shows a stone wall warped in ivy and toadflax, and coming underneath, as though left out of all the fun, is a dog, a raggedy dog with one eye, three legs, and a mangled jaw. The cameraman turns into one of the front yards, the one that’s full of weeds, cat shit, and discarded bicycles. The one belonging to Number 54.

“Come on Hazey” says the cameraman, panning the camera towards a young blonde, stifling through the boot of her Nissan Micra, ushering a pair of boisterous children out of the back seat.

That’s me. That’s my Nissan Micra and those are my children!

“One second Gord” says the blonde lady half stuck in the boot of her car, the one who is almost certainly me. I remember now, we were taking our first look at our new home, rooms empty and ready to be filled with life. As I said, the front yard was sight, but the rooms had potential, even with the wallpaper hanging like dead fingers from the plasterboard, and damp patches in every corner. Nevertheless, we got to work on it, slowly, somewhere in-between kids, dogs, work, and life, and over time it grew into the home I loved.

The DVD, like a locomotive of nostalgia, makes stops through various archived memories. Summer picnics in the garden, birthdays for the old and young, Christmas Eves, blackberry picking, bread with olive oil in Crete, first words, first teeth, it’s all here. I mean, there we are, squawking to ‘Piano Man’ on the kitchen tiles, with wooden spoons for mics. And there! Violet’s first time sucking a lemon, her chunky face wriggling into to all sorts of funny shapes.

“Guess you were always a bit of a sucker” Henry says, jabbing his sister in the ribs.

“I think this part’s my favourite” says Gordon, arching closer towards the telly. The screen flickers and a wonky title screen appears, handmade with craft paper and permanent markers: ‘Congratulations! Hazel and Gordon, 1995’.

It was a small Methodist church just outside of town, and it was the most beautiful day. It rained, as it always did where we’re from, but that’s what made it; running down cobbled streets and taking refuge under our neighbours' porches, hopping from house to house with each eclectic burst of excitement. I was pregnant with Henry at the time too, his bulbous body protruding from my dress. I’d forgotten how lovely that dress was - and how good I looked in it despite sharing it with my mound of a son.

Simone takes the cuff of her cardigan and dabs the corner of her eyes. “She was really beautiful, Gord”.

“I know”.

He’s crying. I’m crying. I didn’t know I was capable of tears anymore, but damn you Simone, you lovely perfect woman.

Gordon pauses the telly and rests his head on Simone’s shoulder. They both gaze at the screen, tears rolling down their cheeks. The kids each take another Custard Cream from the tin and curl up next to each other, taking solace in knowing the other was right there. Podge jumped up on to the arm of the sofa and looked me again, deeper this time. After a somewhat invasive reading, the rounded feline plods along the kids' thighs before settling on my husband’s lap, giving him a wet nosed kiss on the cheek. I think that’s my cue to go, but as much as I refused to believe it, it seems I never truly left.