The Lowering Sky

The Bentley purrs through the Yorkshire Dales, devouring the miles, closer and closer to what? Closure?

The anger burns brightly these last thirty years, driving me onwards. Slowing down to negotiate the hump back bridge, scattering sheep across the moor. The lowering sky, the stone chapel. a fine drizzle descending on the heads of this handful of good people, shuffling silent into the church, eyes down. The coffin, surprisingly long for such a small man. Gleaming brass handles, polished wood. Screwed tightly shut.

Peregrine Percival Oatenshaw Snr. Rests. at peace. The feuding offspring, seated side by side along the front row bow their heads and wonder why? how? when?

The service begins, a blur, I’m focusing on the words, my mouth dry, heart racing.

“…and now Peregrine Percival Oatenshaw will read the address…”

The eldest son, absent these last thirty years. I climb to my feet, head down, avoiding the coffin. a scuff on the antique leather, Jeffrey West boot momentarily distracting me. approach the lectern, turning now, surveying the congregation. Silent.

Clearing the throat. And begin.

“When I think of my father, I remember a man whose capacity for laughter remains unmatched – except perhaps by his capacity for tea, which he famously imbibed in industrial quantities.”

Pause.

“He lived life in technicolour, a characteristic recognised early by his headmaster at Stowe who, upon finding a tractor and trailor perched precariously on the famous old portico one day, remarked wearily at the end of the morning prayers “and will Oatenshaw please remove the agricultural machinery from the school steps”"

A glance around the congregation, smiles, warmth, recognition. Nodding encouragement, it’s going to be ok.

“He loved people, musical comedy and pantomime in equal measure and from the king sized cigarettes to the apparently jet propelled sports cars, his enthusiasm for a tall tale, often involving his cousin Sebastian was hard earned by some genuinely death defying escapades – many of which involved his family”

The difficult subject of family; first, torn asunder by bitterness and divorce. Ariadne, the wife nursing a rage that burns undiminished to this day. Unable to close the marriage, unable to close the death. The second marriage, an island, close, snug. Marjory, the second wife, never my biggest fan, eyes me with suspicion.

“A couple of occasions spring to mind – his love of flying led him beyond his airforce career flying low level attack aircraft in the Suez crisis, to training civilians in the skies above the moors. It was there, at 10,000 feet that he turned to me one day, aged 10 and announced “I’m going to have a nap now, fly us to Carlisle – it’s somewhere over there.” He gestured vaguely at the horizon and then feigned sleep – a gimlet eye fixed firmly on the controls, remaining silent until the radio burst into life announcing our approach to Bradford – 100 miles to the south-east of Carlisle which turned out to be, as precisely as he had indicated, ’somewhere else’.”

The smiles, broader now, the atmosphere lifting.

“He was a man who thrived on challenges. A herd of rare Ayrshire cattle, decimated by Brucilosis, yielded to a career in finance. Begun in unlikely fashion with a stint selling insurance door to door in Brixton, a particularly brutal area of London where, he was later to claim, he was routinely threatened with knuckle dusters and other instruments of subtle persuasion. Finance was to give way to a quieter and happier period with Marjory, ‘The Bird’ in the seaside town of Whitby where he ran a post office, ably assisted by Barbara, Pop and Ethel. The many photographs of this happy crew, taken admittedly in the main by my father, attest to the spartan rigour he was later to claim characterised this period.”

Another glance around the congregation – the Brigadier in the back, frowning, shaking his head. I can’t please everyone.

“Retirement, typically, ushered in a period of frenetic activity – he threw himself into the challenges offered by the new world of Information Technology with an enthusiasm matched by a new zeal for travel. Many cruises were undertaken, each one meticulously planned on the latest PC technology, recorded on digital film and painstakingly edited and filed in photoshop.

He was a man of great courage. His first brush with mortality occurred early in his airforce career when, machine gunned in an after hours incident by a member of the Durham Light Infantry, he lost a large part of his liver and remained in a coma for several weeks before fighting back. A feat he was later to repeat after a collision with a furniture lorry that brought him into the close and potentially lethal proximity of a grand piano. My father suffered a broken neck on that occasion. The piano he maintained, was out of tune. What became of the vehicle he was driving is unknown.

His bravery under extreme duress during his final illness was extraordinary.

The last time I saw my father, his strength was gone. Typically though, he was winking. At ‘The Bird’.”

I look up, nod and return to my pew. My sister’s hand, last held as children, searches for mine. I squeeze. It’s over. Marjory looking for me, our eyes meet. Quietly, the wavering voice: “Thank you Peregrine”

Thirty years distort and disintegrate, the skin sloughing away in shards…I’m at peace with my father.