Nib

I found out one Monday morning in London. He had been reserved two lonely paragraphs in the obituary section. Two paragraphs and one name amongst the many who had passed away that previous week. I can still remember the feeling of outrage at the heartlessness of the act.

That was it. Gone. A beautiful mind and noble soul reduced to little more than thirty words. The black and white print both the ying and yang of a life passing from this world to the next.

Nobody had bothered to call, to write to me, to get up off their lazy arses and pay me a visit with the news.

I'm not saying a death in the family should be the only reason why a relative would speak to me. Not at all, but after all he had done? The way he had held the family together when my grandfather had jumped ship and cavorted halfway across the world with a nubile maid thirty years his senior. How he had single-handedly rescued two of his siblings from financial ruin and ensured that everyone had a place to stay every Christmas. It made me angry to the point where I could barely hold my fork and knife.

I brushed the newspaper to the cafs wall and stormed over to pay. It wasn't even nine o'clock and I'd already had enough. I knew I had to find out the details of the funeral but I wasn't sure which hypocritical relative I should ask first. My cousins were probably lauding over the death of their beloved father. My aunts and uncles plotting and planning on how best to get their sticky fingers on my uncle's small fortune whilst donning their funeral best and getting those crocodile tears just right.

My family's ignorant enough to suppose that life is meant to be lots of things when they fail to realise that it's lots of things which make up life. Who amongst my family has recognised life as the singular, multifaceted diamond whose light cuts through their dark, ignorant existences for what it really is? They're all so arrogant to assume that life is solely for them. That the riches or comfort they enjoy is two separate things instead of the two components that constitute the privileged whole that they so rabidly consume.

I kicked a stone at the injustice of it all. Not even the hustle and bustle of the London streets could take my mind elsewhere. It was supposed to have been my day off. It was supposed to have been a chance for me to spend some time with my girlfriend after she got back from her business trip to Paris. It was supposed to have been a chance for me to patch things up with her after our particularly rocky month last month, a chance to rekindle that flame, to find that magic again.

As the magic faded, so the disenchantment set in. We weren't spending as much time together as we used to in the early days. We were more and more becoming strangers with every passing day. We were growing up without each other. Living separate lives to the point where we lived and loved only in the photos on our mantelpiece and fragmented memories spinning inexorably further and further away in our minds.

It broke my heart that we were falling out of love almost as quickly as we'd fallen in love.



Sasha, my girlfriend, arrived home at one in the afternoon. I'd thrown together a quick lunch and was enjoying my tuna pasta when she came through the door looking very brown yet oddly depressed.

' Hi.'

' Hello.' I managed to mumble around the spoon in my mouth.

' How are you holding up?'

I greeted her question with a quizzical eyebrow.

' After Uncle Bernie.' there was a pause as she collapsed onto the sofa and began the ritual homecoming battle of taking off her shoes, ' I know how much you admired him.'

' Bloody hell, Sasha, how did you know about that?'

' Because I actually take the time to talk to your mother. When was the last time you spoke to her? She's really cut up about it, Simeon.'

And there it was. First blood. I inwardly groaned at her having used my name, I braced myself for the impending lecture on family and appreciating those loved ones who are still around you.

' I tried calling her several times whilst you were away sniffing paint but she didn't pick up. Probably sitting on her phone again.'

' I was not sniffing paint. I had a meeting with several potential buyers for the auction, you know that.'

' Yeah, I knew that.' I dumped my bowl in the kitchen sink and pretended to poke around in the kitchen cupboards for something very, very important.

' Please bring my bags up to the room when you're done playing around.' I raised my eyebrows in mock surprise at her request, 'I know all your tricks, Simeon.'

She stomped up the stairs and opened the shower tap before stepping across the landing, taking off her clothes and dumping them into the already overflowing laundry basket.

' I see the laundry pixies went on a business trip too.' she called down the stairs, I smacked my hand for not having the done the laundry. It was a rookie mistake.

To be honest, I'm not quite sure when the wheels fell off when it came to Sasha and I. Although, I once read somewhere that the greatest romance is learning to love yourself. Maybe that's where it went wrong? I'd become so disillusioned with who I was and with life in general that making myself and those I loved happy had become a chore. It was a sorry state of affairs; however, it was soon set to change.

I took the bags up to the bedroom and waited for Sasha to come from her shower. I passed the time by burying my nose in the latest thriller I was reading, casting Sasha a cursory glance as she came in and set about getting herself ready.

' Do you have any details about the funeral?' I eventually asked, taking care not to sound too needy for the information.

' Your mum mentioned that it would be on Thursday.'

' Where?'

' The old church by the post office, she said the service'll start at eleven.'

That meant we could get there for noon and still not have missed anything. My mum would probably be chewing the vicar's ear off about the monthly fundraiser and of course, there'd be the select few who would insist that we wait for any banal reason they'd invent on the spot. My family had a habit of putting the 'fun' in funeral. They drew them out to such impossible lengths, provided such a healthy dose of drama that I didn't discredit the idea of taking a blanket with me.

Whilst Sasha applied countless creams to the contours of her legs and doused herself in the familiar mushroom cloud of perfume I'd silently missed over the week, I closed my eyes and silently prayed for Uncle Bernie's funeral to resist the family curse of becoming the farce it was doomed to be.

As it turned out, the powers that be answered my prayers in a way I couldn't have imagined. Whether or not I had Uncle Bernie to thank for that is something I'll never know. I think it's better that way. You'll soon see why.



I first met Sasha four years ago through a case of mistaken identity. There had been a mistake on my interview form, sending me to the fourth floor instead of the third. She was working as a receptionist at the time. A dead end job that paid her way through university as her parents had balked at the idea of their daughter studying fine art instead of finance. They had ejected their bohemian daughter onto the street with nothing but fifty pounds and a sportsbag filled with clothing more suited to Honolulu than Holborn.

Her nights were a series of couches and foam mattresses whilst her days were spent in the chrome and steel corporate world she detested.

I didn't get the job. I got a date instead. I was notoriously unlucky when it came to love, most of my first dates came to an end somewhere around the first course. One particularly bad experience involved me being left at the bus stop at a time when the bus routes were plagued with roadworks and countless detours.

She was so fierce yet so vulnerable, a girl all alone in a city of broken angels and fallen dreams. In the early days we passed our time in the parks or wine bars. Never quite making it to the eight o'clock blockbuster but happy enough to sit and watch the world go by.

Day by day I fell more and more in love with the force of nature, the art guru and self-determined go-getter known as Sasha. Her spontaneous side would burst through in showers of affection or wine and wisdom soaked declarations of social injustice. We were going to fix the world. We were going to dance along the edge of the universe and let nothing or no one stand in our way. We were so young, so happy and so in love.



We didn't yet have a car. Both of our salaries were swallowed whole by the monthly banquet of bonds, bills and booze. We weren't heavy drinkers but a part of Sasha's work required her to bring potential buyers home for an evening of flattery, fine wine and conviction that the artwork would look stunning in their cold and tasteless homes.

Our home wasn't quite as detestable. It was a cosy two-storey affair with two bedrooms, a bathroom and not much room for anything else. The lack of space was due to Sasha's concept that our home ought to serve as a second depot for her current art auctioneering employers. The lounge was a series of post-modern prints and carvings whilst the stairs and landing had taken on a more classical approach. Rumoured Rembrandts and dubious Dalis lined the walls. It was Sasha's job to verify the authenticity of the paintings and approve their going on auction.

It was highly illegal her bringing these home with her but Sasha's boss had recognised the perils of a young lady travelling the city late at night and, after many talks and countless guarantees, he had given his consent that she could bring the paintings home with her. Of course, if she knew without question that the painting was a one hundred percent original she would have collapsed at the idea of even breathing on it. Yet my girlfriend had always grown up with the idea of one day living in a house saturated with art and this seemed as close as she was going to get to that dream.

The day before the funeral, Sasha asked me to help move a particularly precious contemporary canvas back to her offices in Oxford Circus. Our house was a ten minute walk to the station and from there a forty nine minute journey to Oxford Circus itself. It was school holidays though and Sasha was not going to risk a surprisingly valuable piece from a relatively unknown local artist by the name of Bernard Maginsil.

We had borrowed a friend's van for the day. I provided the petrol, Sasha supplied the ropes and any other precaution she could think of to keep the artwork safe. My philistine eye favoured the frame more than the painting itself but I didn't dare tell Sasha that. She would've fought tooth and nail that the indistinct lines and blurry brushwork were a stroke of genius and that I ought to get more culture.

But why did culture have to be so heavy? My back strained with the carefully packaged portrait, my sweating hands struggling to get a decent grip on the smooth chipboard. As I was trying to navigate my way around the doorframe from the lounge into the hallway, it fell to the floor with a surprisingly dense thud.

' Damn it, Simeon! Be careful with it! That painting's worth more than this house and all our furniture together!'

I found that statement questionable considering the artist was still alive. Over the years, I'd learnt it was best to murmur my apologies and try again.

The second attempt was a rip roaring success. From the hallway to the back of the van with the painting safely secured, and all in the space of ten minutes, was no small feat. I closed the doors with a sense of triumph and started up the van. We were there and back again in two hours. It had never crossed our minds to check on the painting after we'd put it into the safe, but we should have. We really, really should have.



The day of the funeral came with an ironic smattering of showers that were neither here nor there. We made our way to the idyllic village of Brooke by train. The urban cityscape gave way to the quaint cottages and grazing sheep of postcard Britain. The skies eventually cleared to a pastel blue with the occasional cotton wisp of a cloud drifting lazily over the cliffs and meadows of the Garden of England.

As a child, Brooke had always struck me as a place of satyrs and fairies, the one place where magic would still be allowed to exist if it had ever existed at all. It was home to fantastical forests and hidden graveyards. A patchwork of green and umber throughout the year, where fields of forever yellow gave way to the impossible chalk cliffs that rose against the perpetual tide.

Any hopes Sasha may have had that we would be warmly received in the arms of my grieving relatives were cruelly dashed when we were greeted by the empty platform. Thanks to my insistence that we don't stay for the night, we had no luggage and were soon walking the cobbled pathway to the ancient oaken doors of the Catholic church.

The attendance equalled that of a West End play and with just as much theatrics. The few cousins I recognised sat slumped in the pews, frantically quoting scripture and giving thanks for our Uncle's inevitable inheritances they so coveted with a craven desire. My two aunts were fussing about, urging everyone to sit patiently whilst they waited for some distant relative to arrive from some far-flung exotic location. I couldn't have cared less for any of my blood assembled in that church.

My mother, true to form, was busy organising that Sunday's church fe. I could've sworn I heard her utter 'church' and 'reimburse me' in the same sentence. Sasha had walked off to talk to my Uncle Jude who was an avid collector of Van Gogh prints. He was probably the only relative of mine who tolerated her.

I wanted to get out of there almost as soon as we walked in. I shouldn't have, I didn't, and that was something for which I would always be grateful from that moment on and ever after.

Life is a series of unforgettable firsts. Your first kiss, your first love, your first friend who would later tell you all you need to know about smoking, girls and never being caught. For me, that unbearable Thursday morning was the first time I, and probably anyone else on this world, ever heard the line:

' I'm so sorry, I cut my finger on a teapot.'

I could say that I turned around, the crowds parted and there he was, bathed in a shaft of golden sunlight burning bright through the stained glass window, but that would be nonsense.

Instead, I turned around after checking the time and found my geriatric cousin, Arthur on the floor with his zimmerframe flung far to the right and a suspicious damp patch beginning to dry on his corduroy trousers. Standing over him was a curious looking man with a tangled mass of black hair and glistening eyes spread wide in alarm. His one hand was bandaged around the knuckles and in the other he held an empty cup that he was now flailing around.

' Don't worry,' he continued,' it's tea, he hasn't wet himself.'

' OK, not to worry. Let's get you up, Arthur.' after I had hoisted Arthur to his feet, he gingerly accepted the zimmerframe and gave me one of the filthiest, toothless looks I had ever seen before hobbling off. There were a few moments of silence and prolonged stares before everybody went back to their business.

' Don't think that was the best way to meet the family, do you?' asked the stranger, depositing his now empty cup in the voluminous depths of Aunt Clara's trolley as she trundled by.

' Oh, so you're one of us are you?'

' Apparently.'

' Sorry about that.' I shrugged, feeling sorry that he had to deal with the onslaught all at once and couldn't be eased into it.

' Who are you?'

The directness of the question caught me off guard, I choked a bit after having breathed in and out at the same time in surprise.

' I'm Simeon.'

' Ah, Simeon.' the man smiled and nodded before resuming his gaze across the room.

' And you?'

' Who? Oh, me! I'm- I'm Nib.'

He took an alarming amount of time before he could settle on his name. He seemed too preoccupied with all that was going on. It looked as though he had never seen people before.

' So- you're family you say? Long lost?'

Nib fixed me with his electric gaze and replied in words so soft that to this very day, I still don't know or not if this was a dream.

' Aren't we all?'

There was something intangible about Nib. He was almost blurry around the edges. As if a single sneeze or push would send him careening from this world back to the one from which he came. Later on, it all made perfect sense to me but there, in that quaint little church nestled within the heartlands of Kent, he was an enigma made flesh. He was a man who came into my life with all the charm and magic of a travelling circus. He saved me from myself. Precisely forty nine minutes after I met him, he saved all of us from the monsters we were born to be.

In the silences between our jilted conversations, we caught snatches of whispers from other members of the congregation. We overheard the various plots, plans and fancies regarding Uncle Bernie's will from different relatives. How one cousin wanted that ring or some nephew who had set his eye on a particular vase for his grief-ridden wife. Nib's eyebrows grew higher and higher as he took this all then, witnessing first hand the greed of our blood. How the mere mention of money or whiff of gold had set their tongues wagging and fingers grabbing for whatever they could find.

As we sat down at the vicar's request, Nib took a place very quietly by my side. Tears were filling his eyes and rolling down his cheeks to land on the pew one by one in a perfect pattern. He wiped them away with the ball of his thumb, stifling a sniff and shaking his head with a few angry mutterings whilst everyone still took to their seats.

The service passed in a blur of sermons, psalms and half-hearted eulogies. Officially, there was only meant to be one. Everyone was too eager to show how much they loved Uncle Bernie, yet not so keen to show how well they knew him. As the service wore on and we slowly churned through the list of crocodilian cries and supercilious speeches, I was stunned when the vicar asked if there was anymore who couldn't make it onto the list but would like to say a few words.

Nib stood up. He pulled himself to his impressive height and marched forward to the podium where he swatted the microphone aside and fixed everyone with a look of icy contempt.