Bittersweet

Ok, so while we're on the subject of death... 

I realise there's a risk that this is going to read like an episode of that mawkish 'Our Tune' slot that Simon Bates included on his Radio One show during the '80s. (Put all thoughts of that theme song* out of your mind RIGHT NOW.)  For anyone not familiar - outside the UK? - 'Our Tune' was a much parodied feature in which listeners sent in their personal stories, frequently about doomed relationships and often with sad, sometimes tragic, endings.  Mister Bates read these out with about as much compassion as a melamine table, and then a song which was particularly significant to the (usually unhappy) couple was played - hence the 'our tune' of the title.   It was handy to keep a sick bucket nearby.

I hated the whole premise of 'Our Tune'.  However (when stumbled upon by accident, of course...) I'll admit it could be horribly compelling.  I guess there was a good reason for it being popular because, perhaps, all the most rousing love stories are bittersweet.  Smooth sailings and happy endings may be what everybody ultimately seeks, but they don’t power up emotional responses in quite the same way as tales of lovers caught between the agony and the ecstasy of a not-so-straightforward relationship. 

One time this struck me was at my mum’s funeral, nearly fourteen years ago. I was introduced to an old man whom I’d never met before, although I'd heard about him.  As he looked at me, his simple exclamation of “Ohh!” was loaded with more emotion than I'd bargained for.  He went on to explain, “You look SO much like her!”  He was visibly moved and shocked at seeing what must have seemed like a younger incarnation of my mother.  (Much as I would like to have inherited her long slim legs, I got my dad's.  But I did get her face.)  “I'm SO sorry she's gone,” he continued, his warm smile doing little to disguise his immense grief, “She was very special to me.”

It turned out that this was my mum’s friend 'D'.  I knew a little about him because he'd been a constant over the last ten, or more, years of her life, and she'd mentioned him a fair bit.  She and my dad divorced when I was in my teens, but she had one of those personalities that always seemed to attract people. Not always the right people.  Quite a few relationships had developed, most of which were pretty short-lived (although I'm sure she wasn't the easiest person to be with). 

For instance... there had been the one with 'Mummy’s Boy', a 'true gent' type who seemed perfect until it became apparent that everything he did was dependent on approval - and not even from my mother, but from his.  Now that's bad enough, but even more ridiculous given that he was in his sixties... 

There was also an intense romance with 'Alcoholic Author', whose bright mind she admired but whose more frequently foggy state of mind and inability to help himself were, sadly, impossible for her to cope with.  That one did end in 'Our Tune' style tragedy - but we'll not go there here.  

Plus let's not forget 'Old Teacher', who had been the Biology Master at my sister's school and had become a family friend, but whose inappropriate attempts to give my mum a biology lesson of an altogether different kind in the kitchen one day were less than welcome.  And I thought he'd only come round to look at the ducklings.

Finally there was 'Irish Builder', an unlikely match (given she'd always gone for mind over muscle) but whose macho Gaelic charm initially brought a sparkle to her eyes that would have been more befitting of a 16-year-old, only to be extinguished by some selfish, unpredictable behaviour.  He did at least encourage her to increase her otherwise tiny appetite because he insisted she kept her larder stocked full of potatoes (honestly.  That sounds like a bad and possibly very suspect Irish joke, I know, but I'm not kidding).  Well, he was the last 'official' beau in her life, and she sometimes stayed at his house in London, where she was slightly freaked out once by the framed photo of his dead wife falling off the wall while she was there (you couldn't make it up, could you..?)  But when my mum died he was already off the scene, as were the other men.   Except for 'D'. 

I think 'D' and my mum would have been great together.  They shared a passion for literature and the arts and she was drawn to his intellect and romantic flair, while he adored her artistic nature and depth.  It turned out that, even though they didn’t meet until later in life in the rural village where they then lived, they'd actually grown up in exactly the same area of East London.  (Their secondary schools were closely located and I can’t help but wonder if they’d ever eyed each other up as teenagers from opposite sides of the road, never realising that decades later they would become such friends.)

They eventually met many miles away from their urban roots, in the antiquarian bookshop where he worked, and soon developed a strong rapport.  My mum told me they often spent long afternoons together talking about everything under the sun.  Sometimes, she admitted wistfully, he'd hold her hand or hug her closely.   I know that they cared about each other tremendously, and what they felt for each other was love.  'D' was married, and although it wasn't perhaps a perfect marriage, there was nothing intrinsically wrong with it.  His wife had health issues, so she depended on him to look after her to some extent.  My mum felt a little awkward about her close friendship with 'D', and had no intention of causing problems for him and his wife, so she continued to lead the life of a single woman.  She managed to meet a few men who must have been special to her for a while - including those mentioned earlier - and maybe if she'd lived longer she might have had a relationship that could have worked out longer term.  I think 'D' must have found the situation quite painful at times (and so must she)  but his unconditional devotion to her, as a soul-mate I suppose, never waivered.  No wonder he showed such emotion after her death, and was additionally moved at the image of her that he saw in my similar features when we met.  That was quite a moment.

Soon after the funeral my sister and I were going through her belongings and came across some cards which she'd tucked away in a drawer. It took a little while to decipher the signature, but then we realised they were from 'D'.   The poetic words inside - or maybe it's what I'm reading in between the lines - say so much, obviously enough for my mum to have wanted to keep them forever.  But what do we do with these things? - those letters, photos, cards? -  those tokens of love and friendship that can mean so much at the time, even if that time can't last.  I don’t know quite why, but I couldn’t throw them away either, so they are now tucked away in one of my drawers. 

'D' tracked me down one day a few years ago, completely out of the blue, to say he was going to send me some pictures - not photos, but pictures from old books - that he thought I’d appreciate, having some similar tastes to my mum.  Sadly he died before got round to it.  Of course I wonder what they were...  and I guess I would have kept them too.  But as 'D' and my mum (and 'D''s wife...) are no longer around, it feels okay to mention their story here.  (I just hope you didn't read this with Simon Bates' voice in your head - I sound nothing like him...)

I doubt that they had a special 'our tune'...  but if they did, the secret of what it was - along with many other secrets, I expect - went with them.

Anyway, writing this gives me a chance to share this tune, from the beautiful Kelli Ali (ex Sneaker Pimps).  I think she puts it very well.

Kelli Ali - What To Do

*  Nino Rota's theme to Franco Zeffirelli's 1968 film 'Romeo and Juliet'