Gavanndra Hodge - The Consequences of Love

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First published 2020

Copyright Gavanndra Hodge, 2020

The moral right of the author has been asserted

Picture credits: plate section , Dan Burn-Forti

Every effort has been made to contact copyright holders. The publishers will be glad to correct any errors or omissions in future editions.

This book is a work of non-fiction based on the life of the author. In some limited cases the names of people or details of places or events have been changed to protect the privacy of others. The author has stated to the publishers that, except in such respects, the contents of this book are true. The author and publishers disclaim, as far as the law allows, any liability arising directly or indirectly from the use, or misuse, of any information contained in this book.

ISBN: 978-1-405-94323-9

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For Candy Hodge, 19791989

Infandum, regina, iubes renovare dolorem,

Troianas ut opes et lamentabile regnum

eruerint Danai, quaeque ipse miserrima vidi

et quorum pars magna fui.

Terrible, O queen, is the sadness that you ask me to recount,

of the Trojans, their wealth, their lamentable kingdom,

torn down by the Greeks, awful things which I myself saw,

and in which I played a large part.

The Aeneid, Virgil

keep speaking the years from their hiding places.

keep coughing up smoke from all the deaths you have died.

Therapy, Nayyirah Waheed

It seems to me, that if we love, we grieve. Thats the deal. Thats the pact. Grief and love are forever intertwined. Grief is the terrible reminder of the depths of our love and, like love, grief is non-negotiable. There is a vastness to grief that overwhelms our minuscule selves. We are tiny, trembling clusters of atoms subsumed within griefs awesome presence. It occupies the core of our being and extends through our fingers to the limits of the universe. Within that whirling gyre all manner of madnesses exist: ghosts and spirits and dream visitations, and everything else that we, in our anguish, will into existence. These are precious gifts that are as valid and real as we need them to be. They are the spirit guides that lead us out of the darkness.

Letter to a fan from Nick Cave, on the death of his son

When you were nine you had a pink coat that you loved so much you wore it all the time, even on the early morning flight to Tunisia. It was long and thickly padded and made you look like a flamboyant Michelin Man, wedged into your window seat, the coat zipped right up under your chin. Mum bought it when it was too big for you and now it was too tight, but none of us could imagine a time when you would stop wearing it, however crazy it looked.

You didnt take your coat off until we were in the hotel room. You were sharing with Mum and Dad, sleeping on a camp bed in their room. You always shared with them. You didnt like to be alone.

You changed into your pink bikini, your tummy round and chubby, your chest still flat; Mum looked for your goggles and suntan lotion. You wanted to go for a swim immediately.

We found our holiday rhythm fast. Mum and Dad had their preferred sun loungers, and you would spend all day in the pool, white stripes of lotion on your cheeks. My friend Anya and I usually got up later so missed breakfast. I would order a pancake smeared with Nutella from the man who set up his stall at 11 a.m. every day the aroma of the frying batter mingling with the seaweed smell of the sea. Sometimes you would see me queuing and join me, your bikini bottoms dripping with chlorinated water, thick wet curls stuck to your neck. Get me one too, you would say, and you would stand there eating your pancake rolled like a cigar, the melting chocolate sliding down your fingers, handing me the greasy paper plate and running back to the pool, your wet footprints evaporating in the heat.

Sometimes we went to the local town. It had been smartened up for tourists and there were stalls selling brown leather shoes with curled toes and fluffy toy camels. We would walk along the middle of the dusty market road, you holding Mums hand, Dad checking out every stall, me and Anya being propositioned by stall holders, offering five hundred camels, a thousand camels, a thousand camels and ten sheep.

Five thousand camels and this ones yours! Dad would shout, and I would punch him on the arm, furious.

Ah, she has spirit, the stall holders would say.

But mostly we sunbathed.

This will set us up for the summer, said Dad, comparing his mahogany-coloured forearm with my pale pink one, blotchy with sun rash.

In the late afternoons we would go back to our hotel rooms. You would have a nap, still in your damp costume and neon-green sunglasses. While you slept we would shower. I would wash off the suntan lotion, watch it spiral down the plughole, the steam billowing in clouds that filled the bathroom. Afterwards we would apply aftersun and get dressed.

Every night we ate dinner in the brightly lit hotel restaurant, crowded with shiny sunburnt people from all over Northern Europe. You would pile your plate with all sorts of mismatching things: sausages and pasta and coleslaw and a great mountain of chips squirted with ketchup. You would leave most of it, but you always finished your pudding; you even went back for seconds of doughnuts, ice-cream and pink cakes with nuggets of candied green fruit.

There were entertainments in the evenings: bingo, shows, live music, a disco. One night Dad took you on to the dance floor. The DJ was playing songs by the Beatles. Dad held your hands and moved you left and right, beaming at you as he lifted one of your arms above your head, twirling you around, pulling you to him. You laughed because you thought he would tickle you, but he didnt, and you both kept dancing. Mum, Anya and I were watching. Mum was clapping. It was the first time you and Dad had danced together, they said afterwards.

When you came back to the table you were flushed and excited.

Dance with me, you said, your brown eyes hopeful.

No, I said.

I was self-conscious and it was your bedtime. Soon afterwards Mum took you up.

Later that night, past midnight, I was in bed reading, the hotel quiet, my little lamp illuminating the pages of my book. The sheets on the bed were cool and thick. The maids tucked them under the mattress every morning so every night I had to kick them free.

There was a knock at the door. I didnt answer quickly enough so someone started turning the handle up and down loudly, as though they might break it.