Red Velour and Green Frogs Next to Fathers near-to-death bed, I sat upon a single chair, somewhat comforted by the cosy and soft red velour, as Edvard Griegs The Last Spring blew calmly down the hallway like a warm breeze heralding the imminent passing of Henry III. Dynastically, each H had begotten a H for four generations: Harold sired Hubert Harold who raised Harold and then there was me, Harry, because my Mother was not going to call her son Harold. Before Prince Harry, there were not many of our species about, only Dirty Harry Callahan, Harry the Dirty Dog (a popular childrens book) and Harry the Italian grocer near where my Aunt lived. In the months before slipping into unconsciousness yesterday, Dad often raised the issue of The Clock. Knowing without knowing that his time was fast running out, the status of his clock had been on his mind. The antique black slate and marble mantle clock bore a brass plate: Presented to Harold Day on the occasion of his 30th birthday by his Family and Friends. It had belonged to Henry I of course (born circa 1875) and now it was to become the property of Henry IV. The clock had stalked me for decades. I first met the 19th century artifact at the mantelpiece of my Grandparents house. Now it was fixed within the Court of Henry III, on the mantlepiece. Before I sat beside my Father, I had inspected the clock once more, as I had done countless times over many years, in the usual manner by prying open the clock face window and playing with the minute hand. These days I reached down rather than reached up. It had stopped, since 1972. Ironically, it was the Dresden Philharmonic seated within the parquet of the compact disc player, mournfully reciting The Last Spring. With Father, WW II was never far away. What music was playing inside his head? Perhaps the eerie cacophony of Stalins Organ; maybe God Save the Queen following the naval Battle of the River Plate; a Red Army T-34 commander humming The Internationale on the steppes near Kursk or was it the anthem of Vichy France? He reminded us they bombed Dresden precisely because they knew it would burn and precisely because they knew the atmosphere would be starved of oxygen and most civilian deaths would occur through suffocation, including the children, a new kind of lifeless Dresden Doll. Then I hoped Father was listening to The Andrews Sisters on the radio in one of Sister Kennys polio wards. Father told us of the music his ships engine made during a cyclone off the WA coast in 1955, long before Roddenberry thought about the creation of Scotty. The steam engine was three stories high and it was fighting with the screw (the propeller for landlubbers) as the storm all about them had moved the cargo in the hold and she listed 30 degrees to port. The captained piped down to my Father More steam! More steam! to which my Father yelled back up the pipe If I give you more steam, the fuking thing will blow up. His captain snookered him If you dont give me more steam, well all fuking drown - so I dont care if you blow up. With that and an aye aye captain, Father set about shutting off all the valves attached to the heaving monster before him. He called all the souls in the engine room over, the grease monkeys, the second engineer, the cadet, and together they watched the pressure gauges rise, listened to the pipes scream, the shuddering of the shaft. The anticipation of the engine room crew was akin to U-Boat mariners watching the depth gauge, knowing at 800 feet the ship implodes. Then Father said to his crew: If she blows, I want all of you up the ladder, the youngest first. If theres time, Ill go last. Dont look back. If there is a small flood, Ill set the pumps and give us some time. Maybe some of us can get into a lifeboat. If the sea is cascading in, lock the flood doors behind you well before the water floods the whole ship. If you dont, you will kill everyone up top as well as yourselves. Father was always at war. Now he was Napoleon without a Battle, with no Grand Armee. His face had become sallow in just a few days. He no longer ate. Great depressions appeared above his brow, his temples and below his cheeks. His lower jaw protruded prominently as the flesh that was once there had evaporated. His lips curled over his upper and lower teeth. His once round face had become triangular. His skull was sprouting through his tissue paper thin skin. His lungs were full of fluid and it sounded as if the sea had broken through and was sloshing around his weakened chest. What of those mundane contributions to life? As I had opened the pantry door the night before, seeking out the corn flakes at 2.30 am, there were jars of herbs and spices marked Coriander, Curry Powder and such like in Fathers distinctive hand. He is nothing if not organised. The jars were arranged alphabetically. He and his partner had transformed their few acres into the Gympie Botanical Gardens. Father had mapped every tree they planted on the property, creating a mud map of exquisite accuracy: the type of tree, the date it was planted. The only purpose I could imagine was for the native bees . The lawns were mown short, the edges neat and there was not a weed to be found. On the external wall facing his beloved barbecue were affixed items that made up his shrine to a nautical life, near 79 years at sea for his Father took him sailing off Manly whilst he was still a swaddling. A John Harrison chronometer, an Esso ships pressure gauge from the engine room, a turtle shell, a collection of baler shells, a barometer, a ships wheel. There hung an old brass mast light that had the green oxidation removed and lovingly coated with lacquer to retain the copper hue. A collection of rare spherical glass mooring buoys hung in rope nets from the rafters, each with a few cups of old sea water resting in the bilge. I even found his old slide rule. He still used it instead of a calculator. Just a week ago, Karen and I wheeled him from his shortened holiday. He had taken - a cruise of course! Halfway through, they stopped the ship at sea off the New Zealand coast and ordered a launch. He was lowered over the side and spent a week in Invercargill Hospital before he was well enough to fly home. He spent a night in a Brisbane Motel and only a wheelchair could transport him to the car for the long drive home. I was glad Karen was with me. Father was now surrounded by my sisters and my brother and his beautiful wife. After my corn flakes, I turned left outside the back door instead on right towards my room in the outside study. Fathers bedroom light was on and he sounded distressed with his chest. Like a thief, I stole a glance from the dark as I drew on a cigarette, As Father struggled for breath, his wife held a cool face washer to his forehead. I knew she would stay there all night. So the remains of the day are very loving. I turned on my red velour chair to look outside Fathers bedroom window. I wanted to go outside for a cigarette. A green tree frog hopped over to me, sat there, three feet away on the brick paving. He looked up at me and enquired: How you going? Yeah. hD - 291214
Posted on: Mon, 29 Dec 2014 11:43:29 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015