And Time Stood Still, page 1
And Time
Stood Still
Alice Taylor
Dedication
For those who brought love and joy to my life
and to you now walking the memory road.
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Preface
Through the Eyes of a Child
1 Little Brother
2 The Comforter
3 Animal Friends
Inner Sanctum
4 Thinking Time [MY FATHER]
5 The Woman of the House [MY MOTHER]
6 The Listener [OUR BEST FRIEND]
7 A Man for All Seasons [MY HUSBAND]
8 Morning Has Broken [MY BELOVED SISTER]
The Shelter Belt
9 Of Hilly Places
10 One of Us
11 The Gardener
12 A Woman of Substance
13 A Restless Spirit
The Unexpected
14 The Motivator
Epilogue: A Place Called Peace
Other Books by Alice Taylor
About the Author
Copyright
Preface
Nothing prepares us for the ferocity of grief. The death of those we love disturbs our deepest roots and catapults us – bruised, broken and unprepared – on to the path of grief. Time seems to stand still. Even the word ‘death’ strikes a chill in the mind. Mostly we ignore it and avoid using it, like people walking backwards towards a cliff edge. But no matter what we call it, when a loved one goes over that edge we are whipped around and made to look death straight in the face. Then the hurting encompasses us like a shroud; pain takes hold and clings us to that black space.
Someone who was part of your world is gone and has taken a chunk of you with them. As well as taking your loved one, death has also taken part of you. A beloved limb has been amputated and you are left with a raw, bleeding wound. Grief is physical as well as mental. You cannot eat and you cannot sleep. Your energy has evaporated and your coping skills have shrunk. Small decisions have turned into major challenges and your threshold of tolerance had disintegrated.
You feel alone on this journey and nothing prepares you for its devastation. You walk around looking normal, but inside you are bleeding. The world has shrunk into a painful path and you seem to go round and round in circles. You are in a prison of desolation without walls.
The bewildering thing is that your loved one is still part of your everyday thinking and their presence is still all around you. Impossible as it seems, you are living in two worlds – the ‘before’ and the ‘after’. These two worlds are not welded together, so your thinking is split and the ground beneath your feet is a deep chasm.
Reason and grief have no relationship. Grief is raw emotion; reason does not come into it. When someone you love dies, deep dormant feelings escape out of a previously unquarried reservoir – a roaring tide is let loose and it breaks down all barriers and sweeps on, creating mental chaos.
Waking up in the morning is the toughest part of the day. For one second before realisation dawns, the nightmare is not there. But then reality crashes in. There is no getting away from it: another day to get through!
You look around at people who have survived terrible trauma and wonder: How can they keep going? When I asked this of a friend, she replied sadly: ‘There’s no choice. If people didn’t recover from grief the world would come to a standstill.’ But in grief your world is at a standstill.
It is a time when prayer should help; but that may not be so. Your loved one has gone across the great divide where all your prayers have gone. Heaven is silent now and God may have become the God of no explanations.
In times of heartache I often turn to nature. In the dark of night when a fierce storm rages, the deep roots of a tree hold it in the earth, and similarly when we are battling through the storm of death and grief the human spirit can find within itself the power of amazing endurance. As we struggle on, tiny stepping-stones appear. They are created by kindness, nature and our own inner creative resources, and by a source above and beyond our human understanding.
Tears will help to soften the frozen lump of grief that has parked itself where your heart was and eventually a tiny bud of peace may tentatively begin to flower and fragile shoots of hope come and go. Time moves again, slowly at first. An Eastern sage said: ‘Hope is like a road in the country where there wasn’t ever a road – but when many people walk on it, the road comes into existence.’
Through the Eyes of a Child
Chapter 1
Little Brother
‘What did you buy at the auction?’ I enquired eagerly. ‘An antique bed,’ my sister told me. ‘It’s in the back room. Go and have a look.’
Full of anticipation, I walked hurriedly back the corridor, anxious to see her purchase, but when I opened the bedroom door I stood transfixed. The smell of sulphur permeated the room. At some point in its journey, her antique bed had absorbed the smell of a sulphur candle that now filled the air and curled up my nostrils. A chilling fibre of memory stirred in the deep recesses of my mind. Gradually other fibres awoke and wove themselves into a shroud that wrapped itself around me and dragged me back. Back through a whole lifetime.
I was six years of age, standing uncertainly outside the white bedroom door in the shadowy upstairs landing of our old farmhouse. A slim pencil of light from the narrow skylight overhead shone on the battered brass knob. I wanted to turn that dented knob and open the door, but dreaded doing so. One part of my mind knew that he would not be inside in the wooden bed, curled up in a little ball, breathing quietly. And yet he might be! As long as I didn’t open the door there was always the hope, the possibility that it had all never happened. That I had imagined it. That it was not true. But once I opened that door I would know, know for sure that he was gone and would never again come back.
I finally turned the rattling brass knob and the door squeaked in protest. I edged it open just a few inches and peeped in through the narrow opening. The room was in shadow. A navy-blue blind was pulled down over the one small window. The big old wooden bed took up most of the room, the horsehair mattress and feather tick rolled up on its wire base. All sheets and blankets, signs of our sleeping comfort, were gone, whipped off and washed in tubs of disinfectant and hung for days on the clothes line in the grove behind the house.
In a white sconce on a small wicker table in front of the window stood a yellow sulphur candle. Its flame, edged with grey smoke, guttered and spluttered in a pool of hot candle grease that overflowed in little yellow streams down along its sides. Its heavy, cloying, acrid smell snaked upwards along the latticed walls, across the low, timber ceiling, around the edge of the door and curled up my nostrils. There was only one reason for that sulphur candle in the bedroom that we had shared since he had left the iron cot in our parents’ bedroom: the sulphur candle was there to fumigate the room after his death. That smell told me that he was gone. He was gone and all that was left was this terrible smell.
The smell had a hypnotic effect on me. It terrified and repelled me, but in some horrific way it fascinated me too. Every day I peeped in and every day the smell of the sulphur candle told me the same story. It crept up my nose and into my memory box. It was the smell of his going. On that day in my sister’s bedroom the smell of the sulphur candle melted the seal over my childhood trauma and the dead memory strands awoke. They catapulted me back in time.
In my earliest memory I am sitting on a warm flagstone on the doorstep of our old home while Connie sits in his pram under a huge palm tree in the garden. That old palm tree dominated our garden and its branches brushed against the window panes, filling the rooms at the far end of the house with moving shadows.
Connie and I were the youngest in a family of seven, so when the others were gone to school we were left to our own devices. The farmyard was our playground. We fed the baby ducks and goslings, but always with a wary eye on the gander, who did not like us. Feeding the hens was great excitement as flocks of birds swooped down to share the hens’ breakfast. Later in the day it was our job to check the henhouse for fresh eggs and notify my mother that it was time for collection. Afterwards, Lady, the mother greyhound, could be let loose; she had an appetite for fresh eggs and had to be tied up until after egg collection – the other dogs and the cats posed no such problem so were free to roam around the yard and farm buildings. It was our job too to feed the cats at milking time from the rusty cover of an old churn. We also helped with the feeding of the calves but stood well back when they dived into the buckets of milk, as they could suddenly thrust the bucket forward in a fit of exuberance and injure unwisely positioned feet.
We had a pet calf, Richie, whom we singled out for special attention. He was a small, frail little fellow and we felt an affinity with him as he fought for his rights in the bigger herd. There was also a baby lamb whom we christened Sam. Sam had not made the grade out in the fields so he was reared in a butter-box by the fire, where he thrived so well on a bottle that he soon outgrew his limited accommodation and my father told us that he would have to be reunited with the others. Connie and I objected as feeding Sam with a bottle and teat while he was small and dainty was great fun. But one morning when he whipped the entire teat off the bottle, creating a waterfall of milk, we finally accepted that it was, indeed, time for him to move out to open spaces.
We often visited Bill, who lived at the top of the hill behind our house. We would climb up the steep slope between the tall ferns, resting alon g the way on the little flat stone seats that Bill had created for himself and where he would pause and rest as he drew water up from the well at the foot of the hill. When we reached the top we always sat by the scratching pole that my father had placed there for the cows. Bill would be waiting for us beyond the next ditch.
My father was always busy working his farm but Bill, even though he too had a farm, always seemed to have plenty of time to play with us. He gave us rides on his donkey and told us stories. We loved Bill. We would ramble home after our visit and meander into other fields and be missing for hours – and the only danger was the gander and neighbouring bulls.
But one disappearance did create panic. It was a very wet winter’s morning and Connie went missing. The stream at the end of the yard had turned into an angry torrent that backed up into the front garden and also flooded the garden behind the house. Connie was nowhere to be found and the terror was that he had fallen into the flood waters. A thorough search proved that this was unlikely, but the possibility could not be ruled out. Every corner of the house and yards was searched, to no avail. Then I decided to visit our sheepdog who had had a litter of cuddly pups the previous week in the haybarn. And there, curled up with the new mother, was Connie, sound asleep, and almost indistinguishable from the pups draped all around him. On another occasion, Connie’s ability to lie down and go to sleep whenever and wherever he got tired nearly gave my father a heart attack. Dad was out cutting the corn with the mowing machine, drawn by our two horses, Jerry and Paddy. Suddenly the horses came to a standstill and snorted in fright. My father came off the mowing machine to investigate the problem and found Connie sound asleep in the corn. If the horses had not alerted him to Connie’s presence the consequences would have been horrific.
In the summer we played in the grove behind the house where we created other worlds. We played imaginary games beneath trees where the ground was soft with the fallen leaves and pine needles of many years. One old tree had a huge hole in its trunk. This was our treehouse and here we sat, pretending that we were travelling to many strange places. Because we could not see the top of the tree, it just seemed to go up and up, and we believed it grew up into heaven. Heaven, in those days, was very real and up there was God and the angels – and our cat who had died the year before. Everything that left our world finished up in heaven and we never questioned that. It was a happy place where one day we would all end up. Why would anyone not want to go there?
At night Connie and I slept together in a big bed that had a high, old-fashioned timber base and headboard. The fluffy tick, filled with soft duck-down collected over the years from the Christmas plucking, provided warmth – and fun too as we stood on the timber headboard and dived into its comforting fullness. In it we made sunken pathways and tunnels and it had countless hidden possibilities. Going to bed early, when sleep was the least of our interests, we turned the big bed into a playground peopled by imaginary friends and animals, and we scratched pictures on the headboard, and my mother never cautioned about damaging the paintwork. There were no dolls and teddies to cuddle in bed at the time as these were the war years and such luxuries were non-existent. But there was no shortage of statues in Irish homes, so instead our resourceful mother provided us with two little statues, one of St Theresa and the other of Baby Jesus. So every night we took our battered and much-loved statues to bed.
On Christmas morning when I was six, I awoke, moved my feet and something clanked against the bottom of the bed. It was a doll, with a hard China-ware face, and we christened her Katie Maria. She was my first doll, and Connie got a little cloth man-doll that we called Patsy. We had many hours of fun with our two new friends, Katie Maria and Patsy, but did not abandon our two old pals who stood guard on our bedside table.
When summer came around again we returned to the grove and our treehouse. We lived in a child’s wonderland and the harsh face of reality had not yet frowned on us. But then, suddenly, an icy draught blew around us when Connie got very sick. He had been part of my every day and night, sharing every childish secret, and now he could laugh no more. He lay still and quiet like a little bird in the middle of the feather bed. I sat on the floor and played endlessly with Katie Maria and Patsy. I wanted Connie to talk to me, but Connie was like the two statues and could not talk anymore. I whispered to him, feeling that even though he could not answer he might somehow still know that I was there. My mother would come and coax me out of the room and I got the feeling that in some way I should not be in there. But as soon as her back was turned I crept back in and sometimes hid under the bed. The doctor came every day to examine Connie and one day, from under the bed, I watched him and my mother silhouetted against the window as they discussed my little brother. My mother’s face was no longer calm and serene. She did not look like herself anymore. When the doctor was gone she told me that Connie would have to go to hospital to get better, but looking into my mother’s stricken face I sensed that he might never come back. Since he had got sick, my world had been filled with an unknown dread that something terrible was going to happen. Now the certainty formed a hard lump of terror inside me. I went up into the grove and sat into our treehouse.
Later that day a black car came into the yard and through the trees I watched my mother come out with Connie in her arms. He was wrapped in a white blanket, but my mother’s face was whiter still.
I stayed in the grove all day, feeling close to Connie there. Tears never came. Crying was something you did when you cut your finger – this was beyond all tears. Finally, as dusk came, I heard the pine needles crush as someone approached. It was Bill. He sat outside the treehouse as he could not fit inside, sat saying nothing while tears ran down his face. I crept out of the tree and onto his lap, putting my arms around his neck. And so we sat, Bill and I, locked together in our terrible grief. I was silent while our dear friend shuddered with great heart-broken sobs.
During the following days when my father went to the creamery he would phone the hospital for news of Connie. The hospital was in Cork, which back then was considered to be a huge distance away. At the time, parents were not permitted to stay in hospital with their children, which must have been heart-breaking for my mother. Every morning she waited on the doorstep for my father to return from the creamery with news of Connie. The news was never good. One morning as we stood around her, waiting, he came slowly into the yard, paler than usual, and announced in a choked voice, ‘It is all over.’
I did not feel any worse because it was if it had already happened. I actually felt better because I decided that now he had left the hospital and gone to heaven, he would be able to come back to me. Every day I checked the treehouse in case he was there. When this did not work out, I decided it was back to our bedroom he would come. Our little room had been stripped bare and a sulphur candle stood guttering and spluttering on our bedside table.
The nuns in the hospital had given my mother a relic of St Theresa in a waxen pink rose, which was also on the table. I hated that pink rose. In some way I had come to the conclusion that God had taken Connie and sent back this stupid rose. One day when I peeped in to see if Connie was there, I could stand it no longer, so I caught the rose and tore it up, petal by petal. To my mother, the relic and rose had been a comfort and I found it very difficult to explain to her why I had torn it asunder. Nothing was making any sense in this frightening new world.
The reality that Connie was gone forever was beyond my comprehension. I saved my sweets for him and when my mother mentioned visiting his grave I ran upstairs to collect the sweets – and Patsy – to bring them to him. I have no recollection when his death finally became reality for me.
Now, a lifetime later, in that room with the antique bed smelling of a sulphur candle, the seal on the trauma was finally dissolving. By then I had children much older than I had been when Connie died. Later that night, back at home, the memories of Connie’s death were still winging back as if the smell had turned the key in a locked memory box. I sat on the side of my bed with tears running down my face and wrote a long poem. I was completing a grief journey that had been postponed for years. It was time for the buried tears.
