An Age of Understanding by K J Tesar - HTML preview

 

 

 

Chapter 11 The Poetry of Trees

 

 

Even though only a month had passed, Constance couldn’t remember what the church even looked like, let alone where it was. Not that it had anything to do with the amount of time that had passed, she knew that it was undoubtedly because of the strong emotions that that day had fostered. When she had gone to the church that terrible day she had been feeling very disoriented. Lost, not physically, but mentally. And so, on her return there barely one month later she had at first gone past the church on the bus without realising it was the one she was supposed to get off at. Only as an afterthought had she asked one of the other passengers the name of the church they had just passed. She had then had to get off the bus at the next stop, and walk back to the church. On the walk back to the church she felt a wave of heartache come over her. The emotions of that day came flooding back over her. She could still feel the pain like a knot in her stomach. The feeling of loss that she had felt, knowing that she would never be able to chat with Matt again. A great friend had been ripped from her, after such a short time. A slight breeze whipped up the autumn leaves lying under the trees that lined the road. Constance reflected on the last conversation she had had with Matt. She was so glad that she had thanked him for all the help he had given her. Words like those that were left unsaid could easily come back to haunt you in future times. They could easily turn into lasting regrets. The things you felt, but never expressed. She decided that she would always speak her mind clearly with everyone, and leave nothing unsaid. If you put things off for another day, that could easily turn into another month, then another year, and then never. She realised that, in all probability, what you didn’t say to a person was as just important as what you did say, maybe even more so. It struck her that thoughts like that would have been foreign to her just a few short months ago. She was really learning a lot about life, and, well yes, about herself. Was that because of the influence that knowing Matt had had on her?

When she arrived back at the church, and came up to its entrance, she had absolutely no recollection of the place at all. It was like she had never seen the place before in her life. She knew that on the day of Matt’s funeral she had been so devastated with her sadness that she probably hadn’t been paying attention to all the little details. It had all just been background noise to the symphony of sadness that had been playing in her mind. She had arrived for the funeral service washed along in a flood of tears, and heartbreak. However, when she walked around the back of the church to the cemetery recognition of the place came flooding back. She remembered with great clarity the beauty, and tranquility, of Matt’s final resting place. It really was a wonderful place to spend eternity. Simple, but captivating with its exquisite grace, just how Matt would have wanted it. Behind the cemetery, almost acting as its picture frame, stood a stand of trees, their branches swaying gently in the autumn breeze. The early morning chill had passed, and the midday sun was warm, and welcome. As she approached Matt’s grave she could see Connor and Peter sitting on the ground on a laid-out blanket. Both of them had a glass in hand. Constance smiled to herself at the sight of them. She could guess with great certainty what would be in those glasses. Without a doubt it would be gin. What else could they drink in that place? As soon as they saw her they both waved.

‘Hi there, Constance,’ called Connor, ‘Sorry, but we’ve already started without you.’

‘No, it’s my fault, I’m running a bit late. I’m terribly sorry, I…’

‘Let’s hear none of that, now. You just make sure you’re late for your own funeral.’

Constance smiled, even through her sadness Connor, with his ever present wit, had found a way to perk her up. Peter stood up to greet her.

‘It’s lovely to see you Constance. It’s so nice to meet up here, with our dear friend Matt. Remember, today isn’t a day for tears, and sadness, today is a celebration of his life, not of his death. Let’s try to avoid the tears, eh? What do you say?’

Constance wiped away the tears that were already forming in her eyes, and forced out a smile.

‘I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t promise anything. I miss him so much. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I’d only known him a short while, the two of you had been…’

Connor interrupted her in a friendly, but firm, tone of voice.

‘Don’t be going and thinking like that, now.’ said Connor. ‘It’s not how long you knew someone, it’s all about how well you knew the person, and the effect that he had on your life. And he was the master at that, you know? Everyone who knew him was drawn in by him. He was just that sort of person.’

Constance smiled at his kindness, and laid down a blanket she had also brought. She sat down next to Matt’s friends. By then Matt’s permanent headstone had been put in place. It was a simple, rectangular shaped stone, with a rounded top, and just gave Matt’s name, and the dates of his birth, and death. At the top a small cross had been engraved into it. It was very simple, but elegant.

‘I really love Matt’s headstone. Who chose it?’

Peter smiled at her.

‘I did. I tried to keep it in line with Matt’s personality. Humble, but with a strong prescence. I’m glad you like it. I think it suits him.’

‘It does,’ Constance agreed. ‘Im sure he would be really happy with it. He would have hated something too ostentatious, that’s for sure.’

Constance opened the bag she had brought with her, and started to pull out the contents.

‘I’ve brought us some things to eat, and, of course, some of Matt’s favourite gin.’

Connor and Peter both laughed. Peter opened the cooler bag they had with them, to show her the contents.

‘That’s a good job. We forgot all about bringing something to eat. Rather forgetful of us, considering the whole picnic idea was ours. We do however have plenty of gin, grapefruit soda, and ice, so it wasn’t all bad.’

All three of them laughed. Constance lifted her arms, and shrugged her shoulders.

‘Well, you did remember the essentials, anyway.’

They all laughed again. Peter’s face turned slightly serious.

‘It’s good that we can all laugh here. You know, let’s make that the theme of the day. Remembering, and laughing.’

‘And drinking a shit load of gin. You forgot that part.’ added Connor. ‘Here you go, young lass, get this into you.’

Connor passed a gin to Constance, prepared in a large glass.

‘Thanks. Cheers everyone.’

Constance raised her glass, and took a sip. The first of many in what she was expecting to be a long session.

‘You know, usually for a picnic people drink out of plastic cups. I should have realised that that would never do for the two of you.’

Connor laughed heartily.

‘Now that would go against all of Matt’s principles, wouldn’t it now? Drinking gin out of a plastic cup. For him that would be sacrilege. Especially in this, the holiest of places.’

Peter replied by raising his glass in salute.

‘Hear, hear. When only the best will do.’

Connor raised his glass as well.

‘Amen to that, my son.’

All three of them laughed. Constance realised, and understood perfectly, why the two friends wanted to keep the mood light, and happy. They, like her, wanted some respite from the deep sorrow that had fallen on them.

Constance had some lingering doubts about how Matt had died, so she thought that she should get those sort of questions out of the way as soon as possible, while a bit of seriousness was still possible. She knew that as the number of gins consumed mounted there would be little place for that.

‘Peter, did they ever work out precisely why someone so fit and healthy would have had a heart attack?’

Peter’s expression turned thoughtful, and he nodded.

‘Yeah, they did. It would seem that he was born with a congenital heart defect. Apparently it was a fairly minor one, that’s why he never had any symptoms previously.’ he sighed. ‘But in the end it was a time bomb just tickling away slowly inside him. In all likelihood if he hadn’t looked after himself as well as he did he would probably have died years earlier. So that’s something.’

The three of them looked morosely at their drinks. Each temporarily lost in his own thoughts. The melancholic silence was broken by Connor.

‘Well, he certainly lived before he died, that’s for sure. He travelled the world, and brought happiness into many a soul. He lived many a story, enough to fill volumes of poetry books, without a doubt.’

Peter nodded in agreement.

‘That’s true, mate, he really did pack a lot into those years. He lived a full life, in the time he had. Talking of which,’ he said, looking at Constance, ‘you’re not going anywhere until you’ve told us some of his stories from his Aussie days. First, of course, we will need a few more gins, just to get us into the right frame of mind.’

Constance was excited at the prospect. She was looking forward to recounting Matt’s tales from his early years in Australia to his good friends. She knew that they would enjoy them as much as she had.

‘Not a problem at all. Connor, why don’t you fix us another round, and I will sort out something for us to eat?’

Connor was fully ready to oblige.

‘I can see what Matt saw in you, I can. Coming right up, dear girl.’

Constance spread out all the things she had brought to eat. Chicken, ham, cheese, tomatoes, and various snacks including olives, always a must in Spain. She had had a sneaking suspicion that the boys would have been a bit neglectful on the food side for Matt’s memorial picnic.

‘I see you are on the gin again today, Connor. Is this gin drinking just a Matt thing for you, in remembrance of him? I remember Bianca saying you were a beer man.’

Peter and Connor both roared with laughter. It was Peter who answered.

‘No, he’s been fully converted. After bloody years of scoffing at the rest of us for drinking gin, now you can’t stop the bastard.’

Connor, too, was already in fine form.

‘Well, in life I never listened to the man. I thought that in death I might just give it a go. It turns out he was right all along.’

Peter used the opening to put the boot in to his friend.

‘You see, you’ve really got to stop reading all that bloody Irish poetry. Kiwis will tell you everything that you need to know about how to live your life.’

Through all his laughter, Connor spilt the gin he was passing over to Constance.

‘Sorry, there, my girl. Don’t go listening to these bloody Kiwis, they will just fill your head with all sorts of nonsense. They know how to play a fairly good game of rugby, but that’s about as far as it goes. You’ve certainly laid on a good spread there, lass. Well done, us two buggers couldn’t have managed anything like that, even if we had remembered to bring some food. It’s certainly a good job you’re here.’

Peter was on a roll with his friend. He wasn’t going to leave him in peace.

‘Did you hear that, Constance? An Irishman using the word ‘bugger’. Where do you think he got that from? Not from an 18th century Irish poet, that’s for sure.’

Constance burst out laughing, along with her two friends. Her sadness had passed, and her heart was full of warmth. It was, as Peter had asked for it to be, a celebration, rather than a mourning. She had spent the last month heartbroken about Matt’s death, moping around her flat constantly thinking about him, and about how difficult it would be for her to go on without him. But a new perspective was starting to dawn over her. She was starting to appreciate what he had given her in life. And that had been a lot. She realised that even in death you could hold onto someone, and never let their presence slip through your fingers. You could keep them alive, or, at least, the memory of that person alive, in your thoughts. Being with Peter and Connor helped her with that. She absolutely knew that she needed the two of them in her life, permanently. In their company she would be able to keep her connection with Matt present in her life.

‘Can we make this a regular thing, guys? I don’t mean necessarily out here at the cemetery, but I would really like to meet up, and just… well, chat about things. The two of you really help me to keep Matt with me, I mean, the memory of him.’

It was Peter who answered on behalf of the two of them.

‘And you do the same for us. Don’t worry, we were both hoping to make this a regular thing as well.’ His face grew slightly contorted. ‘When I’m with Connor, and you, I feel good about Matt. When I’m on my own the mind starts to wander, and I always end up feeling terribly sad. Grief counseling isn’t really my thing. I’m not the sort of person to lie back down on a couch, and be told by some idiot that it all comes from issues that I had with my mother, when I was a child, or some such bollocks as that. Drinking with you guys, and chatting about Matt’s life, the good memories, the person he was, that’s what works for me.’

Connor, too, had turned reflective.

‘Have you ever thought about writing down some of those thoughts. You know, that’s where the best poetry comes from. From deep within.’

Peter looked at Connor, and gave a slight nod.

‘Actually I am doing that. I doubt that I will ever let anyone read any of it, but it does feel good. It’s quite cathartic. It sort of brings me a bit of a feeling of release, to get those thoughts down on paper. It helps me to sort out how I feel, and to come to grips with it all.’

‘Well, you keep on writing it down, and if, and when, you are ready, I would dearly love to read some of it. I understand exactly what you mean about your reluctance to open those thoughts to others. It’s hard to open up, and let people have a window into your inner soul, but, in reality, that’s where the best writing comes from. Whether it’s poetry, or just a song, or whatever. It’s that real, raw emotion that draws people in.’

Constance had followed the conversation closely. She was impressed with their obviously high degree on intellect. Both of them were fun loving, always with an eye to the humorous side of life, but also both had great depth of intelligence, and character in them. A sense of the profound. Could she, too, follow Connor’s advice? Maybe she should think about writing down the stories Matt had told her, while interjecting some of his personality into them. If nothing else, it would be a nice way to keep Matt alive, and also to immortalise a part of his life. Or, better still, she could write a novel about the adventures of Matt, and her father. The idea came to her like an illumination. She was finding out more, and more, about her father, from her mother, who she had slowly, gently, managed to convince to open up about him. She could write a novel based loosely on the two of them, as if they had been friends travelling around together. They had both been important people in her life, and she could also see if she could throw in a few of her own thoughts, as well. Before saying anything, she would try and jot down some lines, then, if it looked like it was going to work, she would ask Connor for some help. He was definitely well versed on the literature side of life. Peter interrupted her thoughts.

‘You look like you’re miles away, Constance.’

‘I’ve just had the most brilliant idea,’ she said, instantly forgetting her decision to hold her fire until she was more sure of the terrain underfoot. ‘I’m thinking about writing a novel, based on Matt’s adventures during his hippy days, back in the late 70’s, and put my father into it as well, as one of his friends. My father died when I was young, but he was a hippy back in those days too. What do you think?’

Connor was ecstatic.

‘That’s a great idea, there now. What a great way to remember both of them. That would be a fantastic tribute to their lives.’

Peter was equally impressed with the idea.

‘That’s one book that I would definitely love to read. Although, you’re not going to get off the hook that easily. We want to hear those stories now. We’re not going to wait until you’ve written a book.’

Constance laughed.

‘Of course, don’t worry. You will be my sounding board, before writing. You know, apart from everything else, that could be something good for me. I’m sort of in an in-between place, at the moment. A project like that would be good for me.’

Connor raised his hands, in a sort of opening embrace to the two of them.

‘A writer is born. You know, any form of writing is good for you. Call it meditation, call it spirituality, call it what you like. Getting your thoughts down on paper is a way of making them clearer, even to yourself. The pair of you might surprise yourselves.’

Peter finished his drink, and started preparing a round for all three of them.

‘Well, I’m in the mood for hearing chapter one of the new book. What do you say, Constance, time to drag one of those stories out into the light?’

Connor took his drink from Peter’s outstretched hand.

‘Well, lass, it looks like you are up. How about a story about the old days? Just what did that bugger get up to in Aus?’

Constance was delighted to be able to share with her friends something that they didn’t know about Matt. The gin she had drank made her feel relaxed, and almost in a dreamy state. The warm breeze wafted across her, taking her mind back to faraway places.

‘Well, let me tell you about a place called Kuranda…’