Cold Comfort

It was a sunny, Saturday afternoon in the middle of June and he was pottering in the front garden. He was not a gardener, had never had a garden till now, but liked to sit out in the sun surrounded by pots of plants. He was waiting for us to arrive. A short, slight man, as brown as a berry, a result of years of working outdoors. Sleeves rolled up to the elbow, grey hairs peeping over the top of his vest, looking prepared for anything thrown his way. He smiled his leprechaun smile and his eyes seemed to have regained their mischievous twinkle. The dog at his side, unable to keep still with the exuberance of being alive.

He’d not been well for a while and had spent a few days in hospital. A mini stroke had been diagnosed, but all now seemed to be well.

"Come in and sit down. Your ma’ll make you a drink."

"No! You sit down. I’ll make a drink. I’ll put the shopping away."

From the kitchen I could hear the rumble of conversation.

My parents, both in their mid seventies, had achieved a late life contentment in each others company.

I usually called on Saturday, bringing any shopping they needed along with a few treats I thought they might like, strawberries or raspberries in season; a cream cake and for my father, who had recently developed a sweet tooth, a bar of chocolate. I put the bar of chocolate in the fridge, knowing that he would find it later and sit contentedly munching it whilst he watched the cricket on the television.

A naturalised Brummie, with a strong Irish accent, I think the only time he was ever ashamed of his Irish ancestry was after the Birmingham pub bombings. His life was made quite miserable at the time by the attitude of others. Being ‘tarred with the same brush’ I suppose.

He had a passion for Warwickshire County Cricket Club and Aston Villa. I have no interest in sport but I loved to sit with him and watch him whilst he watched an important game. He would perch on the end of his seat, in his leprechaun manner, and live every minute of the game. This being the summer it was cricket’s turn for his full attention.
 

He came to Birmingham to work just before the Second World War, found a job - and my mother, and became an accepted part of her family. My nan loved him to bits and I can still hear her lament, "What is he saying?" She never could fathom out his broad Dublin accent.

We enjoyed our tea and cream cakes and he came out into the garden to see us off.

"The cricket’s about to start. You’d better go and get settled. Take care! Speak to you soon." He waited at the gate and waved us off into the distance.

It was later that day that my mother phoned to say that he had died, peacefully, whilst watching the cricket on the television.

Some weeks later, on one of my Saturday visits to my mother she asked me if I would clean out the fridge. There, at the back, was the extra large Yorkie Bar. The last thing I’d ever bought my father. Seeing me holding it my mother said, "You might as well take that. I won’t eat it."

I took it home and put it in the fridge. I couldn’t eat it. Each time the fridge was cleaned the chocolate was put to one side, along with the stale bits of cheese and the sour cream, in order to be thrown away. The cream and cheese would find their way into the bin but the Yorkie Bar always seemed to creep back in, pushed to the back, hidden behind the jars and bottles, waiting for me to find it.

 

It lived in my fridge for quite a few years. I wouldpick it up, smile, and return it to its cold home.
 Eventually the day came when I felt it could be thrown away.

Strange how something so mundane and of so little value can be so precious.