all corners of the school. And from the overused schoolyard to the sickly powdered egg–smelling dining halls, kids appeared like ants to view the spectacle and land some sweets from the school’s very own Wonka.
“Roll up,” I would holler. “Angus Kennedy, an original sight, a somewhat different Angus is here, everyone,” I accentuated with a raspy voice from a lung condition years ago to add to the special effects.
I felt great at these times. I was a mess, of course, but I didn’t see it. My candy lifted my spirits and everyone else’s for that matter. I made people happy, I still do today, and that’s all that will ever matter to me. I was determined to be with my classmates and get on with the tasks of swapping, eating, and demonstrating the newest sweets in the land. School was all about laughing, playing Ace Trumps card games (sports cars edition), and having fun. It was a forgone conclusion that I would fail most, if not all, of my exams. But success was always weaved into the accomplishment of happiness.
Oddly, I never really felt that ill with pleurisy or from my other random dalliances with death. I never thought I was going to die in the fire, or let some ghastly intestinal worms take me either. These were all just annoying inconveniences. Kids are the best teachers; they are masters of enjoying the present, while adults are masters of not getting over the past, or worrying about illness.
Throughout everything, above all, I looked forward to going back to swooning over the amazing girls in class, one of whom I hopelessly fell in love with. I was back at “work” feeding kids with treats while trying to catch the attention of my heart’s desire, the latest beautiful girl with whom I was completely mesmerized. But as the weeks went by, I was unaware of the inevitable.
Soon, even desperate crushes would be obliterated from my thoughts. I don’t know anyone else who has ever had a Christmas quite like the one I was about to experience. All the presents were under the tree, but I didn’t want to open them. A horrible feeling of foreboding had come over me. For the first time in my life, I was truly scared. I just knew something horrible was about to happen. I wanted time to freeze and for the tree to be there and the presents remain unopened so life could be put on hold forever.
Chapter 3
My Father’s Death
In short time, all I was to have left of my dad would be the few badly developed black-and-white photos leaning against my bedside lamp. If only I could have taken more photos. I would gaze at a picture of the two of us on holiday on a beach together for hours before sleep, imagining him until he was really with me. But there was no way the pictures could tuck me in, pull my duvet up, and kiss me good night.
I had to remember that it’s not the length of a life that counts: a short life as a good man is always better than a long life as a bad one. We never learn from a perfect life.
The death of your father, particularly when you are nine years old, fries your circuit boards and reprograms you in an instant. If I had been a computer on that Christmas Eve, I might have been thrown out the window from the fourth floor onto reinforced concrete (for good measure).
You are left with the bits of your old life scattered in places you will never find them. You know whatever you do put back together can’t ever be the same. Perhaps my dad and I had struck a deal with our maker before we came to Earth: “Okay, Angus,” God would have said. “It’s going to be a tough one, but I’ll give you a life’s supply of chocolate, mate.” Life was okay—the odd mishap and a wonky mum, tons of chocolate and candies—but to be honest on that day I would have not minded dying too.
But life is worth dying for.
—
Other kids at school had been dished out far worse than I had experienced—something I always tried to convince myself of, even though I found it hard. There was one particular girl at school for example, Sarah, who had the most terrible purple rash on one whole side of her face. From the very first day she turned up at school, she was bullied constantly, day after day. She used to hide away at the edge of the playground with her head down. One day, after a year at school, Sarah never came back in through the gates. We found out a few days later that she had committed suicide. She could have only been about ten years old. It hurts now to think about it, how cruel we are. If only I could have given her some sweets, just once . . . but I didn’t. I regret it.
I still hate myself for having been so inhumane as to ignore her, just in the same way as the other kids took no notice. I will regret that always. Maybe all it would have taken was just one single sweet from my huge hoard. I try not to make these mistakes today. It’s never too late to change, to make someone smile.
Winter came, and it was two days before Christmas Eve, December 23, 1973. It seemed odd that my mother had arranged for me to have a sleepover with my best friend so close to Christmas. I didn’t know my father was that ill, but I had noticed he had been sitting in his big, paisley armchair for unusually long periods of time, watching TV (after I bashed it) and not being very active. I always assumed it was a minor illness and he would get better. I learned later he was on morphine.
A bonus sleepover was on offer, an unexpected treat to stay over with my best friend, who lived across the road, a couple of days before the big day when we opened the presents. Yes, a double-good Christmas. What an occasion! I ran up the stairs to see my dad sitting in the living room and said a quick goodbye.
I didn’t even kiss him, just shouted my final farewell from across the room in the doorway. I didn’t really notice his hand sticking out at the side of the chair, beckoning me closer. He knew it was the last time he would ever see his son, but I was in a hurry to have fun.
If only I had kissed him, seen him again, hugged him, understood him, or touched his hand, anything, but it wasn’t to be. I might have seen the tears on his face that my mother told me about years after his death. I still think how painful that must have been for him to see me run out the door, without him having the chance to say goodbye. What atomic strength a parent must possess to see their nine-year-old child leave the room, knowing it’s the last time they will see him and the last time their son will be happy for months or years. To me, the hardest thing possible for any man to endure is knowing you are going to die and watching your kids play and laugh when you know it’s inevitable that one day yours will be among the saddest kids on the planet and you won’t be there to comfort them.
He looked pale and withdrawn. Just a winter virus, I thought.
“I love you, Angus,” he said as I headed for the door. He took a moment to compose himself. “You’ll look after your mum, won’t you, Angus?”
It seemed odd he would say something like that. He had never said it before.
“See you tomorrow, Dad,” I replied.
It went quiet. I spotted his arm from the back of the armchair reaching out for me, but I was going for a sleepover and it was fun, fun, fun. Off I ran, down the stairs with my carefully selected sleepover candies. If only I had known, I would have stayed.
I am sure my mother found it too painful to watch our last meeting. She was waiting in the hall at the bottom of the stairs looking solemn and not saying a word. Clearly she thought I wasn’t strong enough to stay home and see him die. I raced downstairs, but this time no dogs chased after me, even though they always did. Instead, they lay quietly by my father’s side, refusing to move. If only I had done the same.
Wow, what a strange day it is, I thought
