Calm

I woke up in the early hours of a morning recently. I never do that. There was that time at first when I wondered if there had been a sound which had woken me, and I lay still listening for it again.

Nothing.

I remembered a house which was much bigger than ours, that I loved visiting. We went sometimes, not very often but enough that I knew the people there, the Boltons, were an important part of my parent’s life.

Mr Bolton was a builder, and had done well. I don’t think he had built that house, but it was brand new and huge, to me, so many rooms, a huge lounge room looking out towards the sea. Their road was one long slope, with the house at the top corner and it seemed as if you could just start running downhill and eventually you would just run into the waves.

I was mad keen on rugby then and the All Blacks were overseas. I was mad keen on sport full stop and so much of it happened on the other side of the world.

My dad had been good at sport and I just assumed he was still as madly in love with sport as I was.

I remember shaking him awake for the FA Cup final when Arsenal beat Manchester United in 1979, I was so proud that I had managed to wake up in time, I think it was probably 2am ish. I sat in the lounge for a while as the teams got ready. I kept thinking dad would come through the lounge room door any minute, worried he’d missed some of the match.

Getting on for kick off I went and gave him a shake. I went back to the lounge and the game began, and a few minutes later I went and gave him another good shake because he really wouldn’t want to miss any more than he already had. I think he came out at half time looking like he wished football had never been invented, and headed for bed long before United managed to drag themselves back to two all and then throw it all away in the last minute.

It was later that year when we stayed at the Bolton’s place, and the All Blacks were due to play England at Twickenham.

I didn’t have a watch back then, or an alarm clock. I had some inbuilt clock though; I could always wake up just before any match was about to start at Wembley, or Murrayfield, or Cardiff Arms Park. We kids would have gone to bed ‘late’ and the adults almost always played on at cards as we were sent off to brush our teeth and get snuggled down.

I remember the house being cold, completely silent, with that moonlight emptiness. I found the kitchen and the big clock on the wall said something like ten minutes to three am. I went into the lounge thinking dad and Mr Bolton would be there, waiting on kick off, as excited as I was. Nothing. I waited for a while and I think eventually could hear my dad snoring from one of the other rooms. I was too timid back then to turn on someone else’s tv.

I haven’t thought of Mr Bolton in years, haven’t seen him in many more.

I sent my lockdown message to my mum in New Zealand the next day. Just the usual something and nothing. She replied quickly as she often does with it getting dark over there. She had her bits of news about the garden and the neighbours.

And that Mr Bolton had died overnight.

He was nothing like my dad.

Somehow that showed me that there were things to my dad that I didn’t know or understand back then.

He had been dad’s best man. The photos looked like exactly the same man only more dapper than I ever saw him, because we really only saw the Boltons at the beach over Christmas.

Those were halcyon times for me, he had a section at Pauanui with nothing on it other than a little shed with a toilet and a washing machine. The Bolton’s had their caravan and we would go further down the section, towards the paddocks at the back, and set up in the camper-matic mum and dad had. We had our own outside toilet tent one year, very Out of Africa.

Sometimes a time and place are remembered as nothing much more than the first feeling they give you, for me anyway. Those years, I think there were three different summers, I feel as calm, peace. My dad was a different man when he was with Dennis. My mum loved Dennis because of that as much as for anything else.

I stayed with my parents a few years ago, for a month. I flew there from Australia, taking a break from being a firefighter. I knew I wasn’t really taking a break even then, that I was never really going to be able to go back to doing that work.

I had fallen down a big hole pretty quickly, I couldn’t cope with any more car wrecks. To some degree I’d spoken to my mum about that, and we had agreed time in the quiet of small-town New Zealand, with a beach just up over the dunes, might be the best thing just then.

It was okay. I love my parents for many things, but I think they found it difficult to cope with me wanting to talk about the reality of what I was feeling.

I only mention that because while I was there, they got a call from Mrs Bolton. Crazily enough her name was Glennys. Dennis and Glennys.

Dennis had been admitted to a nursing home near to where they lived. He had some quite severe signs of dementia, I think.

He had been struggling with a few things for a while. Gambling had become a bit of a problem, and drinking.

I remember asking mum when they would go up and see him. She said something like, ‘well you know, it’s hard to work out when would be best’.

I thought right then would be best.

Dad said something like ‘you don’t want to interfere’.

I thought no matter what Dennis would want to see you. Even if he didn’t remember anyone else, I think he would have found some connection to the past when he saw my dad’s face, a connection to something good.

I had a friend in Australia who every week got in the car and came to see me, miles and miles away. And every time he arrived, I remembered that I was worth the trip.

I wished my dad had done that for Dennis Bolton.

I remember you Mr Bolton, and for me you mean peace, calm.