August: letter arrives.

8th August
York

Today, my uncle left me one hundred and thirty-nine thousand pounds. I’ve no idea what to do with it.

Also today, I heard from the solicitor asking if I'd arrange to see him. Something about a letter.


*****

14th August
York

My uncle wants me to scatter his ashes. In Thailand.

"At Kanchanaburi, Miss Taylor" said our family solicitor, Mr Hollingsworth. We were sat in his office. A comfortable arm-chair for me, an old, well-worn leather desk chair for him. There was one of those expensive-looking rectangular reading lamps on his leather-covered desk, the ones with the dark green glass shades, and together with the soft, orange wall lights tucked away above the row upon row of leather-bound books, it cast a sombre, low glow over the proceedings.

Mr Hollingsworth wore a smart pin-striped suit, had friendly grey hair and a kind, humble face, but he peered at me earnestly from behind the reading lamp over his silver, half-moon spectacles. And he called me “Miss”.

"It's where they built the railway, Miss Taylor," he informed me in subdued, deferential tones. "The one your uncle worked on. The Death Railway. Burma? The Bridge On The River Kwai?"

I couldn't say anything. I’d heard tales of a fit, strong, healthy Erno but I’d never met that Erno. Uncle Erno was a postman. I never heard anything about what had actually gone on while he was away during the war and the bridge over the River Kwai was a film I'd never seen. I explained this to Mr Hollingworth.

“On,” was all he said, with quiet authority, taking off his silver half-moons.

“I beg your pardon?”

“On,” he repeated pedantically and then, suddenly, he became very self-conscious. “It’s the Bridge On The River Kwai. You said, ‘over’. It’s a minor point,” he explained, replacing his spectacles and trying to wave what he said away as if it hadn’t really been important when clearly it had. He obviously knew more about the subject than me.

“The film was inaccurate too,” he added, talking to himself as much as to me.

Then he blinked, smiled kindly and looked straight at me, the light from the lamp catching his saddened brown eyes. He moved on.

"Your uncle has left provision to fund your trip in his will," he continued, half moons back in place. “Travel information and details are in the letter. He specifically asked that you scatter his ashes in person and he suggests that you get there soon after the monsoon later this year and I believe he's left provision for you to visit your brother. He's not left a copy of the letter with us but requested that I convey all that I'm relating to you at this meeting."

So much, so fast, I could hardly take it in.

"Why?" I asked.

"I think I explained, about the railway."

"I don’t mean why Thailand, I mean why me? It’s a lot of money”

"I honestly couldn't say. We witness all kinds of requests at these times. And he didn’t have any family of his own." Our solicitor looked at his desk and began checking through his papers, moving the meeting on again.

Uncle Erno had indeed left provision. He'd left a ticket, cash, details on what jabs to have, maps, weather advice and mosquito coils. He’d left a note stuck to his old army penknife saying it would be useful, even for a woman, and he'd dug out a photograph of himself with some army friends standing at the River Kwai during a reunion ten years ago. Old, weather-beaten, smiley men standing stiffly for the group memento. Behind them was a low not very impressive metal bridge, curved sections of black ironwork set against a backdrop of lush forest.

There was also a short letter from Uncle Erno, in his frail laboured handwriting:


My dearest Niece,
Do this for me, please. Remember me as you scatter my ashes from the bridge. Remember me to your brother, remember my Angel, Muriel, and remember those the world forgot.
My golden child,
Your loving,

Uncle Erno.


It’s strange reading a letter from someone who has died. You’re reminded of how they talk, their voice, the way they hesitate before any word beginning with ‘T’ and you’re reminded that they are no longer around and they never will be.

He’d often called me his golden child. I have brown hair now but was blond at birth. He and Aunty Muriel hadn’t had children and when my Mum had named me Benedict, Uncle Erno apparently hadn’t approved.

“That’s a boy’s name,” he’d reminded her sharply, in his quirky, half-Yorkshire, half-Lancashire accent. “She can’t have a boy’s name. I’m put out. Very put out.”

Twenty eight years later, I’m still proud that my Mum hung on in there. She hadn’t known it was a boys’ name. She’d just liked it and now, even if I’m the only female in the world called Benedict, it’s a girls’ name too.

I miss Uncle Erno. And I miss my Mum. Dreadfully.

I cried when I read the letter in the solicitor’s office, quietly and full of the love I felt winging its way to me from wherever Erno had gone. Mr Hollingsworth was as discreet as ever while I read, leaning back in his comfortable chair, waiting for me to finish. He must have realised that I'd forgotten he was even there and self-consciously nudged a box of expensive, three-ply, solicitor office tissues towards me.

"It's a beautiful place you're going to," he said, warmly, the soft lines of his face creasing as he changed from his studied, slightly officious tone of earlier. "Beautiful sunsets, lovely people. You'll be fine, if you decide to go that is."

"You've been?" I asked, shakily.

He nodded and looked away, not able to meet my eye and he removed his half-moon spectacles again. The detached, professional lawyer seemed to have momentarily left the room and a saddened little boy had taken his place.

"My father died building that railway," he struggled to tell me. "His grave is in the cemetery there."

I paused for a moment to let the information settle.

"He knew Uncle Erno? I asked tentatively, wiping my eyes.

"They were in the same regiment,” he nodded, took a deep, brave breath and turned back towards me before continuing, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk as he did. “Your uncle was with my father when he died," he said. "He made sure his body could be found when the war was over so that he'd receive a proper burial and he traced my mother after he got back to England."

We were both silent for a few, still moments. I didn’t know what to say.

"I never met my father,” Mr Hollingsworth continued. “I was born while they were at war and he never came home. Your uncle's arrival was the first my mother knew that he'd learnt about my birth before he died."

Silence again. Awkward pauses. I still didn't know what to say.

Mr Hollingsworth gave a swift shake of his head, took a deep breath, carefully replaced the spectacles and said in a clear deliberate voice,

"I am sorry, Miss Taylor. I've let myself digress," and he began tidying his desk. "Please be assured that if I can help in any way, I'd be more than delighted."

I thanked him and slowly took my cue to say goodbye. On my way to the door I made my mind up. I will go to Thailand and I will carry out Uncle Erno’s wishes. It's the least I can do.

Might buy myself some half moons too.

I am seriously thinking of buying a motorbike with some of the money. Nothing flash, just a smart Harley lookalikey bike. When I ride it I’ll think of my brother when we were younger, him tearing away on a 1970’s Honda Superdream, dreaming of a real Harley, dreaming of Highway One from Los Angeles to San Francisco and cruising over the Golden Gate Bridge.

"One day,” he’d said to me, “I’ll do it, one day."

Yeah, yeah. More like Highway to Hell via the Golden Lion Inn or better still, up-side down in a ditch.

Those were the days my friend. We thought they'd never end

Later, listening to music at home, I felt scared, excited and a little bit sad because everyone I love feels so far away. I hear Nina Simone sing the words:

You don't know what it's like to love somebody the way I love you.

Why is it that one of the most beautiful songs in the world has to be written by the bloody Bee Gees?
*****