Tom
It took me two weeks to remember what it was that he had said that moved me so much. I remembered talking about it with my counselor, and crying after he had died.
We were sat in the snug at the Highbury - me, Pete, Tom, and Carol. We talked about a lot of different things, Tom's family during the second world war and life in Bristol. Tom had a way of asking questions that sounded like casual observations but drew out answers you'd never really thought about, although upon appearing they clearly formed some implicit part of your everyday thought-patterns. I remember calling in to his office to say something about Pete's Viva celebrations, and he said "Hey, let's not celebrate prematurely, what happens if he doesn't pass?" I laughed and said "Of course he will!" and Tom said "Yes, but what if he doesn't? What would you say? What would they say where you come from?" And I paused and laughed again, I had no idea and I shook my head. Eventually I realised what any one of the people I knew from back home would say in the face of failure at such an advanced stage of a game that had been played for years: "Just get on with it."
I remember he smiled and nodded, as if satisfied that either that was what he had thought along or that it was exactly the kind of thing that he had hoped to hear. So later, when at the pub, we got onto the topic of my being a mother I wasn't really that surprised to find myself talking about it. He was the kind of person who could ask you about personal things with a calm inquisition that didn't make you feel threatened, quite the opposite. So when he asked me why I thought I would never have children I explained why, I explained my fear of being a bad mother and all of the insecurities and paranoia. He listened and said "Well, if I were a little boy, I would very much like to have you as my mother."
Later, crying with my counselor I said that I couldn't understand why it had struck me so hard. Many many people across the time I've talked about being a mother had told me not to worry, that I was fretting over nothing, and that I would be a good mother. She put it into perspective. All of those people with their well-meaning platitudes had tried to comfort me, but really had given me just that, platitudes. Tom placed his feedback in a firmly personal and meaningful context, and had told me that he, himself, would feel lucky to have me be the person leading him in this world. Me as me, not some generic concept of a 'good mother', an idealised shell that I was required to fill. Just me, as I am. As I was just then, over a year ago. I felt that if I started to feel better about it, by the time I get to the point that I might actually be a mother I would have grown so much more than what I was at that time. I could actually do it, I could be the mother I wanted to be. The mother I believed I could be if only someone would have faith in me, faith that what I believed I could do could really happen.
When he died there was a book to remember him by, a sort of guest list of those who had traveled across the world to attend the celebration of his life. I was a little drunk, and a little sad. I wrote that he had said one of the most important things a woman could hear at a critical point in my life and that I would never forget that. Later Matt Asher would ask me what I had meant, and I told him truthfully. Part of me regrets that, part of me wishes I had kept it to myself. But Matt knew him too and he deserved to know more about the good kind of man that Tom had been - not that any more proof was needed.
I never made Tom the gateaux I had promised with the Kirsch cherries he gave me, passed on from some Oxford Professor. I still feel sad about that.
We were sat in the snug at the Highbury - me, Pete, Tom, and Carol. We talked about a lot of different things, Tom's family during the second world war and life in Bristol. Tom had a way of asking questions that sounded like casual observations but drew out answers you'd never really thought about, although upon appearing they clearly formed some implicit part of your everyday thought-patterns. I remember calling in to his office to say something about Pete's Viva celebrations, and he said "Hey, let's not celebrate prematurely, what happens if he doesn't pass?" I laughed and said "Of course he will!" and Tom said "Yes, but what if he doesn't? What would you say? What would they say where you come from?" And I paused and laughed again, I had no idea and I shook my head. Eventually I realised what any one of the people I knew from back home would say in the face of failure at such an advanced stage of a game that had been played for years: "Just get on with it."
I remember he smiled and nodded, as if satisfied that either that was what he had thought along or that it was exactly the kind of thing that he had hoped to hear. So later, when at the pub, we got onto the topic of my being a mother I wasn't really that surprised to find myself talking about it. He was the kind of person who could ask you about personal things with a calm inquisition that didn't make you feel threatened, quite the opposite. So when he asked me why I thought I would never have children I explained why, I explained my fear of being a bad mother and all of the insecurities and paranoia. He listened and said "Well, if I were a little boy, I would very much like to have you as my mother."
Later, crying with my counselor I said that I couldn't understand why it had struck me so hard. Many many people across the time I've talked about being a mother had told me not to worry, that I was fretting over nothing, and that I would be a good mother. She put it into perspective. All of those people with their well-meaning platitudes had tried to comfort me, but really had given me just that, platitudes. Tom placed his feedback in a firmly personal and meaningful context, and had told me that he, himself, would feel lucky to have me be the person leading him in this world. Me as me, not some generic concept of a 'good mother', an idealised shell that I was required to fill. Just me, as I am. As I was just then, over a year ago. I felt that if I started to feel better about it, by the time I get to the point that I might actually be a mother I would have grown so much more than what I was at that time. I could actually do it, I could be the mother I wanted to be. The mother I believed I could be if only someone would have faith in me, faith that what I believed I could do could really happen.
When he died there was a book to remember him by, a sort of guest list of those who had traveled across the world to attend the celebration of his life. I was a little drunk, and a little sad. I wrote that he had said one of the most important things a woman could hear at a critical point in my life and that I would never forget that. Later Matt Asher would ask me what I had meant, and I told him truthfully. Part of me regrets that, part of me wishes I had kept it to myself. But Matt knew him too and he deserved to know more about the good kind of man that Tom had been - not that any more proof was needed.
I never made Tom the gateaux I had promised with the Kirsch cherries he gave me, passed on from some Oxford Professor. I still feel sad about that.