Diary of a Widower

Revisiting our engagement

TUESDAY, July 20 – Up early. Thanks to jet lag. I slipped out of the house in my stocking feet, so as not to wake anyone, and went for a long walk. Three streets further on, I really woke up. It was on this spot on Clarksville Road that Jennifer and I decided to get married.

It wasn’t a romantic proposal. We’d gone for a walk, just the two of us, like I was doing now – and the subject of children came up. We wanted them. ‘But then I’d like to get married first,’ Jenn said, a standpoint that I found quite conservative; but, of course, we were in the States.

‘Agreed,’ I said, ‘so we’re going to get married.’

We looked at each other briefly, and nodded. A quick kiss and then we continued our walk. At dinner that night we announced our engagement.

Now I stopped there briefly, but then quickly walked on. Despite the memories, I felt little emotion. No more than a smile. Is that a good sign? Does it mean that on this trip, unlike the one in December, there will be no painful memories and associations?

I don’t believe a word of it, but this morning walk bodes well.

Going home with her, at last

MONDAY, July 19 – The inevitable question, when taking a cab to the airport. ‘Where are you headed?’

‘The States. New York, Washington D.C., and a few other locations.’

‘All on your own?’

‘No. My children are already there. I’ll be seeing them tonight.’

‘In a hotel or a house?’

‘They’re with their grandparents. They were born in the States.’

‘Oh, I see. And where’s their mother?’

‘Their mother,’ I laughed, a bit viciously, but mainly to give myself time to think. ‘Their mother is in your trunk.’ He screwed up his eyes, and for the umpteenth time, I

explained it all. The rest of the ride was blissfully quiet.

13.20 p.m. – Was it because no one noticed the urn when my bag went through X-ray? Was it recognized, but the inspectors didn’t think it was worth opening my bag for and demanding an explanation? Maybe the urn wasn’t important?

In any case, on the passenger bridge leading to the Delta aircraft, I was suddenly overcome by emotion. Memories of all those flights from the States to Holland, and vice-versa. The first time she flew from New York to Brussels, where I was waiting with a red rose in my hand and she gave me three Dutch kisses.

We must have flown across the Atlantic at least twenty times. Just the two of us at first, and later with the children. Last December her absence had been so tangible, when the three of us were able to sit next to each other.

This time it was the awareness of our ultimate finiteness that hit me and I was totally unprepared for it. This is the very last time. Her ashes are going back to America, to be scattered. I had always felt that she was close to me and maybe that was why I occasionally pretended to be unconcerned and even jokey about the two and a half kilos of dusty body remains. But not right now.

I stepped on board without wiping the tears from my cheeks. The steward’s face was permanently fixed in an expression of cheerful hospitality. ‘Welcome, sir. 24G. On the other side of the aisle.

The urn stood at my feet. ‘We’re going home, dear Jenn.’

Good grief! Holland loses

SUNDAY, July 11 – Eamonn called right after the last whistle, to share his disappointment with us. In fact, he was hopping mad. ‘Well, son, now you know what I went through twice as a child.’ Losing a World Cup final.

Strangely enough, my memories of the 1974 game are stronger than those of 1978. I was nine when we lost to West Germany and I can still see each and every goal in detail. Neeskens. Breitner. Müller. Four years later my recollections of the World Cup, then in and against Argentina, were bound up with my father, who had died several months before. I could not accept the fact that he was unable to experience that game which was also the final.

The impact of my father’s death – the definitive irreversibility of the snuffing out of a life – was painfully reflected in his empty chair in the living room.  In the same ridiculous logic, I could accept the fact that Holland lost that night – stupid Rensenbrink! Hitting the post in overtime! – because it meant that my father hadn’t actually missed anything.

Neither had Jennifer, I concluded this evening when after the Spanish goal  Eamonn called shortly afterwards, highly indignant, but still he reasoned that Holland would have another chance in four years’ time. That sounded like a good plan to me. This kid will always make out okay. Life isn’t a bed of roses, but intuitively he takes a pragmatic approach.