The River Aire

This story, well, a later version of it,  is being read out/was read out on ELFM Leeds radio on Friday 22 June 2012, in the short story hour after 6pm.


The River Aire.

The guilt had started when I stood on the Granary Wharfe bank looking at the remaining grey stain settling onto the brown silt. The breeze and the river flow had carried most of the dusty grey downstream, but as the denser remains fell into the mud I realised I'd not be able to ever cross this flowing body in the same way again.

I’ve known the River Aire from my childhood.

I walked it's Malham source, I know its towns through Gargrave to Knottingly. I know its locks, its docks, offices and pubs, its fields and farms, but I can never stare idly at its silvery daytime sheen or its reflected glint of Leeds' evening lights again.

I still feel guilty just thinking about it now, even though so many years have past.

Sadly I suppose, my affection for my mother, what little there was in the later years, has long since gone and I guess it's that lack of emotion which is at the core of my guilt. A guilt which rises from the common-sense that a person should always love their mother, or at least have some feeling towards her.

I guess some people love or hate their mother for one reason or another, but it has to be said that I feel no emotion for mine whatsoever, and because of that lack of attachment I have the guilt.

Well, not only because of that, it has to be said.

My lack of attachment would not grant the River Aire its power to instill guilt in me, no , that is from something far more tragic.

I have thrown my mother into the river.
Oh, sorry, that sounds far more alarming that I meant it to.
Allow me to explain.
My mother was a sprightly and engaging lady when she was diagnosed with a large tumour.
She had ensured that my life and the lives of my siblings were voiced as disapproval and subtle disappointments to her, it was her way.  Our kids however loved their visits so see the sweet old lady.
We just made sure we kept our children a safe distance from her demands and disapproval, and family duties like christmas and birthdays were scheduled to include her.  We had come to treat her as an attractively planted island around which we skillfully negotiated our family lives.
The progress of the tumour gave us occasion to visit her in her last days and for some of us to gather round when the doctors advised us of her imminent passing.
I do have one fond memory as she lay, eyes closed, mouth open and the lines on the screen slowly losing their rhythmic pulse and beep. I was on one side of the bed watching my elder sister hold her daughter's hand and explain to her daughter's daughter that great grandma was leaving us. Not to be sad, life was long and happy if you wanted it to be. But for the old, it must come to an end. I wasn't in the least bit sad or happy but I have not allowed the image of this gentle moment of four female generations go unremembered. I often wonder if the scene of the oldest one passing from life and the youngest one so earnest to live it could be eloquently captured, but such a graphic skill has not been granted to me.
The funeral was dignified, respectful of the family, but not austere. There were none who held her that close. After the formulaic ceremony at the crematorium chapel, a wake of sorts was held at a nearby garden,  that was a truly jolly affair. With so many of the family rarely together, spirits soon rose above the somber reason and a genuinely good time was had.

It was about a fortnight later I received a call from the crematorium asking gently what I wanted done with the remains.
I had no idea.
There would be a charge to retain them at the crematorium or we could choose to have them located in something called a wall of remembrance, or a list of other options. As it was the only charge-free alternative, I chose to collect the ashes.

So there they rested, mum's ashes, propped in my study’s shelves, for a couple of years, contained in a grey plastic box wrapped in brown paper.
I had asked her brother if he wanted to scatter them over the family plot but he demurred, my sisters voiced no preference, so her ashes sat there, on my shelf, mocking my lack of action, annoying me.
I guess annoyance is an emotion.
Anyway my mothers ashes' persistent annoyance forced me into action and that action culminated in me taking the box, splitting it open and dumping it's contents unceremoniously into the river.
I am guessing there are a number of legislation I am in breech of, littering comes to mind, but I feel more guilty of my lack of remorse, guilty that I treated a life with such ambivalence.
Luckily I do have family and friends who value and praise and enjoy, but never again will I cross the Aire without reflecting on my act.
Her disapproval lingers.