The Money I Get When I'm Dead
Well, it's a week and a day since the Communist died.
Most people, perhaps, don't talk to their parents as often as I talked to mine. When I was at Leeds University, I lived at home for most of the time. I did move out for about six months and lived in a friend's house, because he was working away from Leeds.
The Communist couldn't understand this really, except it was nearer to the university. I remember him saying "Well, you wouldn't have moved out otherwise, would you?"
As a matter of fact, I did want to move out - I was fed up of living at home. I was nineteen and wanted my own space. The last bus home was ten past eleven and I frequently did a fast sprint through the city centre to catch it. It was the time of the Yorkshire Ripper, but I never seemed to think that it was a bad idea to wander round Leeds late at night on my own.
The only time I've lived away from Leeds, when I lived in Cardiff for four years, I rang my parents a couple of times a week: then we moved back to Leeds and lived at Oakwood, about a mile from their house. Then we moved again, to Meanwood, again no more than a mile and half away.
Finally, we bought their house - the house where I grew up - and they had a house built in its garden. My mother still lives there.
Until the Communist was taken into hospital in May 2007, I would go over every night at about eleven o'clock and spend half an hour with them. I still do this with my mother.
We'd talk about the events of the day: they'd drive me nuts giving me blow-by-blow accounts of television programmes that they'd watched and I hadn't: the Communist would remind me of things that I needed to do and I was usually too tired to want to think about them.
One of these things was his life insurance policy, which he always called "The Money I Get When I'm Dead."
"Don't forget it," he'd say. "It's all in the filing cabinet. My will and all that. And don't forget the money I get when I'm dead."
"Yes, Dad, I know. Can we talk about something else now?"
When we used to have those conversations, I would think ahead to the day when we wouldn't, because he'd be dead. And now I'm thinking back, from a time when he's dead, to a time when we had those conversations. Strange.
Though he refused to even consider that one day he might have a funeral, he had, whilst he still could, labelled everything in the filing cabinet, just in case his belief in his own immortality proved misguided.
After he'd died, when we started to look, it wasn't too complicated to find everything, including the policy for The Money I Get When I'm Dead. And they'd better pay up sharpish so my mother has some money, after having to pay £2300 to the Communist's nursing home every month since January.
As I said, I used to talk to my parents very often. And, believe it or not, I think that the week-and-a-day since he died is the longest I've ever gone without speaking to the Communist since I first learned to speak - which was when I was very young indeed - I know this won't surprise you!
It feels like a bad joke that's gone too far. Come on, the joke's over. Bring my Dad back. I want to tell him about his funeral.
Most people, perhaps, don't talk to their parents as often as I talked to mine. When I was at Leeds University, I lived at home for most of the time. I did move out for about six months and lived in a friend's house, because he was working away from Leeds.
The Communist couldn't understand this really, except it was nearer to the university. I remember him saying "Well, you wouldn't have moved out otherwise, would you?"
As a matter of fact, I did want to move out - I was fed up of living at home. I was nineteen and wanted my own space. The last bus home was ten past eleven and I frequently did a fast sprint through the city centre to catch it. It was the time of the Yorkshire Ripper, but I never seemed to think that it was a bad idea to wander round Leeds late at night on my own.
The only time I've lived away from Leeds, when I lived in Cardiff for four years, I rang my parents a couple of times a week: then we moved back to Leeds and lived at Oakwood, about a mile from their house. Then we moved again, to Meanwood, again no more than a mile and half away.
Finally, we bought their house - the house where I grew up - and they had a house built in its garden. My mother still lives there.
Until the Communist was taken into hospital in May 2007, I would go over every night at about eleven o'clock and spend half an hour with them. I still do this with my mother.
We'd talk about the events of the day: they'd drive me nuts giving me blow-by-blow accounts of television programmes that they'd watched and I hadn't: the Communist would remind me of things that I needed to do and I was usually too tired to want to think about them.
One of these things was his life insurance policy, which he always called "The Money I Get When I'm Dead."
"Don't forget it," he'd say. "It's all in the filing cabinet. My will and all that. And don't forget the money I get when I'm dead."
"Yes, Dad, I know. Can we talk about something else now?"
When we used to have those conversations, I would think ahead to the day when we wouldn't, because he'd be dead. And now I'm thinking back, from a time when he's dead, to a time when we had those conversations. Strange.
Though he refused to even consider that one day he might have a funeral, he had, whilst he still could, labelled everything in the filing cabinet, just in case his belief in his own immortality proved misguided.
After he'd died, when we started to look, it wasn't too complicated to find everything, including the policy for The Money I Get When I'm Dead. And they'd better pay up sharpish so my mother has some money, after having to pay £2300 to the Communist's nursing home every month since January.
As I said, I used to talk to my parents very often. And, believe it or not, I think that the week-and-a-day since he died is the longest I've ever gone without speaking to the Communist since I first learned to speak - which was when I was very young indeed - I know this won't surprise you!
It feels like a bad joke that's gone too far. Come on, the joke's over. Bring my Dad back. I want to tell him about his funeral.
posted by Daphne at 4:53 pm
4 Comments:
Lovely post.....especially the ending. You are learning, Grasshopper !
So the insurance money ? A cruise ? A new kitchen (one that doesn't slope !)? Swimming trunks for 'the geek' ? A big expensive pressie for a dear friend ?
I know it's tacky to talk of such things now.....so lets have a meeting when I get back !
Heavens! That IS close Daphne! Unusual in this day and age but admirable none-the-less. I don't mean to be forward but when the insurance money comes through, any chance of a few quid? Distribution of wealth and all that!
That last line brought a tear to my eye...
Twenty two years on, and I still want to tell my mum about things and people. It has lessened over the years, but it still gets me sometimes.
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