I don't have a very good memory. Sometimes details will inexplicably attach themselves to my mind, but quite often the obvious, the things right in front of me, will disappear all too soon. I can go in another room and forget what I've gone in for.
Friday was the funeral of one my oldest friends. Lindsay Lynskey died at the ridiculously young age of 42, overtaken by an illness that did its worst work in a few short weeks. I like to think I have a broad view of life - a gently philosophical approach to all the good and bad each of us has thrown our way. But in quiet moments, like now, I'm surprised to find just how damned angry I am about that.
I elected to wear dark colours as I got ready that morning. I thought of adding a splash of colour - maybe a bright tie - by way of celebration of my friend's life, but I'm not a colourful person by nature and I wanted to go there and pay my respects as me. With that in mind I chose my baseball boots over my shoes - yes, being me involves trying to look like David Tennant. I'm a geek, I don't have a personality of my own. Back to the tie - I had evoked the mix of laughter and scolding from Lindsay that I always sought from her on the last occasion I wore my old Buile Hill School tie. It seemed right to wear it again today.
Lindsay and I dated briefly in secondary school. I had fallen for her suede boots - both burgundy and blue pairs - and she... Well, it's a mystery why she went out with me. It was just what you did when you were a teenager. She can't have been that enthralled by me - she would spend time squeezing my blackheads - 'tubes' she would call them. If nothing else I was well exfoliated during our short fling. I tricked her into wrapping her own Christmas present No Parlez by Paul Young (excuse me while I just download that from iTunes...(incidentally, a couple of years later Paul Young's song Everything Must Change stayed at no9 for three weeks. Ironic, huh?)). We broke up amongst the usual mish-mash of rivalries and jealousies that seem all-important when you're 14 or 15. But those waters settled and as sometimes happens even when you're too young to know any better something in you unconsciously recognises the importance of your friendship over anything else. And friends we stayed.
I got on the 0700 to Manchester and found my seat. My friend and colleague Gaz who was on duty at the station that morning hopped on board and wished me well. He'd lost his father, Scarborough Station's own legendary John Clough, in similar circumstances last year, a loss felt keenly by all of us. I appreciated him asking after me as I set off. I settled in with the Danny Baker podcast on my iPod.
I don't remember too much about Lindsay's marriage to Shaun (Sean?). See, I told you I had a poor memory. I vaguely remember the wedding at St Lukes - and wasn't the reception at a masonic hall or something in Monton? Not sure. I know it ended badly (the marriage, not the reception) with Lindsay saddled with a house on Kara Street in Salford with terraces around her being condemned and knocked down. It's all been knocked down around there now.
I got a bite at Piccadilly station and hopped on the tram. I didn't take any chances waiting for a Bury service - I got the first one to Piccadilly Gardens and walked to Market Street where the timetable frequency would be doubled. I was soon on my way and arrived at Heaton Park not long after. I paused before I set off for the house. I've never fully grown up. There's still a part of me that doesn't want to confront the realities of adult life. I knew I was going to go - how could I not? - but for a couple of seconds those deep set childish insecurities piped up. I don't want to go. I shouldn't have to go. This isn't happening. In some ways it was comforting to let those raw feelings have their head for a little while, but what passes for a grown up in my personality asserted itself and I set off.
(This Paul Young is brilliant. I honestly think I haven't heard it since I was last sat in the back room of Lindsay's mum and dad's around 25 years ago. Ah, the Fabulous Wealthy Tarts on backing vocals. Apparently one of them's called the Rev. Lesley Kim. She's now a devotee of Hare Krsna and is an anointed minister. Here's her website.)
I attended Leigh College in 91-93 in order to get the relevant A levels for the Creative Arts degree I took at Crewe and Alsager between 93 and 96. During that time, while both of us were flying solo, we'd spend odd days hanging out. I'd tag along to dos related to her radiography work at MRI. She took us in her little blue Renault 5 all the way down to Cornwall for John Bramwell's wedding. I remember pausing in the fog on the A38, the giant golfballs of some radar installation protruding from the mists.
To my shame, I had never been to Chris and Lindsay's house before. Easy enough to get to too - just round the corner from the tram. No excuse. Just another one of those things you think you'll have time to get around to one day. Just so happens it's today. Everybody's there - I greet Linda in her fabulous big hat. I meet Chris' parents and then find the familiar faces inside. Boydie and her missus, Dave and his. Jo, and of course Steph. Steph, also from way back when, junior school days, single digit days and here we all were in our forties. Some of us. Steph had kept me up to speed in those last horrible days and had offered me and Jo a lift to the crematorium along with her husband Steve. Pip the dog, a lovely rottweiller cross like dear old Amber who we used to take for walks in Buile Hill Park, was wandering from person to person, looking for someone. She wouldn't find her. Lindsay's friend from New Zealand, Maggie, hadn't seen me since my long-haired hippy days. All these little reminders of time passing. I offered Lindsay's dad my condolences - Lindsay's mum caught sight of me and told me that my mum and dad had visited them the other night. I was glad of that. My mum was mindful of being a bother at a difficult time - our family has always been low key in how its shown its affection - but I've always believed despite that we've always known what mattered. To know my folks had overcome their shyness pleased me. This mattered.
I always loved getting letters from Linz. She was a prolific writer and her missives would stretch to page after page in a very readable, chatty and quite often laugh-out-loud way. She was a voracious reader, quite capable of polishing off a Stephen King doorstop in an afternoon. I occasionally nudged her about writing more formally. She always shrugged this off, but I'm certain she could have had a bigger audience with the quality and humour of her writing. Of course, Linz had a proper grown up job. But she never judged my perpetual student lifestyle. I moved away to Scarborough, and consequently we saw less of each other. I grew up - a bit - when I became a father and on a visit back to Manchester my family bumped into Lindsay and her boyfriend Chris in the Trafford Centre. We quickly arranged to all meet up back at my mum's house later. There's a lovely picture somewhere - from those pre-digital days it could be anywhere now - of Linz bouncing No1 son on her knee. Lindsay and Chris set the date for their wedding, and soon after Shu Shu and I arranged ours. We squeezed ours in first - there were relatives from overseas to accommodate! - and Lindsay and Chris were among the guests sharing our lovely day at the seaside. We returned the compliment later that year at their wedding in Lymm. I completely cocked up my work schedule. It was only through the generosity of Christine, my boss at Scarborough station, that I managed to work an early half shift and get away to Warrington in time. I wore my work trousers to the wedding. Not my finest hour, but certainly Chris and Lindsay's.
Chris came over and hugged me, thanked me for the letter I'd sent in sympathy. I don't know Chris that well - after I moved from Salford we'd met barely a dozen times over the years. But I knew the man he was - the way he looked at Lindsay, the way he looked after Lindsay. They were always at ease in each other's company and clearly in love. You know you should keep in touch with the people you care about more often. But I'll confess to taking for granted the fact that I thought my friend would always be there. She was being well looked after, so there was no pressing need to check in that often. Especially in the Facebook age where a quick word or two here - or even a quick browse of their updates - would reassure. We all made small talk, tissues were strategically deployed for the tears that were bound to come. Then somebody - I forget who (the lousy memory again) said 'She's here.' It took me a second to realise who they meant.
I managed to get to a couple of the reunions of the class of '85. The ways we had all changed, the ways we had all stayed the same. At the last one, we decamped to Jo's house where we ended the evening with tea and toast. That's about my speed these days. Further ones would be arranged on Facebook, but my shifts or time spent with the boys (I'd since seperated from Shu Shu) would clash. And so on to the recurring theme of this post: no matter - there'd be other times. I'll get around to it one day. Yes, procrastination is the thief of time. And those are goods that are never recovered.
In the hearse lay the wicker coffin. Lindsay had chosen an environmentally sensitive way to be laid to rest. It was things like that made me respect her as well as love her. We followed in procession, passing the Ostrich Inn on Bury Old Road. A sudden thought occurred to me. I announced to the car 'that's an anagram of O, Christ.' Bizarre that I should notice that now - it's never occurred to me before. Blackley (pronounced 'Blakely' for anyone outside Manchester. I always remember a TV show where someone claimed to be from 'Black-ly' in Manchester. Er, no, I thought) Cemetery wasn't far away. I was struck by the size of it. As I said earlier, I had been to John Clough's funeral in Scarborough last year. The grounds where that service took place were dwarfed by the size of Blackley's, big enough as it was to cater for the north of Manchester. As well as the traditional headstones there were trees with plaques - I assume planted as a memorial to those named and now fully grown. We parked up and walked to the chapel, catching up with more friends, old friends, on the way: Mark and Diane; Phil and Christianne. There was Paula, and Lesley. All of us gathering. The hearse arrived and it became apparent they were one bearer short. Linda's Jake was pressed in to service and did us all proud.
Inside it was packed. Linda said the headcount had been 280, but Paula later posted that the chapel was designed to seat 300 and there were people stood at the back. The sound of Take That greeted us. And then the service, a lovely humanist one thoughtfully overseen by Shirley, the celebrant. The tributes she read on behalf of Chris (including how they'd met after he'd given Lindsay his number after a night out), on behalf of Lindsay's mum and dad, Linda and Dave brought their tears, as did the words of her friends Maggie and Helen. But at the risk of singling out an individual, our friend Linda's emotional eulogy, full of love, laughter and despair summed up the day perfectly. Steph, next to me, held on to me, making sure I was ok. I was, more or less, and then on came Dream A Little Dream of Me. All those memories of tea and Mama Cass came flooding back in a torrent of stinging tears.
The first moment I realised something was up was when Linz's presence disappeared from Facebook. With typical paranoia I wondered had I said something to upset her. Had she 'unfriended' me? But then I saw the messages that were circulating and began to realise the truth was much worse. I had lost her mobile number when my phone had crashed a few months ago - again no urgency in getting that sorted out. Steph updated me and I joined all the well wishers texting her. 'Cheers chicky,' she replied. 'It's only going to get worse once a proper diagnosis is made...' I was over in Salford the next week so I arranged to visit her. I was very kindly squeezed in, bypassing the rota that had had to be set up to allow everyone a chance to see her. I didn't know then it would be the last time I ever would ever talk to her.
At the end of the service the Mavericks urged us to Dance The Night Away. We each went up to the casket and said our final goodbyes. As we slowly shuffled from the chapel I kept looking back. This couldn't be it. I'd heard the words, seen it all with my own eyes but it still didn't make sense. Still doesn't make sense. Outside I put my arm around Lindsay's mum and kissed the top of her head.
Back at the hospital we had chatted and I gave Lindsay the cards from me and my mum and dad. A bit about Man City with Chris, pictures of my boys to show mum Linda, railway talk with dad Dave. My friend looked so drawn and tired. I spoke to her about something or other, aware of the crack that had crept into my voice. There was talk of how this year's holiday would have to be in this country with her so ill. I'd catch up the next time I was in Salford, maybe a week or two. The latest round of pain relief was administered and it was time to go - Lindsay was nodding off. Our last words:
'You know.'
'Yeah, I know.'
News of the final diagnosis came just a couple of days later. Linda, the best friend who had kept us all in the loop during this awful time, hadn't wanted to simply post the news so she requested we phone her. It was a short call, hope gone, only a few words needed. How many times must she have said them that day? I was in London that last weekend and working back in Scarborough on the Sunday. I could have made it back to Salford.
I chose not to go.
Still trying to figure out exactly why. Mostly well-intentioned stuff like not wanting to impinge on short precious time that could be spent with her family and genuinely feeling I'd said what I'd wanted to say. But I could have gone. And I didn't.
The wake was at the Fairways hotel. More old friends, Linda's mum and dad. They still remembered what TARDIS stood for. Good food, a bit of booze. A good send off.
These were faces I only ever saw when I was back in Salford and Manchester. So by association I kept looking around for the one that was missing.
Bit by bit we drifted away, back to our own lives. A bus ride into town and a quick pie and chips before I got the train back awaited me. But for now it was time to say my goodbyes. To my friends, to mum Linda and dad Dave. Finally to Chris.
I have a terrible memory.
We hugged and wished each other well. 'You know,' he said, 'Lindsay always said it was you that encouraged her to phone that number.' That number, of course, being the one Chris had given to Linz after their first meeting. I admitted that I didn't remember doing that.
But I won't forget now.
Here's the poem that was read during the service. It's by Helen Lowrie Marshall.
Afterglow
I'd like the memory of me
to be a happy one.
I'd like to leave an afterglow
of smiles when life is done.
I'd like to leave an echo
whispering softly down the ways.
Of happy times and laughing times
and bright and sunny days.
I'd like the tears of those who grieve,
to dry before the sun.
Of happy memories that I leave
when life is done.
No more.
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