Forever Is Over Read online

  Forever Is Over

  Calvin Wade

  AuthorHouse™ UK Ltd.

  500 Avebury Boulevard

  Central Milton Keynes, MK9 2BE www.authorhouse.co.uk

  Phone: 08001974150

  © 2010 Calvin Wade. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  First published by AuthorHouse 11/29/2010

  . ISBN: 978-1-4567-7009-9 (sc)

  This book is dedicated to my wife Alison, my two sons, Bradley and Joel, my mother Jacqueline, my father Richard, my sister Lisa and my grandparents Elsie and Ernie (Rest In Peace).Alison - my love for you grows stronger by the day, there is no stronger bond.

  Bradley & Joel - for teaching me the meaning of parental pride and making me appreciate where my father was coming from!

  Mum & Dad - for providing me with the perfect upbringing. I am very proud to have you as my parents.

  Lisa - we were always different but we were always good friends (except for that time in Majorca!)

  Nan & Pop - “behind every successful man, there is a wise woman the only thing missing from my thirties, Nan, was you.

  “ Forever Is Over ”was inspired by “ Sunny Road”, a song by Emiliana Torrini on the magnificent album “Fisherman’s Woman”.

  I would to thank the following people for their support in putting this project together:-

  David Allen -for the website www.calvinwade.com.

  Andrew Wharmby for the cover photo taken near Obyce, Slovakia - the relevance to the book is artistic rather than geographical!

  Mark Sunderland for friendship, trust and belief.

  Guy Cullen for providing the motivation to start the book.

  Emiliana Torrini for making time to respond (several times) despite being pregnant and moving home.

  Adele Riley for the offer of a helping hand.

  Dr. Rob Letch for medical guidance.

  Sara Griffiths for friendship and proofreading.

  Kathryn Saxby at Fleetriver for pointing me in the right direction.

  Jill Wildman for the boundless enthusiasm and unwavering support.

  Ivone Gomes de Silva for caring.

  Gareth Roberts (Editor of ‘Well Red’ Magazine) and Kit Loughlin for honest feedback.

  Michelle Loughlin for some new ideas.

  David Stuart-Capita at the BBC for permission to use the chilling broadcast by Peter Jones on Sport On Two, Hillsborough 1989.

  Paul Rawson for the very entertaining story that he allowed me to pinch!

  Thanks to the following people for their friendship, love and encouragement:-

  Lisa, Vin, Olivia and Max (‘The Vernons’). Paula & Barry Walker. Jennie, Jon, Chloe and Emily Askew. Andrew & Sarah Moss. Andrew&Yvonne Berry. Phil & Joanne Holmstrom. Graeme & Jackie Gregory. Andrew Elkington (for the horseracing craic and the offer of help at a moments notice). Jo, Shaun, Ellie & Lucy McManus. Dereck, Joy, Tom and Ben Stagg. Dave & Gill Hughes. Chris Evans. Jon Evans. Jamie Lowe. Jay & Debbie Davy. Lee Rankin. Sean & Kellie O’Donnell. Carl & Katie McGovern. Tamsin & Paul Hawkins. Dave & Laura Barron. Gareth Jones. Anna & Paul Ponting. Ed Payne. Chris Ayres. Gordon, Hilary, Gavin, Alexin and Colin (‘The McGraes’ and Inksons). The Wades. Andy Sykes. Emma Millington. Rod & Heidi McKirgan. Nicola Guy Edgington. Philip Hesketh. Howard & Pam Slack. Charles Canning. David Robinson. Sara Curtis. Iain Lindsay. Michael Walsh. Ian Sincock. John Ritchie. Gary Lugg. Tina Panayi. Vicky Ingham. Katriona Dixon. Emma & Mark Butterworth. Rick Blanks .Nicky Harburn. Amy Stabler. Nadeem Iqbal. Stuart Napier. Ian Prowse. Dave Pinnington. Marie Grundy. Kevin Formby. Amanda Bramhill. Sara Leigh Boyd. Cathie Hunter. David Prescott. Alison Coates. Ian Bates. Louise Dermott. Steve Collins. All my Facebook friends who have spread the word to their friends! Andy Seel, Dave Pilkington, Alastair Mollon for helping me run Gregson Lane JFC U11s!

  All the lads at Metropolitan and Dingwall Football Clubs - the football was great and the laughter was always loud! Cheers! I am sure I have left out a million and one other people, I apologise in advance!

  Jemma - The Beginning Of The End

  I really wanted him to open the door but he wouldn’t. Perhaps he smelt a rat, I’m not sure. Perhaps he recognised some of the cars outside, I’d told them to park down the road and walk up, but it was a wet and windy night and some women would rather spoil the surprise than spoil the hair they have just spent hours putting into place.

  “Go through”, I said to him, trying to coax him in.

  “Can you not open a door?” he asked, in a tone that implied he may have clocked my unusual behaviour. I was not in the habit of standing on ceremony! Anyway, Richie was having none of it, so I made a grab for him, whilst simultaneously trying to push open the double doors.

  As I opened the doors, I was greeted by about a hundred of Richie’s nearest and dearest, party poppers at the ready, for when his frail but smiling face emerged. The DJ, sensing his moment had come, pressed play and the room was filled with Elbow’s “One Day Like This”. It was no good though, multi-tasking had never been one of my strong points and as I pushed the door open, Richie had wriggled his skeletal frame out of my grasp and somehow managed to summon enough strength to run as fast as his legs could carry him, out the exit and back towards the car.

  “Just give me two minutes”, I explained apologetically to the anxious crowd, as I turned on my heels to go after him. Richie’s Mum, Dot, made a move to the door too, but I wasn’t waiting and shot off after him in a Shaggy & Scooby styled run.

  Back in his healthier days, Richie would have reached the car in a flash, but once I was outside, I knew he was not going to escape me, as his run had become a determined stride, still oblivious to the howling winds and rain that only Gene Kelly would want to be out in.

  “Richie, what are you playing at? Everyone’s here for you?”

  I loved every single pore on that man’s skin, every ounce of flesh, every strand of hair, every eyelash, every tooth, every finger, every toe, but he was as stubborn as a mule when he wanted to be.

  “I’m not going back in there”.

  “Yes, you are.” I replied without sympathy.

  “Jemma, I’m not”.

  Richie’s Mum was outside by now, but thankfully, for once, she kept her distance.

  “Richie, people have travelled a long way to get here. They’ve arranged babysitters, booked hotels, bought dresses, had their hair done, your Helen, even looks like she’s had a boob job especially”.

  Richie didn’t laugh. Sometimes when he was trying not to laugh, you could see the sides of his mouth curling upwards, this was not one of those times.

  “Jemma, I can’t do it. I wish I could, but I can’t”.

  “Yes, you can”.

  Tears started to well up in his eyes.

  “I can’t face it, Jemma. I can’t face a Pity Party.”

  “Come on Richie, once you get inside you’ll enjoy it. You know you will.”

  “Jemma, these people are here because I’m dying”.

  “They are here because they love you.”

  “No, they are here because I’m dying. What am I supposed to talk to them about? Where are you going for your summer hols, Dogger? Majorca, great. I’m going to the crematorium, its going to be bloody roasting, but don’t worry, I don’t really feel the heat or at least I won’t when I’m dead!”

  I was going to rush in with a sentence that began with, “Stop being

  so bloody stupid…” and then I was going to let my anger and annoyance

  complete the sentence for me, but for some reason, I stopped to think. Richie was dying, we all knew that. I desperately wanted him to see all his family and f
riends, some of whom he hadn’t seen for years. I wanted him to see them whilst he was still well enough to enjoy the night, but I was not the one who’s life was slipping away. If it was too much for him, it was too much for him, I shouldn’t push it.

  “OK, Richie, just listen to me for a minute.”

  “Jemma, I don’t want this”.

  “Richie, just listen. Don’t interrupt, just listen...”

  “Shit! “ I thought to myself. “SHIT!”

  I’m not one for swearing out loud, I very rarely swear, but, at that very moment, my brain was turning the word “shit” over and over like food on a barbeque. With good reason, I was wanting inspiration to arrive like an express train, but it had been delayed by leaves on the line.

  This was supposed to be my moment. Our moment. I wanted to say something witty or brilliant. Something inspirational. Something that would make him see things in a totally different light. Problem was I had nothing planned, no start, no middle and no ending. I’d just have to blag it. Here goes nothing.

  “Look Richie, your Mum and I arranged this for you. As you know, only too well, I am from a weird family. I’ve had “stepdads”, “stepbrothers”, “stepsisters”, “stepcousins”, I’ve had more steps than a John Buchan novel, but your family’s different. From the moment we met, I loved you, but I was always jealous of you. You had a proper family. A Mum and Dad who adore you. Your Mum is an interfering old bat, but she’s prepared to stand outside in the pissing rain in the middle of November for you. You’ve got a brother and two sisters, all from the same Dad and you all get on. You’re like the bloody Waltons!

  That’s not all. You’ve got friends who you’ve known since infant school. People you would do anything for and would do anything for you. I wish I didn’t have to say this, but these are friends you may never get the opportunity to see again after tonight. Now, if you want to miss out on an opportunity to see these people because you think they are so tactless that they’ll talk about their summer holidays, then lets get in the car and go home. But we both know the real reason they are here. They’re here because they know you’re dying and it’s destroying them like it’s destroying me. They are here because they want to have a wonderful night with a wonderful man. They want to celebrate your life with you and not at your funeral when they can’t hug you and kiss you and tell you how much they love you. They….”

  “That’s enough, Jemma.”

  Richie took a tissue out his pocket. Blew his nose, wiped away a tear and walked towards me. I wasn’t one hundred percent sure whether he was going to slap me or hug me, but he wrapped those skinny little arms around me and held me tightly.

  “I’m sorry, Jem. I want to be brave, I want to be positive, I want to live every moment like it’s my last, but it all doesn’t seem real. Nights like tonight, however well intentioned, just remind me of what lies ahead. I remember being on Sales courses at work and you’d get these really confident “life coaches” who would tell you to assess the problem, then gauge its importance from one to ten, with ten being death. This problem is a big, fat ten, Jemma. I’m dying. Our kids won’t have a father next Christmas. I won’t see Jamie score his first goal and I won’t be there to walk Melissa down the aisle on her wedding day. I so wanted to do that. You won’t believe how much I wanted to do that”.

  Richie broke down, sobbing and sobbing as all the fears and anxiety that had been built up since the diagnosis came spilling out. Richie’s mother, Dot, a woman who would not normally go swimming for fear of getting her hair wet, shuffled towards us like a rat that had been drowned and revived several times over.

  “Everything alright, love?” she asked from just further than slapping distance away, which is what half of me felt she deserved for asking such a stupid question. The other half understood though that she needed to be there for Richie and I managed to keep quiet, paving the way for a response from her son.

  “Everything’s fine, Mum. Jemma’s just persuaded me to go back in and see everybody. You go and get yourself dried off, Uncle Billy would have a field day if he saw you looking like that! Get yourself dried off and we’ll follow you in, in a minute.”

  Dot gave her son a re-assuring smile and headed inside, looking every single day of her sixty three years. She didn’t deserve a daughter-in-law like me. She deserved better. She only ever saw the good in people, especially Richie. I don’t believe all parents have a favourite child, but Dot’s was definitely Richie and she was losing him. I’m sure people learn to live with loss, but I knew in those moments neither Dot nor I would ever learn to live with the loss of Richie. Intertwined and emotionally battered, Richie and I went inside and the party began.

  He said he hated every minute of it, but he said it with a huge smile! It was a fabulous night. A fabulous night for a wonderful man. Two months have passed since I lost him and I have yet to manage twenty four tear-free hours. I don’t care. If I shed a tear in his memory every day for the rest of my life, I will go to my grave a proud woman.

  This is our story. The story of Richie Billingham and Jemma Billingham (nee Watkinson). Enjoy it, learn from it and more than anything, never take your health for granted. Don’t just seize the day. Seize the moment. Every single one.

  Richie

  I was an early starter with women or should I say young girls. I’m talking about a long time ago here, back when I was six years old, in 1977, the year of the Queen’s Silver Jubilee.

  Anna Eccleston was the first girl that ever caught my attention. I don’t think Anna started Aughton Town Green County Primary in first year infants, or if she did, I didn’t notice her, as I was too busy pining for the school bell that signified my ordeal was over and I could venture out and seek my Mum’s re-assuring hug. By six though, I’d very much settled in to the school routine and decided Anna Eccleston was the girl for me.

  Looking back, Anna Eccleston wasn’t an overly pretty girl, but she was an athletic, outgoing, tomboyish girl who liked chasing me and catching me during “Catch A Boy, Kiss A Boy”. This was always going to find favour with me! I wasn’t the only boy she chased, I could name half a dozen others too, but she devoted more time to chasing me than anyone else, so I did the decent thing and tried my damnedest not to be caught for a little while, but then somehow managed to appreciate when she was on the verge of moving on to chasing another boy and at that point, I would accidentally-on-purpose allow myself to be grabbed! Faye Williams and Sophie Leigh were different, I would run to the ends of the earth and back to avoid being caught by them, especially after being caught by Faye once. Her kiss was all teeth, spit and bad breath, but Anna Eccleston was worth being caught by! I clearly remember the sense of anticipation after being caught. Around the perimeter of the playground was a wall, which must only have been a couple of feet high or sixty centimetres in today’s half-metric world, which was there for children to sit on. Behind the wall was the school field, which was only accessible after a three week dry spell, but the field sloped down to the playground which meant that, providing it was dry, you could sit on the wall, then lie back horizontally onto the grass. Anna Eccleston would therefore take you to the wall, sit you down, push you back so you were virtually horizontal, then jump on top of you and plant an almighty smacker on your lips! I don’t really remember whether the kiss itself was pleasurable, the nastiness of Faye Williams kiss lingered longer, but the whole dominance routine was fantastic!

  So, as far as I can recall, pretty much every day followed that routine and 1977 was a great year! In a sign of things to come in late childhood/ early adulthood, this feminine feast was followed by a famine. Even though I say it myself, I was an adorable six year old, very blond, blue eyed, very bowl headed, cute lisp and cuddly. What more could a six year old girl want?

  Problem was, I didn’t stay cute. I probably didn’t do myself any favours with my temper tantrums either which were generally followed by a flood of tears. In 1978, I was a proud member of the “Dennis The Menace Fan Club” but when I lost an eye
off my Gnasher badge, all hell broke loose, especially when Miss Fletcher, our acoustic guitar playing teacher, would not stop the “Yellow Bird Way Up in Banana Tree” song to send a search party out to the playground. There were forty two kids in the class at the time and I still think to this day that if she had sent a dozen of us out on a playground mission to find the missing eye, she would have still been able to have a good sing along with the other thirty. OK, maybe I shouldn’t have tried to smash her guitar, but she started it, I was just retaliating!

  The “Well, she started it!” theme, or just as regularly, “Well, he started it!” theme, was also a common one in our home. I had, and still have, two older sisters, Helen, who was two and a half years older and Caroline who was eighteen months older and one younger brother, James, who was ten months younger than me. The girls shared a bedroom, as did James and I. In our room, there was a battle for supremacy. We were regularly stealing each other’s toys (footballs, Action Men, Bionic Men, darts, go-karts etc) or wrestling (I was Big Daddy, he was Giant Haystacks). If we weren’t battling with each other, James and I would be conspiring together against the girls, putting their dolls in the oven and baking them, drawing beards on the pin-ups they had blue-takked on their walls from Jackie or Tammy magazine, putting spiders or ants in their ice creams, pretty much anything we could think of to liven up the day!

  The girls would often chase us around the house trying to kick or punch us and then Mum would chase them with a rolled up newspaper whilst they would shout,

  “Well, they started it!”.

  We were the little ones, so often our crimes went unpunished! With regards to the age gap between James and I, it dawned on me in my early teens that James must have been unplanned as I knew no woman on earth would think,

  “Right, my baby is four weeks old now and my bits have just about recovered from having that enormous head coming out of them. Time for another! Come over here big boy and show me some spunk!”