Family Politics by John O’Farrell

Author:John O’Farrell [O’Farrell, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781529915457
Publisher: Penguin Random House UK
Published: 2024-03-14T00:00:00+00:00

10

My father died when Dylan was four. He came to the church for the service where I learnt the fairly obvious lesson that pre-school children and funerals are not a great combination. Letting him wear his new trainers that lit up when he ran was also a mistake. Little Dylan lay on his back between the pews banging his heels against the stone floor, watching the light show at the end of his legs. Then during the vicar’s overlong Bible reading, he loudly declared, ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah – whatever …’ Judging from the suppressed laughter and shaking shoulders around me, Dylan had spoken for much of the congregation.

My father had died quite suddenly, so at least he had been reasonably fit and active in Dylan’s early years. Grandparents have such incredible patience with toddlers: my dad would spend hours in his garden with Dylan, assisting him in whatever that afternoon’s important mission might be. When Dylan wanted to pick up the pine cones, carry them to the pond and then throw them in, his grandfather was prepared to assist in this task for as long as he was required. Dylan spent hours making satisfying splashing noises in the pond, and his grandfather was content to spend hours doing it with him.

Then one day the pine-cone accomplice was gone. Dylan had no idea that a body was inside that big box at the front of the church, he didn’t really understand death, or that his granddad wouldn’t be there for him next time, but he knew his mummy was very sad, and he did everything he could to address that.

When it was my moment to read the eulogy he paid keen attention, sucking his thumb and staring with his curious, concerned face. But then, standing at the lectern, in the middle of recalling my happiest memories, I broke down in tears and felt embarrassed and so exposed up there. I said sorry to everyone, and tried to gather myself to go again. No one knew quite what to do. That was when little Dylan hopped down from his pew, ran up to his mother, threw his arms around my legs and hugged me tight to try to make things better. And it worked. I picked him up and did the rest of my eulogy with him clinging to me. It was as if my dad was gone, but my little boy would be there now, he would always look out for me.

We buried Dad’s ashes in the woods where he had walked his dog. At first, Dylan helped place them carefully in the hole in the ground, but it quickly turned from a reverential ceremony to a fun game in a makeshift sandpit. And then he excitedly swung his red plastic spade around and my father’s ashes flew into my face – into my mouth, up my nose and into my eyes. I ended up spitting bits of my burnt dad onto the ground, wiping dad-dust out of my eyes, blowing his ashes out of my snotty nose into an old tissue.

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