The death of daddy and grandpa was a really big thing in SVG. Everyone seemed to know them, and for a while Rachie and I were talked about, pitied and stared at by friends and strangers alike.
The plane crash happened on a Monday, also the first day of exams. We had written Religious Studies, and were relaxing under the mango tree when we were called to the office. Mrs. Gunsam, my classmate’s grandmother, was sitting with Sister Maureen, the school’s principal. They invited us to pray, which was not unusual in a school where prayers were said several times a day. What made it strange was WHERE we were praying, and WHY Mrs. Gunsam was there. We were told that there had been an accident, and that there were no survivors. Mrs. Gunsam must have taken us to her shop and then the ferry, but I have no memory of it. Only of the calm sea and sweet breeze, and realizing that no one on the boat knew yet, which was amazing. News travels fast and people are not shy. The last thing we wanted was grief and well wishes.
Our mother was away in England, so Grandma moved in and various people stayed at the house to help in any way they could find. The phone started ringing the next day, and grandma was busy with the organizing. She broke down at one point because they needed help identifying the bodies, and were asking her for anything that would tell the two passengers apart. At one point I said to her, “What about grandpa’s glass eye?”, and she laughed and cried over that. I never found out if the glass eye idea helped or not, but she did call them back with the info.
I have no memory of my mother returning, nor the days between the crash and the funeral. I’m pretty sure we didn’t leave the house, I dreaded the thought of ever leaving the house again. Somehow I got my hands on a newspaper article about the event, but they got basic things wrong, like the spelling of names, and incorrect names under photos, and I knew it couldn’t be relied upon to give any kind of accurate information. Nothing felt real, how do you grieve if it doesn’t feel real?
We wore our school uniforms to the funeral. We picked flowers from daddy’s garden, and they died in the heat of the overcrowded church. My only memory is of being hot, and Bret Berlinghof also being hot and unbuttoning his blouse!
Various schools sent delegations to the funeral. Grandpa had done a lot for education on the islands, and students came from not just Bequia schools, but mainland ones as well. And of course SJC, our secondary school, came too. Apparently an assembly was held in our absence, prayers said and tears shed. We never knew. Relatives from abroad came, although I don’t remember their arrival or their presence. Local friends crowded around the plot, and I remember Bob Berlinghof throwing a tennis ball into the open grave with his cheeky grin.
A mountain of flowers was left in the graveyard that afternoon, along with our bouquets of dead hibiscus.
The wake was a good time, so many people helping in the kitchen and lots of people at the house. I felt badly for the family of David Busby; they had attended the funeral and wake, and were grieving for David without really being included. Our friends from Barbados had come, and their sons, Justin and Trevor, hid with us in a bedroom and played Nintendo all night. I felt badly for having such a fun time, they were good friends, and we hadn’t seen them probably since Easter. It was nice to do what we had always done, play while the adults did adult things.
We returned to school a few days after the funeral. The teachers were very kind, they let us sit our exams with no time limits. I am pretty sure they gave us sympathy marks, because all the time in the world would not have increased my mathematics ability! Miss Allen was my form mistress, and I will never forget her kindness, she often asked after me and took me aside for prayer. However, not everyone was as sensitive as she; we were well known in Kingstown as the Bequia girls (we were called Miss Bequia, Miss Pizza and Miss Convent. On Bequia we were called Miss Mac but this would change after daddy’s death), and our pictures in the newspaper didn’t help the notoriety. Complete strangers approached us to talk to us, which made for awkward conversations. One person screamed at us from across the street “Aye, you de gyul who daddy dead?” It made it hard to get through the days with the constant reminder. We couldn’t go anywhere without being recognized, and taking the ferry everyday put us in the path of literally everyone on Bequia.
I don’t know which I hated more, the kind pity, the not-so-quiet whispers or the nosy stares and questions. It was all awful and hard to get through. Living in a small place can be wonderful, but it made it really difficult to grieve in private. Most people meant well, but I just I wanted to pretend it had never happened, that Grandpa was in Canada and daddy was out.
As VS Naipaul said “We are never finished with grief”, and he is right. It changes, maybe becomes lighter, but we carry it with us always and are never done with it.