When Dad Died

Morag MacInnes

Well he was always an awkward rambunctious kinda bugger, an atheist in a town full of Wee Frees, a socialist in a county full of farming Liberals (they're worse than non farming ones), the first O U graduate in a world full of pulled-myself-up-by-my-bootstrappers. He died walking backwards, just to see if he could do it, having discovered that he could - again - walk frontwards, despite the hospital infections. Typical. Fell over and hit his head and died trying.

I saw him in the morning; I took the dog as usual into the Old Folks Home. Aye aye, said Vivian, thu'r here fur Ian, Aye, I said, me and Ivy.

Right bonny dug, says Vivian. Gie her a biscuit.

Hello Mog! he said. He never forgot my old family moniker, despite all the infarcts, the interventions, the short circuits, whatever you want to call the brain decay. He slurped the porridge, but it was still him, eating his porridge like he used to do at home with the clock ticking and my mum waiting for him to cook her scrambled eggs.

He was very happy. I did the test, he said, I had to tie my laces. I tied them Extremely well.

The day before he'd had to have an assessment, to see if he was ready to come home. He had to describe how he would get up. He had to show how he'd dress himself. He had to describe where he'd be - the house he'd lived in and presided over for forty years. He had to mention who Tony Blair was. He did this without spitting, which was remarkable. I think he was being kind to the people from Social Services.

I'll see you later dear, he said, because I'll be coming down the road home.

Yes you will dad, I said, and I've put mince on and a rhubarb crumble.

I like a crumble, he said.

I ken fine, dad, that's why it's made. With milk no custard.

Then, because he was so happy, after I left, untied the dog and went home to get his bed ready and sort the mince - he got out of his chair, which pointed out towards the Flow and the sky, in the impossibly hot conservatory which Old Folks Homes always have, to make the old folks feel connected to what they've left behind - and tried walking backwards, because he felt he was at last again in charge of his legs.

And fell over, you can guess it, and hit his head and didn't regain consciousness.

Vivian phoned. You might wanta come up, she said.

So I spent the evening doing what you do, though you don't know that's what you do. I read him stories and told him things. He was curled up like a tired baby, breathing hard. I don't know if he heard them. In the end, Vivian came in and said, have a cup of tea. I took my eyes off him for one second, to say, yes please, that's kind - and that's when the breathing stopped.

You can't imagine the dead face. But we put him in the studio where he painted all the pictures, and we all put stuff in his coffin beside him, books and drawings and flowers and lentils. That was another day, though, which also contained music and stories and poems and politically incorrect anecdotes. Squads of folk stretching down the street wanting to come to the celebration of his death. They had a fine time, he would have approved.

As for me, well, I won't forget him walking backwards after having his porridge; and expecting to get back home later for rhubarb crumble. It wisna the worst wey to go.