Up until my tenth birthday life had been peachy, and I had not suffered any particularly bad affair in my time of existence. I was still running rampant in the school yard, playing Orks and Soldiers (a game devised by myself, and my friends Oliver and Daniel, both farmer’s sons, Tom and Tony, Motocross mad bikers, Dominic quiet and pensive, and the Chris’s, both fast talking, humourous and up for a practical joke), Cops and Robbers, bulldogs, and Hopskotch (the only girly game i ever played). In our epic adventures I was almost certainly always the dashingly beautiful damzel in distress, captured by the evil Orks, great voluminous green gargantuous monstrosities from Warhammer (introduced to the school by Joshua Tuck, in the year above me) i would then be kept under guard until the heroic and muscular soldiers (usually including Oliver, who was always the most chivalrous ladie’s man I had ever had the pleasure of fighting alongside) came to my rescue.
The horrendous war that then ensued would usually include each of us dying more times than i have fingers, before springing back up into the action to take part in daring escape missions on off road 4X4 army trucks, dangerous and death defying Kamikaze missions where one or other of us would run blindly through imaginary smoke, missiles, and gunfire, into enemy ranks, and take out as many as possible before being gruesomely decapitated in the most unpleasent (though very entertaining) way possible for a group of overactively imaginative children.
Cops and Robbers was a schoolwide classic. Four of us would sit together and discuss teams, signals, bases, hiding places and so on during a lesson, and by lunch time the whole school was aware of every single detail, minor major or otherwise. A Cops and Robbers game would always involve just about everyone in the school, from reception to year six, and it must have given the teachers quite some entertainment, a whole school of eighty children gathered at the bottom of the premises, being picked into teams by two year six boys, a coin would be flipped to decide who was cops who was robbers, and then the cops waited twenty seconds for the robbers to make off with their loot and hide in various places throughout the school. the sight of eighty children seperating into equal groups, and then half of them thundering across the school, pairing up into groups to find hiding places must have made quite an interesting spectacle to behold.
However, this peace and lack of responsibility was, if nothing else, short lived. Late in the year 2001, my elderly grandfather, aged 69, fell ill. At the time, nothing was thought of it, because there were no worrying symptoms. The medical professionals diagnosed Gall stones, and put grandad on a course of treatment. he remained on this treatment until the end of the year. In the beginning of ‘02 grandad’s condition had advanced, and the treatment seemingly had no effect on him. It was then that the doctors, nurses and other medical people discovered that what they had diagnosed as Gall stones, was in fact a case of Pancreatic Cancer. By then it was too far advanced for a successful treatment to be given, and we were told that Brian Luscombe had just a matter of months to live. I didnt find out in a nice way. It was after school one day when I was in year five, and I was laying up the table in the dining room for tea. We had a hatch between the kitchen and dining room, and as mum passed me the various implements used for eating, I asked her whether grandad’s complaint had actually been identified. My mother’s answer was simply “he’s got cancer”. I immediately froze up inside, at that age cancer was something that I had thought was just something that happened to other people. Not to my grandad. Sorely taken back I didnt know what to do with myself. I persisted to ask mother whether he would die or not, as I was still uneducated in the field of such diseases, and to me cancer terminated everyone it was diagnosed in, no questions asked. Her reply was a simple “I dont know” and so i just got on with the job in hand and ate dinner.
It was that very evening, I suppose, that I first lost my spiritual and emotional connection and coordination. Especially in the run up to grandad’s departure. As his condition deteriorated further, I was called upon to visit my grandparents far more often than previously, as my parents seemingly were present at their house almost every other day for one reason or another. I would sit, isolated in their dining room, absorbed in the classic Looney Tunes and Tom and Jerry videos, my grandfather had all the classics, and I loved them. I still to this day refuse to watch the newer ones because they simply do not have that vintage look, style, or feel, and all the jokes and such are just echoed repeats of their predecessors.
As i sat in the old green tweed rocking chair, snuggled into the cushions with grandma’s sausage dog toy, or Flur, grandma’s siamese pet cat, my parents and grandparents discussed the situation that faced us: grandad’s death. I do not know exactly what went on, as I was always occupied with activities more befitting to my age, although, I remember passing the lounge door, which was always pushed to, on my way to get more lemonade and a biscuit, and on my return, I chanced a glance into the room. Grandad was Perched on the end of the sofa, in navy blue and royal red pinstripe pjamas, like the ones you see bananas in pjamas wearing, faded with age, and he was staring straight back at me. He did not look in the least ill, let alone Cancerous, and instead of coughing or doing something that I would have expected a man on the brink of death would do, he flashed me a heart warming and supportive smile, and waved happily to me.
That lone memory is the last of my memories of him being alive. I remember finding out he had passed away. It was a Tuesday, and I had not long woken up. My father entered my bedroom, the little box room of the house, and he came over to my bed and gave me one of his bone crushing hugs that I have always missed, and broke the news to me as gently as possible. It was at this moment of my life I took a huge leap into the unknown void of mist that was my future, and when dad asked me if I wanted him to stay with me while I grieved, I instead decided to do so in my own company. My first real step towards independance. In the lead up to the funeral, I developed a tight bond with my grandma. I still hold true to this bond, and we go on holidays together to visit her sister, and we have been to France together too, Arras to be exact. Anyway, Grandad had specifically requested “Jazz at the Crem” (Jazz music to be played at the Crematorium in the place of a funeral march or some other piece of grief-implying music). The playlist included Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong, and Another You by The Seekers. He also requested that no one wear black. I obliged willingly, and attended in a magenta-pink lace dress with roses printed on the over layer and darker satin beneath, accompanied by an equally bright pink cardigan. the only black I bore that day was the straps and heels of the little black high heeled shoes I wore. I had been given the oppertunity to pass on the funeral, but had insisted with vengance and demanded to attend. At the crematorium, I feel I must have been in some state of shock, as, sat next to my father, I cried through the entire service, and couldnt tear my eyes from the wooden coffin before me, reasoning to myself that my beloved grandad, who had spent so many years treating me to trips to the “Duck Shop” (Slimbridge wildfowl and wetlands reserve) inclusive of a bag of grain, little red wellies and colourful leggings, a stripy hand knitted jumper from grandma, and a lovely picnic lunch beside the lake watching the mallards and swans, and occasionally slipping a sly crust to a hungry Hawaiian Nēnē goose, could possibly have been taken away from me, forever.
That day was the first day I had ever seen my grandma, aunt, uncle or father cry. I saw all of them crying, and it left an imprint in me that will never go away. And though time has softened the pain i feel from the dark empty space where my grandad once was, I know he is still there with me as I carry on my own life.
I just find it hard to go to my grandmas house because grandads chair has never been moved from where it sits, in the far right corner of the lounge beside the dresser, because so many times, I burst through that front door, hugging my grandma, and dashing into the lounge to greet my grandfather, who always made a loud fuss over bursting from behind his broadsheet newspaper to see me. the memories live on in me, forever, and they are all happy ones, the hurt is still there, but I have come to accept it.
