‘Twice a child, once a man’
Sometime after the turn of the millennium, a year or so before The Twin Towers (and Building Seven, lest we forget) fell, and the world changed irrevocably forever, I found myself in St. Mary’s Hospital, Paddington, West London. My paternal grandmother was putting up a real fight, but at ninety-something (93? 95? 97? I must check) this one looked like it might be, and sadly ended up being, the final dance with death. On one of her brighter days, in one of her more hopeful moments, she looked up and smiled saying ‘If I get out of this one, I’ll have a right old laugh’. Sadly the curtain fell before any chance of that final encore.
Tatta — for that, somewhat inexplicably was her name, despite being born ‘Esther’ — was relishing, cautiously enjoying, and slurping delicately at what may have been her very last choc-ice. I would say ‘eating’, but as she had — for many years — become accustomed to a habit of enjoying food without her false teeth in, it resembled more closely some kind of ancient tortoise going at it with determined but steady vigour. Gums and tongue slowly applying pressure. Ice cream melting, chocolate flaking, and that child-like grin of pure, innocent pleasure. It must have been soothing. But wow, was she quick at whipping out those choppers without you noticing. The sleight of hand of an experienced prestidigitator. The false teeth dispatched into a hankie. The kerchief deposited in her handbag, which opened and shut without a click. Not even a hint of misdirection that I could detect. A well-oiled performance from a master of her art.
It was some time after that moment, when Tatta was sleeping, quite comfortably as I remember, that we heard the voice. My father, sister and I were gathered round the bed. And the beautiful lilt of The Caribbean wafted over from the opposite side of the ward. The voice said, clearly, “Twice a child, and once a man”, accompanied by that brilliant tongue-click that I’ve long envied amongst my Grenadian, Jamaican and Bahamian friends. The source of the voice — an elderly lady with twinkling eyes that were at odds with a body in some state of disrepair, and somewhat elephantine legs — stunned us after all that had been exchanged between her and Tatta was silence. That, and some unpleasant, nose-up, disapprovingly snobby stares from my grandmother.
I get no pleasure from honestly sharing that she was — at times — beyond borderline racist. That she had some delusions of grandeur — acting at times like the (very) late Queen Mother — which led to her looking down on most people, is no excuse. Nor that at times her comments to my sister and Mum could also be offensive. Those amazing carers provided by Westminster City Council all patiently, compassionately, and kindly dealt with her at times awful behaviour (the worst of which was asking them to ‘wash their hands’ when they were spotlessly clean, yet, duh, black in colour). They didn’t deserve that prejudice. But I digress.
The voice we heard, that rang out from the silence, interrupting the surprising stillness of an open ward, disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. Tatta’s neighbour went back to her book, or TV, or own thoughts (I can’t remember exactly what), but the phrase stayed with me to this day, over twenty years later. At the time it seemed profound. Since, it seems insightful. Today, mulling it over, perhaps there a mild rebuke in there. ‘You’re a childish woman’ she may have been inferring, or implying, whichever it’s supposed to be. But I prefer to dwell on the wisdom of it, and that it was meant to help us to prepare for the end of Tatta’s second childhood. And one that overlapped with my own. The only Tatta I knew and experienced was already in her second, while I was safely ensconced in my first. Maybe that’s part of why the relationship between grandparents and grandchildren is so special? The missing generation that sets us apart, bringing us together as children revelling in shared companionship, naivety, joy, hope and play.
Last summer, at the not-too-ripe old age of 48, I myself was admitted to hospital for a month. The same hospital I had first entered in the most vulnerable year of my adult life, 2010. Let’s call it a place to recover, recuperate and re-set. Let’s not dwell on diagnoses or labels for now. I had been out of control for a couple of months, flew way too close to the sun, made confused and chaotic decisions, and eventually been assaulted, and brought to my knees, physically and mentally. A wise and kindly soul, trying to help me avert a total train crash, had looked me dead in the eye and said to me, ‘Don’t you deserve a better second chapter to your life?’. It hit me hard. And a year later that, and reflecting on the two acts of childhood that sandwich the adult one — who am I to question the three-act structure after all? — now I am left in a reflective, contemplative, exploratory space. A hopeful one at that, built on self-acceptance.
If I’m lucky I am just over halfway through my life and like a sailboat returning to harbour, have definitely ‘turned for home’. If I take ‘three score years and ten’ as a benchmark, I’m well into my second act, and supposedly some sort of adult. Either way, the foolishness, naivety, and carnage of my twenties is long behind me. The hard work, trials and tribulations, adventures and near misses of my thirties a decent set of foundations for a better future. And my forties, starting with the birth of the daughter, who — by dint solely of her very existence — may very well have saved my life, have led me to the eve of 49. Sidebar: in truth it may well be that her mother, who at times pre, during and post-marriage has been a blessing beyond words, deserves the most credit and gratitude. At times my very own personal angel.
So twice a child, and once a man, resolved to be the best version of myself that I can, and hence the best father to my daughter. To be here for as long as possible for her sake above all. But beyond that, to step into opportunity, a clearing in my life that I’ve created, to explore what’s next, second chapter or third act, or whatever my allotted time ends up being. I haven’t always liked myself, accepted me for who I am, or revelled in having my own crazy, unique, and colourful deck of cards. That’s been some of my journey. But the story ain’t over yet folks. ‘Survive and advance’, a motto borrowed from dear friends Over The Pond, never truer than right now. What else is there?
Today though, at least, I can and I do. The rain is falling after a bright, sunny Spring morning, as I share a taco or two — and her kitchen table — with my daughters’ mother. And I’m smiling. My life has been full of blessings and many miracles that led me to even being here today. And I’m curious and excited to see what the future might hold. So in closing, that’s my wish for you, for all and for the world.
Schmaltzy, sentimental and soppy at times? Sure, but that’s me, behind it all. I’m supposed to be a man, right? But the not-so-inner child is always there. My giant head and large, cartoon eyes, they make my daughter laugh at any rate. That’s good enough for me. And if I should be fortunate enough to reach my second childhood, and her second act as an adult, I’ll cherish every moment. But probably revel in being even more infantile than I am now. Intransigent, stubborn and embarrassing? Maybe. I’ll settle for being here, a better second chapter, and the chance to hold her hand and whisper in her ear, before I follow Tatta through that final door. Wave goodbye to my baby girl, smile and chuckle one last time, and explore the mystery of death after what I pray is as well-lived a life as Tatta’s.
After all, her life was, despite her flaws, exactly that. Well-lived. She was a remarkable, strong and inspiring woman whose example I still admire greatly, and I have nothing but fond memories of. Her love of family, streetwise business sense – quite literally, as Queen of the Fashionistas selling coats and womenswear on Petticoat Lane, even through The Blitz – and courage in the face of life’s challenges, all admirable. She made the most amazing chicken soup – whisper it, quietly, but maybe even better than my Mum’s (sorry Ma) – was in many ways independent to the last, and always showed me love and kindness. I just wish she’d taught me the magic that could made those false teeth disappear at will. With that power at my fingertips I could have – only when the need arose, I promise – dealt myself pocket aces at the poker table from time to time… but where would be the fun in that? For as with poker, life isn’t about winning every hand you play. More playing every hand you’re dealt, and win when Lady Luck smiles at you.
Postscript. And some kind of spoiler alert for the below from Nicole Taylor’s brilliant Netflix adaptation of ‘One Day’ applies. You have been warned, ok? Good. Disclaimer in effect. To start with, it absolutely broke me, is all I can think to say. I barely managed to escape into my own space while the tears that flowed freely on Mum’s face remained bottled up (for the most part) in mine. And then, when on my own, the floodgates truly opened. Sobs and ugly-crying aplenty. I cried like I haven’t in months, maybe even years.
Why bring this here? Put simply, what I have written here led me back to two quotes shared by the series’ leading lady, which – like twice a child, once a man — will stay with me for a long time. I’m still unpacking them.
“There was yet another date of greater importance… her own death. A day which lay sly and unseen.”
(Thomas Hardy)
I mean how amazing is that. ‘Sly and unseen’. I never thought of death like that. Waiting in the wings to meet us. I’d like to think to welcome us. But not before allotted time runs out.
- and -
“Imagine one selected day struck out of your life and think how different its course would have been.”
(Charles Dickens)
One day struck out of your life? Just one sentence, overheard at random at Tatta’s death bed, led me here, to this, today. Not even a whole day. Just one moment. One breath. One turn of phrase. How many of those live in one day? And which to carry forward? When might they hatch again, resurface? What fate their recollection or omission promise?
Not tempting fate, but if that ‘sly and unseen’ day comes sooner than I’d wish, I’ve had such joy and wonder in my life; so I can’t complain. So many days and moments that changed the course of my life to appreciate. And hopefully, so many more to fondly look back on, smiling in my dotage.
