Philly
It’s a winter’s day when we gather at the churchyard gate in Tangmere.
I’m quite overwhelmed at the turnout, not just my children and grandchildren, who surround me with their love, but the servicemen and women from the RAF, my former colleagues from the MOD’s War Detectives team, volunteers from the military aviation museum next door, and of course Kendra, Dan and Finn, who have travelled down from Scotland to be here.
Ben’s body lies in the cemetery on the island now, in a properly marked grave alongside the other servicemen, where we can go and visit him.
The re-committal ceremony was beautifully done.
But today we’re also holding a memorial service for him here, in this church that holds so many of our memories.
It’s harder than I thought it would be, steeling myself to say my final goodbye to the love of my life, the husband I married in this same place so long ago.
Today, Ben waits for me at the altar again.
But this time it’s just a photo of him. His old RAF cap, which I’ve kept so carefully all these years, sits beside it, along with a bouquet with his family’s handwritten cards tucked among the white lilies.
A poppy wreath of remembrance is set beneath it.
How proud he would have been of his children, who stand at my side, and how he would have loved his grandchildren and great-grandchildren who have all gathered with us to bear witness and pay their respects.
The RAF chaplain delivers the address and Teddy and Amy each do a reading.
When Amy reads the poem Ben sent me, there’s a flurry of handkerchiefs among the congregation.
I glance across the aisle to where Finn sits between his parents.
He’s taken off his ear defenders to listen to the words.
I hold up my hand, spreading my fingers wide like a starfish, and he returns the gesture, unsmiling, but connecting us in that moment across the distance that separates us.
Then the service draws to a close with one last hymn and we file out of the church in silence, passing between the RAF guards of honour who line the path.
Apart from the crunch of boots on the gravel path, the only sound is the song of a mistle thrush, filling the churchyard with the promise of a spring yet to come.
Finn puts his sunglasses and ear defenders back on, squaring his shoulders, ill at ease in the crowd.
Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, the air reverberates with an unexpected thunder of engines.
I see Kendra glance down anxiously at Finn.
No surprises! How will he react? Thankfully, though, his ear defenders do the job and he simply tilts his face to the winter sunshine, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, as a trio of planes appears above us, flying in formation.
I look up in amazement, recognising the Spitfires.
They circle overhead, each pilot tipping his wings in a salute, before they reform and then soar skywards, perfectly synchronised as they loop the loop, before roaring off into the distance.
There’s a ripple of applause, smiles on faces – including Finn’s – and as the sound fades, a new sense of peace seems to settle in my heart.
The relentless, life-long searcher within me has been laid to rest at last, too, now we know how Ben’s story ends.
Kendra, Dan and Finn come home to stay with me in Cheltenham for a few nights.
We’ve arranged to take Finn round the Tangmere Museum, and then I have a big day out with a trip to Bletchley Park planned for them a couple of days later.
I’ve discussed it in detail with Finn so there will be no surprises.
Dan goes out to get fish and chips for our supper and once we’ve finished (Finn having carefully selected exactly ten chips to put on the plate beside his haddock), he accompanies Finn upstairs to the bedroom that was once Teddy’s.
I know how hard it must be for Finn, sleeping in a strange house, but he’s taken his medication and seems to be coping with it so far.
I’ve shown him and Kendra how to open the back door and get out into the garden, just in case they need to go outdoors for a walk in the middle of the night.
As Dan settles Finn and reads him a few chapters of the book I’ve given him – my old copy of Amy Johnson’s Sky Roads of the World – Kendra and I go through to the sitting room with cups of camomile tea.
It’s been a long day, but a good one. I think I’ll sleep well, but still don’t want to risk a cup of coffee at this late hour.
‘Finn did so well today,’ I say. ‘I hope it wasn’t too much for him.’
‘He loved it! He’s been talking non-stop about the Spitfires ever since.’ Her face relaxes into a smile, broader than any I’d seen when I stayed with them in France those times. She seems a little less exhausted. Dan looks happier, too.
‘And you?’ I ask. ‘How’s the book going?’
‘Really well. And I’ve got a contract to write another one too. So we’re OK for the foreseeable future.’
‘That’s good news. And Finn’s starting at the new school next term?’
She nods. ‘Fingers crossed. He’s already given it his seal of approval, though. It’s a far better environment for him, I think. Specialist staff, great facilities. He and Dan have begun covering some of the curriculum topics to help ease him in. No surprises!’
She’s silent for a moment, then says quietly, ‘Dan and I are better as well. We’ve managed to find a little bit more time for each other.
Last summer, having you there with us in France, it helped us both see things differently.
’ She looks up, fixing me with her beautiful sea-green eyes as she tucks a strand of hair back from her face.
I can see there’s more she wants to say, so I say nothing, giving her the space to find the words.
‘Philly, you know what it is to spend your life searching for someone, so I think you get it. Ever since Finn was born, I feel as if Dan and I have spent our lives searching for our son. We never had the child we’d thought we would – all our preconceptions and expectations turned out to be wrong.
He turned out to be someone entirely different.
And so we’ve had to set aside our own ideas of how life should be – of how a child should be – and search for ways to engage with him, to keep him safe, to teach him what he needs to know in order to be able to navigate his way through this world.
Hopefully, too, to be able to support himself when we’re no longer here to do it for him.
It’s exhausting and unremitting. But, like you, we will never give up that search. ’
I let her words sink in. Then I say, ‘And that, my dear, is surely the definition of unconditional love. You once told me some people think you and Dan are bad parents. Well, I think you’re two of the best parents I’ve ever met.
You’ve sacrificed so much in your own lives, in order to be with Finn in his.
No matter how hard it is, you will always be there at his side.
That’s nothing short of heroic, so don’t let anyone tell you otherwise or make you feel as if you’re failing.
I’ve seen how you meet the relentless challenges you face every day with grace and humour and imagination, while still managing to remain true to your own values of kindness and humanity and creativity.
Summoning up the endless energy to parent an autistic child day in, day out, is a testament to your love for your son. ’
‘Thank you, Philly,’ she says. ‘You’ve helped us a lot, you know.’
I laugh. ‘Not as much as you’ve helped me, my dear. My family too. We owe a great debt of gratitude to the persistence of that wonderful son of yours.’
Dan comes into the room, joining Kendra on the sofa and putting an arm around her, pulling her close.
‘Finn’s dropped off. He has the book beside his bed in case he wakes up in the middle of the night.
’ He grins at me. ‘Thanks for that, Philly. It’s not exactly the easiest of reads, is it?
A bit dated now, but the detailed facts and figures about all those routes she flew are right up his street!
I’ve promised him we can do a project on them when we get home.
’ Kendra rests her head on her husband’s shoulder for a moment and he drops a light kiss on to her hair.
As I watch them, I think about their son as he sleeps upstairs, exhausted after another long day filled with challenges that the rest of us can’t fully understand.
I think about the summer we spent together, how I began to learn a little more about this brave family, to see how extraordinary they all are.
‘You know,’ I muse, ‘it’s not always the bright light of day that shows us the truth.
It has been the dark of the moon that’s come to mean more to me, as my perspective has changed over the course of my life.
In the short time I had with Ben, instead of looking forward to the sunlit days and moonlit nights, I came to love the darkness.
The times in between. Those were the times when he wasn’t flying, you see.
The times we had together. I think I always knew I needed to treasure them because they wouldn’t last.’
The two of them wait, expecting me to say more.
But I leave it at that. They will understand, one day, that their extraordinary son – whose mind is as mysterious and unknowable as the far side of the moon – has a brilliance all of his own.
He will shine, in his own way, when the sun and the Earth align to allow him to do so.
To be able to see it, it just depends on where you’re standing.
‘Well,’ I say, hauling myself up with the help of my stick, ‘I think I’ll retire too now. Sleep well, my dears.’
I leave them sitting there together hand in hand, pondering my words, encircled by the halo of light cast by the lamp, the shadows dark beyond them, as I make my way slowly upstairs to bed.