Chapter 16 - The kitchen chair

This chapter has been triggered by a comment from one of our readers, my friend Leslie Hammond, who told me he remembered my Dad very well. That made me recall the following incident. Bear with me as I present a background to this chapter.

My father, Pepe Bentata, was very much "un manita" (a very handy handyman). All repairs at home we're done by him, be they electrical, mechanical, paintwork, carpentry and one he loved very much, wallpapering. Ever since I was a child, I would remember my mother commenting:

"Esto se lo tengo que decir a Pepe que lo arregle!"
 ("I must mention this to Pepe to fix it for me")

It is curious that he was so proficient at all these small jobs that every household gets plagued with given that he was dyslexic. Having been born in 1912 this was not recognised in anyway. But he told me himself once when he was well into his 70s, after reading about it. He could do all sorts of work but could not explain how he did it nor write down any instructions on this.
Anyway, back to the story.

At the age of 80 the Big C caught up with him.
He had been a 60 a day smoker till his mid-50s. Why did he stop? We were working in TEO and he was complaining of a strange pain in his arm.
Let me explain what a 60 and a smoker does. We had ashtrays on all four counters in the shop, as well as the cashier’s desk. There was a half-smoked cigarette in each of them, still lit, on each ashtray, so that whatever counter he was working from he could take a drag. In fact, I remember him changing from Albany to du Maurier Superkings because these last were 10 cm long and would last longer!
That day the pain in his arm was troubling him, mostly because it could not continue working as he wanted to.

"David, I'm going to see Jaime a minute ... I'll be back soon .... and not a word to your mother!

Jaime was Dr James Giraldi, one of the most eminent Gibraltarians of the last 300 years. Come to think of it at the time when handing out honours, certificates and awards for so many pedestrian achievements, I cannot think of any appropriate tributes to Dr Giraldi anywhere in our city, other than the Dr Giraldi Home.

Dad returned about 15 minutes later. Dr Giraldi's clinic was very near, in Pitman's Alley, but even so I realised it was indeed a very short visit. My father emptied the ashtrays, took out the two packs of cigarettes he carried with him, crumpled them up and throw them in the bin.

"Ya no mas!"
("No more!")

He went from 60 a day to 0!
Honestly, I do not know how he managed it. It was only years later that I learnt what had transpired between him and his friend Dr Giraldi. This is a transcript of their conversation as was told to me later:

"Jaime, thank you for seeing me at short notice"

"Que te pasa, Pepe?"

" I have this throbbing pain in my arm and it's not from a sprain or from being hit with anything and I don't know if....."

"Why have you come here to waste my time?"

"Hombre, Jaime ...."

"Ni 'Hombre Jaime' ni nada! How many packs a day are you smoking?"

"Three, but ...."

"Three! ... If you want to kill yourself go ahead and kill yourself but don't waste my time. I'm here to cure patients not to waste time with fools that smoke themselves to Death!"

This verbally violent reply from his friend and doctor shook my Dad to the core.

Years later I once asked my father had he not felt the tension ,the nervousness, the monkey on his back, from nicotine deprivation, especially in the first few weeks.

"Whenever I had the urge for another cigarettes, and let me tell you I had it all the time, I would work. I would work in the shop. or I would work at home, or I would work on my little boat at the Calpe Rowing Club. Work takes your mind from other things, learn that. It is a good lesson"

I found this to be very true in later life having gone through very difficult personal issues. I buried myself in my work. True, it helped me get through those times but it was certainly no help to others who needed me.

At the age of 86, after winning 6 and a half years of battles with cancer .... the Big C won the war. Dad passed away in my arms on a grey, Sunday morning.

I was working in Spain at that time, 1992, and Mum lived alone. So, each morning before crossing the Frontier, I would join her for breakfast. And each evening before returning to my own home, I would call in and spend some time with her.
No, I will not get sentimental about this after all the story is just about a kitchen chair isn't it?

One morning I walked in to have breakfast with her and found her crying at the table, breakfast half eaten. It was truly a heart-breaking sight. It showed me the loneliness that she was going through and it hit home.

"Mum, Mum ... que pasa ? .... why are you crying????"
I hugged her, I kissed her and waited until the tears had run dry.

"What happened Mum? Why are you like this now?"

"You know the kitchen chair that I have been asking you to repair for me?"

"Yes....."

" if your father were around he would have done it on the first day that I asked him"

She was right and I was duly chastised by her words.
At this point I need to insert an observation.
Those of you who knew my parents, and perhaps even those who have seen photographs of my mother, could easily discern that she was definitely no handyman. There were two very distinct departments at home. The old kitchen which had been converted into a workshop by my father, complete with umpteen jars of screws and nuts and bolts as well as all sorts of tools; that was Dad's territory. ..... and the rest of the home, Mum's territory.

"Well, as you were never going to fix the chair ...."
“Mum, you know me, I am not like Dad ... I was actually going to buy you a new one from Pryca. That one is at least 15 years old"

"Y que? Your father always fixed it and repaired it for me and it worked perfectly well!"

"OK, OK ..... But what has this got to do with your tears?"

"Well, this morning I decided to fix it myself."

"Mum...!"

"I went to your Dad's workshop and took a screwdriver and pliers and a hammer and dismantled the back of the chair which is what was giving me problems ..... and look what dropped out"

She showed me a  postcard and on it was this message in my father's handwriting.

(I swear to you, readers, that even today, 27 years later, my hairs stand on end remembering this)

"Read it ... read it..."

"Mi querida Tete, si estas leyendo estas líneas es porque ya no estoy a tu lado. Pero quiero que sepas que fuiste la única mujer para mi desde el primer momento que estuvimos juntos. Siempre ha sido tu a quien he amado. Con todo mi cariño, Pepe - July 1977"

(translation: "My dearest Tete, if you are reading these lines it is because I am no longer by your Side. But I want you to know that you were the only woman for me from the first moment that we were together. It has always been you that I've loved. All my love, Pepe - July 1977)

Dad had written this, 24 years before he died, 18 years before he started getting sick.
He had hidden the card behind the vinyl cover of the kitchen chair.
He had told no one of this.
No wonder Mum was crying.

I felt tears in my eyes too.

But then I realised something and I actually laughed with happiness.

"Mum, Mum .... Do you realise how lucky you are?"

"Lucky? Because we were married for over 50 years?"

"No, No .... Listen to me"

I went over and hugged her. I wanted to share this amazing enlightenment....

"Mum, .... What's the date today?"

"It is.... it is ... the week of his first anniversary of his death........"

"Can you not see? Dad has just contacted you and is letting you know he is well .... "

"Que habla ... do not come with such ideas to me...."

Mum was a deeply religious woman, not given to anything smacking of spirit-calling or anything like that.

But I could see she was realising this was much more than mere coincidence.

That Dad had hidden that message inside the back of the chair was a curious thing for him to have done.

That he had done so years before he fell ill more curious still.

That Mum would go to his workshop to try and fix the kitchen chair herself, that was definitely not like her.

And lastly that this message would reach her a year to the week of his death.....

I leave it for you readers to think it all through......