Do

Last Saturday morning I went up to Stevenage again. My father was in a wing of Lister hospital that he’d not been before. I had to walk past the room where we shot the Rob “All I need is a parrot and I’ll be Long John Silver” scene in Boston Kickout, and along the corridor we shot Phil bumping into Steve’s parents and where David Aldous said his line “Oh really!” which I remember gave much hilarity on that day. When I got to the room where he was I found my father’s two friends and one of their wives around the bedside. One of them had called me earlier. My father had been experiencing breathing difficulties again and had fallen unconscious just before being taken to the ambulance. He was on a respirator. I immediately went to find a doctor to get some information. I was told that he wouldn’t recover. This I had heard the last time he was taken into hospital only to see him, an hour later, sitting up in bed sipping a cup of tea and talking to the guy in the next bed. My father has always been a fighter that’s for sure.

When I returned to the room everyone left me alone with him. I took his hand and tried talking to him, hoping for a response. I told him a few things I’d never told him before but his hand was cold. He didn’t revive or show any signs of life apart from his breathing. Later I talked to senior consultant. She told me that there was no intervention that they could make now that could be beneficial. He had to fight it on his own, if he could. I asked if she had ever seen anyone recover from this position.

After thinking long, she said “I’d like to say yes but in 17 years of being a consultant, no.”

I stayed by his bedside until 11.45pm then changed places with my father’s best friend. I’d informed my mother of his situation but she said she couldn’t come. I took the last train back to London. I had to redo a budget for The Power as no-one else could do it and it had to be done that night so that others things could be done the Sunday. It was needed on Monday for a meeting where The Power could be green lit. Our main financier was flying in it. That couldn’t be moved.

After finishing the budget, I went to bed at 3am. I awoke at 5am before the alarm went off. Immediately I knew something was untoward, that something had happened.

I got dressed and left for Stevenage again. I saw on the bus to the station that I had missed four calls. Somehow, I didn’t want to return them.

On the train, my father’s best friend called me to say that my father had gone just before 4am. The irony, of course, was that my father had called me whilst I was away, and although I could have called him back Friday evening I chose to wait till Saturday morning. I never got the chance.

As soon as I got to the hospital ward, nurses and doctors appeared from no-where, trying to head me off from the room. It was like a game of rugby and I was Chabal. When I got to his bedside he was lying there, wrapped in a sheet, his eyes half open but glazed. I told the staff to leave, turned to him, took his hand and just sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. I must have sobbed for an hour. I’m not sure.

Then I called my mother and told her he had died. She was silent for a while before saying “Thanks for telling me.”

Then I called the prison where my sister is incarcerated. They wouldn’t let me book an appointment to see her as their ‘bookings staff are not around till Monday.” Not even on compassionate grounds. I would have to tell her on the phone – after they had checked by calling the hospital that I was not some hoaxer!

I went back to the room and spent more time with him while I waited for the prison to call me back. An hour later they called and allowed me to speak to her. I told her all that had happened and when I came to the end of the story I heard an audible sob at the other end of the line.

After the call, I said goodbye to my father, kissed him on the forehead and left.

I walked across the town in a daze. Finally I found myself outside the house in Valley Way that I lived in from the age of 7 till 18. Our family house. Suddenly a car pulled up in front of me. Inside was Steve Weston who I had only seen the week before. There are no coincidences of course. He was going up to Aberdeen later for a shoot and was as surprised to see me as I was to see him. We went for a quick drink even though it was barely midday.

At my father’s flat I went to the safe. He had told me hundreds of time over the last 3 months what the combination was and that I should open it after his death. Inside were all his paperwork and jewellery, all marked up and prepared for me in his own hand. I broke down again and collapsed to my knees. Somehow this was even more affecting than seeing him lying cold and lifeless.

Later, in the flat, I went through with my Dad’s best friend what needed to be done. On Monday morning I woke early and it hit me again as it has done every morning this week. After sitting, sobbing on the toilet, I went to the important meeting (still no definite answer) but was obviously not on top form.

On Tuesday I started the long process of sorting everything out. First up was the death certificate. Then I meet my mother who had travelled up to help clear the flat. This had to be done quick as the council only gave us a week to do it in before they wanted it back. We made a start, going through things together. Sometimes we stopped to cry. Sometimes we stopped to laugh. I found a photo of them both only two weeks after they had first met. She put it in her handbag.

Wednesday I had to go to Poole for a meeting about the Cornish project so it was the day after that I started on the funeral arrangements properly. I arranged an appointment with the Co-Op Funeral directors in the old town of Stevenage, a recommendation of Steve Weston’s. To my disbelief, the woman I had arranged the appointment with was apart from overly made-up and far from sympathetic, rather a snotty, officious sort. Further, despite repeated requests for her to talk to me normally, she insisted on pronouncing every word so slowly that she added extra syllables that didn’t actually exist as if she was talking to a mentally handicapped person or a child. When I asked her to desist she said “Most of the pe-op-le who come here ha-ve tro-uble un-der-sta-a-nd-ing what I am say-ing so I have to spe-eak ve-ry slo-w-ly.”

I asked again.

“Do you wa-nt me to wr-i-i-te it do-wn for yo-u?”

My only recourse was to tell her she was a cunt and walk out, ripping up their rate card and throwing it in the air like confetti as I crossed the road to their rivals, Austins.

I found a woman inside called Jackie. She was the complete opposite to the alien being at the Co-op. Kind. Considerate. Normal. As I have to leave enough time for my sister to be released for the funeral (I‘ve applied to the prison governor – it’s far from sorted yet) and for my father’s best friend to come back from Ireland, the funeral will have to be on the 17th of July.

I spent the rest of yesterday and today trying to sort out other things, giving my father’s things away to his friends, putting things aside for myself, my sister (when she gets out) with my mother. Also Dave “DRWR” Richardson, an old friend whom I used to make films with as a teenager also helped out. We spent some nice moments together. Normally I only see him once a year when he pops into the Blue Posts.

This morning Andrew Dearnley e-mailed me about the credits for DEP. It seems they now want to put the titles on before doing the de-spotting review, which is imminent.

I guess that makes us 3 weeks away from completion, about the same time to my father’s funeral.

T

ELEPHAN

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