The Man Who Didn't Go to Newcastle Read online

  The Man Who Didn't Go To Newcastle

  Alison Clink

  Copyright © 2015 Alison Clink

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,

  or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents

  Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in

  any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the

  publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with

  the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries

  concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador®

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  Tel: (+44) 116 279 2299

  Fax: (+44) 116 279 2277

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  ISBN 978 1784625 559

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  Converted to eBook by EasyEPUB

  This book is dedicated to the memory of my brother

  Adrian Nigel Tilbrook

  Contents

  Cover

  Permission to Use…

  Praise for ‘The Man Who Didn’t Go To Newcastle’

  Let me die a youngman’s death…

  THE LIST

  Saturday 10th March 2008

  LONDON

  Thursday 21st June 2007 (the longest day)

  Friday 22nd June 2007

  Friday 22nd June 2007 – afternoon

  Monday 25th June 2007

  Tuesday 26th June 2007

  Wednesday 27th June 2007

  Thursday 28th June 2007

  Friday 29th June 2007

  Saturday 30th June 2007

  Sunday 1st July 2007 – morning

  Sunday 1st July 2007 – afternoon

  Sunday 1st July 2007– evening

  Monday 2nd July 2007

  Tuesday 3rd July 2007

  Wednesday 4th July 2007

  Thursday 5th July 2007

  Friday 6th July 2007

  Saturday 7th July 2007

  Sunday 8th July 2007

  Monday 9th July 2007

  Tuesday 10th July 2007

  Wednesday 11th July 2007

  Thursday 12th July 2007

  Saturday 14th July 2007

  Sunday 15th July 2007

  Monday 16th July 2007

  Tuesday 17th July 2007

  Tuesday 17th July 2007 continued – The Time Stones

  Wednesday 18th July 2007

  SOMERSET

  Thursday 19th July 2007

  Friday 20th July 2007

  Saturday 21st July 2007

  Sunday 22nd July 2007

  Monday 23rd July 2007

  Tuesday 24th July 2007

  Wednesday 25th July 2007

  Thursday 26th July 2007

  Friday 27th July 2007

  Saturday 28th July 2007

  Sunday 29th July 2007

  Monday 30th July 2007

  Tuesday 31st July 2007

  Wednesday 1st August 2007

  Thursday 2nd August 2007

  Friday 3rd August 2007

  Saturday 4th August 2007

  Sunday 5th August 2007

  Monday 6th August 2007

  Tuesday 7th August 2007

  Wednesday 8th August 2007

  Thursday 9th August 2007

  Friday 10th August 2007

  Saturday 11th August 2007

  Sunday 12th August 2007

  Monday 13th August 2007

  Tuesday 14th August 2007

  Wednesday 15th August 2007

  Thursday 16th August 2007

  HOME

  Friday 17th August 2007

  Saturday 18th August 2007

  Sunday 19th August 2007

  Monday 20th August 2007

  Tuesday 21st August 2007

  Wednesday 22nd August 2007

  Thursday 23rd August 2007

  Friday 24th August 2007

  Saturday 25th August 2007

  Sunday 26th August 2007

  Monday 27th August 2007

  Tuesday 28th August 2007

  Wednesday 29th August 2007

  Thursday 30th August 2007

  Friday 31st August 2007

  Saturday 1st September 2007

  NEWS OF ADRIAN’S DEATH

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Permission to Use…

  “Let Me Die a Young Man’s Death” by Roger McGough from The Mersey Sound (© Roger McGough 1967) is printed by permission of United Agents (www.unitedagents.co.uk) on behalf of the author.

  *

  ‘The List’ first appeared in the quarterly magazine, Words (Number 71) under the title ‘Sebastian’s List’.

  *

  Fix You

  Words & Music by Guy Berryman, Chris Martin, Jon Buckland & Will Champion

  © Copyright 2005 Universal Music Publishing MGB Limited.

  All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.

  Used by permission of Music Sales Limited.

  *

  “Brain Damage”

  By Roger Waters

  Roger Waters Music Overseas LTD

  All rights administered by Warner Chappell Music LTD

  *

  ‘I’ll Stand By You’ Words and Music by Chrissie Hynde, Tom Kelly and Billy Steinberg © 1994, Reproduced by permission of Hynde House of Hits/ Tom Kelly Songs/ EMI Music Publishing Ltd, London W1F 9LD

  *

  “I’ll Stand By You” written by Billy Steinberg

  © Published by Jerk Awake

  Administered by Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd.

  Praise for ‘The Man Who Didn’t Go To Newcastle’

  ‘Beautifully written and heartbreakingly moving.’

  Katie Fforde

  ‘A poignant, moving and ultimately life-affirming exploration of love and loss, this is a fitting tribute to a much-loved brother by a talented writer.’

  Steve Voake

  ‘Without ever descending into sentiment or self-pity, Alison Clink shares her experience of the last weeks of her brother’s life. Beautifully observed and profoundly moving.’

  Peter Lovesey

  ‘A moving and brutally frank memoir about caring for someone who is facing death. Along with the practical difficulties – sorting out money, finding one’s way through labyrinthine state support, dealing with humiliating physical side-effects and juggling the needs of family and work, Alison gives a clear and heart-breaking account of helping her brother through his final days. Essential reading for anyone supporting a loved one through terminal illness.’

  Debby Holt

  ‘Deeply moving, unflinchingly honest and leavened with wry humour, Clink’s memoir celebrates our ability to go on loving against the odds.’

  Maria McCann

  ‘A moving, thoughtful, evocative exploration of love between siblings, and what happens when it’s tested by illness and grief.’

  Emma Darwin

  ‘Alison Clink has written a haunting, beautiful memoir. At its core is the death of her brother from lung cancer seven years ago. She palpably evokes the milieu of their London childhood and takes us th
rough all the twists and turns of a sibling relationship as the years pass. “The Man Who Didn’t Go to Newcastle” documents a terminal illness but it restores a life. Elegantly written with great tact and without shying away from hard truths, it is not so much a memoir of mourning as a love poem.’

  Jonathan Wilson

  Let me die a youngman’s death…

  Let me die a youngman's death

  not a clean and inbetween

  the sheets holywater death

  not a famous-last-words

  peaceful out of breath death

  When I'm 73

  and in constant good tumour

  may I be mown down at dawn

  by a bright red sports car

  on my way home

  from an allnight party

  Or when I'm 91

  with silver hair

  and sitting in a barber's chair

  may rival gangsters

  with hamfisted tommyguns burst in

  and give me a short back and insides

  Or when I'm 104

  and banned from the Cavern

  may my mistress

  catching me in bed with her daughter

  and fearing for her son

  cut me up into little pieces

  and throw away every piece but one

  Let me die a youngman's death

  not a free from sin tiptoe in

  candle wax and waning death

  not a curtains drawn by angels borne

  'what a nice way to go' death

  Roger McGough

  THE LIST

  Saturday 10th March 2008

  I’ve spent a lot of time over the past couple of weeks preparing for this event. I’ve phoned people, sent emails, written letters, left voicemails, cleaned the house, bought fresh flowers, had my hair cut, even treated myself to a new skirt. But now today has come and there’s nothing else to do to take my mind off what is really happening. My brother’s ashes are to be laid to rest in our local village churchyard.

  In films funerals always take place against a backdrop of drizzle, an obvious symbolic device. Weather reflects mood, mood is gloomy, weather gloomy too. Rain is like tears. Today it’s raining.

  During the two minute car journey to the church I tell my twin daughters, Emily and Fran, I’m afraid I might start to cry.

  ‘You’re allowed to,’ Emily replies. Yes, I know, but for some reason I feel the need to prepare myself for the possibility.

  When we arrive I see everyone I’ve invited standing on the gravel path leading to the Great Elm village church, all looking somehow odd, as if they’re in the wrong place. Like when Mum and Dad turned up at school for parents’ meetings. The right people in the wrong setting. A kind of dream where people you know well unexpectedly appear out of context.

  Dan, the vicar, arrives late, and bizarrely seems to be changing his clothes in the back of his people carrier. He strides up the path, his surplice flapping in the wind, smiling his toothy grin – reassuringly eccentric.

  He unexpectedly unlocks the church door and ushers us all in out of the rain. The service was to have been outside, but I’m glad Dan is prepared to amend the plans in order to spare us from a soaking for a few minutes’ prayer before the burial takes place. I love this church and Dan points out to his captive audience some of its unique features: the little doors at the ends of the pews, the ancient stained glass windows, the minstrels’ gallery. He loves it too. I hope all the friends and relations are impressed.

  Dan is clearly impressed by them. He obviously had no idea there would be so many of us for this interment of the ashes. He appears genuinely surprised by the number of people who’ve turned up. After all, this is a low-key service, not a true funeral as such. We did the funeral in Putney last September, seventeen days after Adrian died. This is a chance for everyone to get together in the place where my brother will stay, along the road from our house, in the graveyard of St Mary’s Church in Great Elm.

  Dan probably realises now why I took so long to come back to him with a day when everyone could be in the same place at the same time. I’ve been aware of his frustration at the number of phone calls I’ve made changing the date, and I sense an acknowledgement of the difficulty of the task I’ve undertaken. He asks where everyone is from and I reel off the list of places, feeling proud that people have come from so far. Norwich, London, Bristol, Devon, Taunton, Farnham, Basingstoke, Southend on Sea.

  ‘And Great Elm,’ my eldest son, Jack, jokes.

  *

  My brother wrote many instructions for his ending, most on odd bits of paper. I presumed he wanted his ashes scattered after the funeral in Putney Vale Cemetery. Only at the last minute did I come across a loose sheet saying ‘Ashes to be buried at Great Elm Churchyard. Next to Mum.’ I’m eternally grateful I discovered that piece of paper in time, yet I was also struck by its poignancy. Next to Mum. The instructions were so curt. So matter-of-fact. So decisively unemotional. So heartbreakingly sad. Only two-and-a-half years ago Adrian stood with me and the other men in my family in this same graveyard, with the same vicar, probably clutching the same prayer book for the burial of our mother’s ashes. But how different that day was. How hot, lit with the brilliant sunshine of mid-June, and too hot to stand in the shadeless churchyard for any longer than was necessary. Today we shiver and huddle together under umbrellas, again missing the shelter of trees. Also missing my younger son, Ed, who is in Thailand.

  Standing to my left is our old friend, Martin Phillips, who collected Adrian’s ashes from the funeral directors in Putney. Disappointingly, the urn he’s been given is made of green plastic, more like a garden compost pot than the polished wood miniature coffin I’d irrationally imagined. Irrationally, since I knew we hadn’t been offered, or indeed paid for, such a thing.

  Martin appeals to me for guidance when his moment arrives. Should he open the pot and truly ‘scatter’ or should he just place it in the hole? I indicate somehow that he should put the whole thing in, as it seems the best option to avoid farce. What if he pours and a gust of wind gets in the way? What if he pours and a last clump of ash refuses to budge from the inside of the pot? The comic possibilities seem many.

  ‘Just put it in,’ I hear myself say. I’m slightly perturbed. I am so bluntly telling Martin what to do. One of my big brother’s friends. I’m still the same child I was all those years ago.

  My husband, Peter, takes our garden spade he brought with him and shovels the earth back into place. Adrian was important to him too and now he seems strong and the right person to make the final gesture of closure.

  I’ve held myself together well till now. In the event, rather than dwell on the emotional aspect of what’s going on, I’ve managed to focus my mind on the pedantic. Counting heads, has everyone found the churchyard? Are the girls warm enough? Why aren’t the boots I’m wearing waterproof? As we all huddle so close, will the spokes of my umbrella poke someone in the eye? Have we got enough beer, food, soft drinks at home? Did I remember to buy straws? Do we have twenty-five decent dinner plates?

  I look around at the people standing with me and suddenly I see the list. The list Adrian made last summer – all the names of the people I should invite to his funeral written in his tiny handwriting. The list that I refused to read until I needed to. The list I watched him write as he sat skeletal in his baggy checked shirt, his chinos tied tightly with a belt to hold them up, and his Panama hat protecting his bald patch from the sun. A glass of white wine on the table by his writing pad and his Daily Mirror open on the racing page. The list that seemed so painful last August. So shocking. How could he care, how could he bear to work out who would come to mourn him?

  Yet seven months later the instructions have been carried out. They’re all here. Most have travelled long distances. Some of them couldn’t make the funeral in September, but none of them has let him down today. I imagine his pleasure at seeing them all together. What might he have said? ‘Oh, thanks, Ali.’