When Death doth come in its full rage,
It spares not young nor old;
But cuts them down at any age,
It will not bribe with gold.
Take warning then all ye,
Who read this passing by;
And learn to live so that ye,
Be not afraid to die.
(1820).

O, March 9th.

Dear Dad,

I am sitting at my desk in the study upstairs in O, listening to the gardeners hoeing the gravel in front of the house to uproot the weeds that somehow thrive there (along with the snapdragons, which migrated from better soil). The clouds, some silver, some grey, are visibly drifting, the sun reflected in the panels of the neighbour’s greenhouse. The occasional car drives past.

F, March 26th.

Another city, another desk. The sky is again overcast, the workmen clattering up and down the scaffolding. The sonorous bells of the cathedral will summon the devout with an undertone of mourning. It seems strange that it should be harder to write a message for the living than for the dead. The streets of F are narrow, I somehow always expected to see rats scurrying along the gutters, not that litter chokes them. Finally, last night, as I was walking with my friends to an evening of music, I caught sight of one, brown and fat, more waddling than running.
In B, when someone dies the final declaration of wealth and status on the part of the family is to post black-bordered announcements of the funeral arrangements to every house in the village (in the case of O an increasingly expensive undertaking, it having long since outgrown the confines of a few rows of houses along a main street). I do not know how many of these I have dropped into the pile for recycling in the hallway without any of the details registering. The paper is always thick, heavy, luxurious, the envelope never addressed.
My supervisor, Gy, once observed that I have difficulty going into a new building, whether it be a library, or even simply a restaurant, which he could not understand. He described it as „difficulty in entering”. He was right, of course, not that I had particularly noticed it for some years. This and the need to prove myself, the constant drive to perform and outperform, to attain ever greater perfection I inherited from you (along with the love of science fiction and the desire to write). Mum was more practical, more confident. From her I have received the energy that wells up uncontrollably, threatening to engulf me, but now more often channels itself into laughter, her laughter. Also the love of language.
Her kindness manifested itself not merely in generosity, but in attention to detail, always knowing what was wanted or needed. Dispensing a „penny” from her purse, putting a Mars Bar in my packed lunch, remembering in the hospital that G’s pizza took two minutes ten seconds in the microwave, small, almost unnoticeable, yet infinitely revealing things.
The bus passing by the front of the house, the chatter of the children coming home from school. The music from Countdown, all these lost rhythms. Spyria, hung heavy with bees and Tummel mint. Her peony roses. Macaroni and tomato soup, the crab apple tree, her watering the tomatoes in the greenhouse, picking them for Mrs. B and the neighbours down the bottom. Snow cake, custard creams, Scottish breakfast. Nourishment. By comparison, most other people are cardboard cutouts, soaking in the rain.

Three images stick in my mind.
Hiding inside the hollow tree trunk by the Brahan Woods whilst she chatted to Ina or some other friend. Like the times R and I made „tea” for Granddad when he was babysitting, mixing brown sauce, pepper, custard powder, curry and whatever other substance, liquid or dry we could retrieve from the recesses of the pantry or when we believed you had been fooled by the coat, hat and scarf draped around the solid block of wood to which the bannister is attached with wellington boots peeping out to make the human look more complete I thought she would not know where I was hiding, yet sooner or later the little mouse (her hand) would come scurrying in through the hole near my ankles.
The shores of Loch Tummel with the gleaming pebbles, the minnows darting away from the shadows we cast, dried cow dung, driftwood and fragments of china cups. The stream by The Point, the green light in the woods, the primroses and bluebells. Mum and Auntie C stretched out on a blanket, reading in the sun. I could never understand how they could be content with such inactivity, that they could prefer it to exploring, to playing on the tyre swing. The smell of chips frying in the pan. The sound of games of whist carrying up the stairs.
That last Saturday as she checked her ticket for winning numbers in the Lottery. I can see it clutched in her hand, the blue veins, the delicate bones, the warm skin, her arm resting on the soft leather of the chair; I can see the ring on her finger, the crumpling of the paper when nothing had been won, the anger and bitterness that pricked my heart because she had played and played, year in, year out in the hope of providing something for her family with no reward. The relief that she had not won that evening, the reminder that money in the end is worthless. It could not have given us more time together; it could not have made her well. You should never feel guilty that you could not shower her with expensive gifts because it doesn’t matter. What matters is that you spoke to her softly as she sat cradled in the chair, propping her pillows, soothing her with your voice, holding her hand. What matters is that you always loved her and that the depth of your love for her almost frightened her. She was always aware of it. What matters is that you honoured her and were always faithful to her, that you never left her side, that you would have washed her and cared for her, cooked for her and lifted her, dressed her and comforted her for weeks, for months, for years. What matters is sitting in the boat, covering your missing eye, concealing it from the camera and her laughter, her full laughter at such stubborn vanity, her hair caressed by the breeze. You have nothing to prove that you have not proved a thousandfold already.
What matters is that together you created stability for us; you gifted us those holidays at Tummel, days we will never cease to yearn for and cherish, pristine, unfading memories, always perfect, always bathed in sunshine: the scent of the bales of hay, the dust from the track as cars approached, the roar of Bertie’s tractor, the tiny pools of oily water in the bog, the blossom-laden boughs of the cherry tree, the barn with the rats, you chopping wood or in your waders setting off with Uncle R to fish whilst the radio played in the kitchen, the blackened iron of the range, sitting down to table, the rocking chair in the sitting room, the spider trapped beneath the glass of the picture frame, the Saint Bernard dog rescuing the traveller in the snow, piecing together old jigsaws when it was raining (The Seven Wonders of the World was my favourite), the gooseberries, jets on manoeuvres screeching by, skimmers, the peaks of Farragon and Schiehallion, the Queen’s View bump, the car loaded down with tins, trips to Pitlochry to spend pocket money on summer special Beanos and Dandys and the home made vanilla ice cream cones, the exposed rafters of the empty cottage next door, kick the can, the old bull, the corrugated iron post office, the endless meadows, the peewits in the gathering dusk.