Compassion Autumn Winter 2023

19 tcf.org.uk later. Still no answer. There were lights on but no movement inside. I then realized I hadn’t got the telephone number of the Finance Officer who had made the booking. I felt unsure what to do. The company was a start-up that had already made it clear costs and expenses were tightly managed. I knew I was not in the best state of mind and didn’t want to go to another place, incur extra costs, and get off on the wrong foot. But I was cold, hungry, with a heavy suitcase. And all I wanted was to get warm and curl up into a ball and cry. Suddenly, I heard a voice from behind me. It was the owner. She muttered an apology, explained she had had to go somewhere in a hurry, and opened up. The place was a dump. Old, in need of decoration, and devoid of atmosphere. Within a few minutes I was safely in my bedroom, which matched the rest of the guest house: Cramped, with a rock-hard bed, and radiator heat that was patchy at best. The towels were hard, crusty, and threadbare. I spent the evening crying uncontrollably, unable to concentrate on reading or watching TV. I went through a whole box of tissues. How I got through that week I will never know. Each morning it felt like I had to put on an imaginary mask and wear it throughout the day. Nobody knew the burden I was carrying, and thank goodness for that, because it would have made my job untenable at that time. I look back on that week and wonder how I managed to survive. The circumstances could not have been more challenging. A new job, meeting with people I didn’t know, the need to learn new information, being away from home, holed up in a dank, unwelcoming guest house, and carrying the burden of the loss of my son with no one to speak to. The most troubling aspect was carrying that huge secret. I was unable to relax or feel at ease in the office, for fear of breaking down or saying the wrong thing. I remember excusing myself a few times to visit the toilet, to “collect myself.” I had to erect a barrier between myself and everyone I met, for fear they would ask personal questions. By the end of each day, I was emotionally exhausted. Somehow I pulled through and slowly became stronger. But it took me years to settle on and feel at ease with an answer to the aforementioned question. Before then I experimented with many different versions. When I answered a straight no, I don’t have children, I felt it was a betrayal of William. He deserved better. He had a life. He did exist. He still did in my heart, and to dismiss this with a curt “no,” didn’t feel at all right. So eventually, I became confident enough in myself to answer the question with, “No, my son died a few years ago.” I knew the risks. It could kill the mood of a conversation, which in sales was less than ideal. It could also make the other person very uncomfortable and feel they had pried into my personal life. But so what? Honouring William’s memory was more important than either, and if that meant my career in sales was unsustainable, then so be it. Which is where we are today. I still get a mix of reactions. The main one is a quick acknowledgement, a muttered apology, and a change of subject, which is fine. Some bold ones ask about the circumstances, such as how long ago it was or how old he was, but not much more than that. The lesson I drew from this experience is this. Until it happens to us, we have no idea how we will react or manage when faced by extreme COMPASSION | FEATURE - THE TEARS OF A CLOWN: SMOKEY ROBINSON & THE MIRACLES Michael Walford-Grant