Documentary
The Boars Head had served up a
beautiful meal and I walked back to my hotel with a satisfied glow which left no room for feeling lonely.
room was comfortable and spacious, and I lounged on the bed flicking through the channels to find something
watchable on TV. The good producers must have had a night off! I'm not a football lover, and the most
exciting alternative to the big match was the second half of a documentary about a Borough Council in London.
It was not much of a prospect, but I decided to give it a try.
Label
The panning shot showed a windowless room that could have been in a pottery. Steel doors along one wall covered
the kiln entrances. Kilns? I sat forward. No, those were furnaces, and this was a crematorium. My face
stiffened. A thick-gloved worker turned a handle and opened a furnace door. Something tightened behind my ribs.
Using a tool like a long-handled rake, he scraped some ashes into a box. The camera zoomed in to show a close-up
of the box label. I lost the power to blink as I read, "Lewisham Crematorium". The remnants of my lazy
contentment disappeared in an explosion of emotion.
Tears
The tightness in my chest became a pump forcing long restrained sobs to the surface. The walls closed around me forming
a telescope focused on the TV screen, which was fading behind a curtain of warm tears. This was not just any
crematorium, with its atmosphere of fascinated horror. This was Lewisham Crematorium; a place I always drive
past with my eyes fixed on the road straight ahead; the place where my mother slid slowly through the curtains
years ago and the tears wouldn't come.
Denied
I had been stoic at the funeral; a pillar of support for the family, with my emotions restricted to a polite constriction
somewhere down in my throat. Here in my hotel room, two careers and the childhood of my sons later, I was lonely.
Desperately lonely. The restraining door had burst open, and a flood of helpless sorrow poured out cleansing me
inside and washing away my shame-faced facade. Oh, the deceitfulness of those long denied feelings. Why had I been
too big to cry for Mummy?
Contented
The screen had gone dark, though I don't remember turning it off. The room was quiet and, breathing easily
again, I changed quickly and slipped into bed. I was at peace and fell into a contented sleep. I had
turned on to watch a boring documentary, and it was - it bored right into my heart. I had found a miracle
cure for emotional paralysis.