Every now and then, it proves necessary to go ‘back to Blighty’.
Recently, we’ve returned because my aunt passed away and we wished to pay our respects at the funeral. She was my dad’s sister and was the last of that generation.
As with all journeys, though, other opportunities then present themselves and so it was this time.
Woven around the journey to the crematorium and the little party afterwards, was a stay with my son and, of course, with my grandson.
I know that grandparents are probably unable to offer an objective view and may be a little biased when it comes to their grandchildren (probably? A little biased? I hear you chuckle!).
Anyway, he is, nevertheless, an absolute delight. He has reached the age when he can communicate and is able to express himself.
Not accurately or even clearly, but he does make his needs known.
The second morning of our stay, I stirred to the sound of him talking to himself in his room, which is next to ours.
He was burbling away, with all sorts of sounds mixed in with recognisable words and was obviously just passing the time.
All went quiet. Then, as clear as a bell, came the call ‘morny’.
Not a shout, but clearly spoken and with a tone which expected a response.
I began to get up, and once again, ‘morny’.
I put on my dressing gown and made my way into his room and there he was! Standing up, holding on to the bars of his cot with one hand and waving with the other.
‘Morny’, he called, as I entered. ‘Morning, Ben’, I said. ‘How are you today?’ ‘Deedo’, he replied and pointed down towards the back of his cot, at the floor and, sure enough, his dummy – soother – pacifier – was on the floor.
His word for it is ‘deedo’.
I scrabbled around underneath the cot and he sat down and chuckled at my efforts to reach it.
He reached out and, briefly, his little hand rested against my head. I became still.
One hand held his ‘deedo’ but I wanted to prolong the moment. His tiny fingers stroked my forehead and he patted my hair.
Then he stood up again and called ‘deedo’, with a more urgent tone. I relented and passed it to him, having enjoyed the moment.
Then my son, his dad, appeared and we spent a while together – three generations of chaps, just enjoying the moment.
The three days in England were, naturally, hectic.
However, there was, for me, a sense of family and of calm, too. Despite the hurly-burly of travel and of shopping, slotted in between meals and journeys, I experienced some thoughtful, reflective times.
It became apparent, a little sad, surely, that time passes.
Generations come and go. My dad’s generation has gone; but the next is there, growing up fast.
It is poignant, wistful, even melancholic; yet there is a feeling of connectedness between generations, of familial togetherness, which is what it’s all about, I suppose.
I’m pleased that we returned to ‘Blighty’. Just three rushed, but important days.
- Mike Gaunt is a former headmaster at St Christopher’s School, Bahrain
– mikegaunt@gmail.com