Hidden
Secrets, Hidden Meanings ©
By
Michael Casey
I was
sitting in the bathroom, and I wondered what I’d regale you with today, and the
thought occurred Hidden Secrets, Hidden Meanings, best ideas sometimes come
when you are sitting down in the bathroom. Wednesday 23rd May 1979,
was a memorable day for me, because I’d just got out of bed in the afternoon after
a night shift. By 3pm Andy Madden was dead, so that’s 41 years ago, he died of
a heart attack and I tried to save him. I was still 20 at the time, so it was a
rude awakening and introduction to death, face to face death. I’ve mentioned it
before, but now 41 years on, I’ve given his name.
Andy had
no family and he was our lodger, him and his wife, she was a cleaner down
Dudley Rd, hospital, now renamed City, for some unknown reason, it’s on the
Dudley Rd, directly opposite Saint Patrick’s RC Church, my home church so to
speak. When people die, their secrets are revealed, well if you have to tidy up
after the dead, I’ve just counted I’ve known 5 of our lodgers who died over the
years, luckily the local undertaker is a family friend I could say. Add on lodgers who bailed out, or you evicted
finally after so much bad behaviour, that the local Police encourage him to leave
after he’d made a verbal commitment, Jock had a birdcage but no bird, then that
could be 10 or so. So, with this upbringing I know stuff that some people don’t
know, or have not experienced, because they’d had tidy lives.
If I
bring in William Shakespeare for a second, you get all these denialists who say
he could not have written this or that. One great documentary series explained
his education, and wool trade connections, and he may have even been a secret
Catholic. Which means like me he had a varied life and life experience, which
helps if you end up a writer. Simple really. Now back to the theme, when you
die people have to clear up, sometime literally. As you pooh the bed when you
die, if you didn’t know, when my mother died, my brother washed all the
blankets in the washing machine. No, not something you’ll want to know or ever
hear about, but a sad reality of death.
You go
through a room with bin bags at the ready and pour the stuff into the bag, as
far as Jock was concerned the right verb. Then there was the bird cage but
never the bird, he did in fact return for the bird cage. His room was deep
cleaned by my mother, as for his mattress it was burnt at the bottom of the
garden, without the use of any paraffin. So much soaked in whisky meant it went
to blazes so fast, I just remembered too we had been on the family holiday
probably to Abegele and he’d been promising to leave, so mum was livid, he was forever playing catchup on the rent for his
bedsit. NO, we weren’t horrible landlords, our price was the cheapest in
Birmingham, I can remember my mum nagging dad to put the rents up. Remember we
were a family of 8 plus a cat and a dog, how could mum feed her 6 kids, despite
dad working up to 16 hours a day in the steelworks.
The
accidental purchase of the house next door, had been a life saver. Dad’s
brother Dan lost his wife in childbirth, on her 10th child, dad’s
brother Willie was about to buy the house next door. So, when Dan lost his
wife, Willie a bachelor went back to Kerry to help raise the family. As for the
house next door, dad’s name was put on the deed instead, simple, and that’s how
Fate changed all our lives. And that’s why it really is a Casey Clan, so hello
to all and any of them should they stumble over this. I think it is Morris who
has the Casey family farm now, and yes my own dad was one of 10 too, and mum
one of 7 but Timothy died age 7 of rickets.
Time for
roast potatoes, I am Irish after all, then I’ll continue. Well I’ve had my
spuds, and my mum used to use a milk bottle to mash them, sometimes with the
milk still inside. So, if you were late to the table you wondered why the milk
bottle had mash all around it. Where was I, tidying up after the dead, yes you
find their secrets. And they can be disturbing, the girlie magazines under a cushion,
or neatly sacked next to the Bible. A diary filled with hate and bile, or old
photos, of long-lost friends. Coupons and cuttings, hidden secrets or
collections, he was a Villa fan, or loved science, he had all 100 parts of a
science book published weekly in parts. Or just stale old clothes, not even the
Charity shop would want, bagged and not even tagged, and thrown straight into
the dustbin.
When you
go through somebody’s stuff you are not even a burglar, certainly not when it’s
single working men who lived in bed sitter land. It’s sad, they get up go to
work in the screw factory or wherever, go to the pub, go home, go to bed and that’s
the sad circle, and sometimes they wash in the bath. On the other hand, you get
to hear plenty of tales, and it could be said it motivates you to do well at
school. Though in my own case it did not motivate me at all, other things did,
but that’s another story.
With the
ringing of Tinnitus in my head, the doorbell rings and my “slot” arrives, so I’ll
leave you for today, I could have said more, but I’ll just say this. If I can be
a Writer, then all of you can, so write then post it somewhere, even if it’s on
the door of the fridge in a plastic wallet. Shakespeare started somewhere and
why not emulate him, because I don’t want to be copied, I just want, well if
you’ve read my stuff before then you know what I want, so go hunt while I answer
the door.
