The Man Who Didn't Go to Newcastle Read online

  ‘I’m close to making a full inventory of all my finances. It’s taking a while because some of them are tied up on secret internet sites,’ he says.

  Secret internet sites! This sounds a bit James Bond.

  Then ‘I think I want to stay in London,’ he carries on. ‘I’m not going to rot in some old fogey’s home in Somerset.’ His phone cuts off.

  Let me die a youngman’s death. Not a clean and inbetween the sheets… Again the Roger McGough poem runs through my head. Perhaps he’d rather just pass out in the pub. An inbetween the pints death…

  *

  After lunch I clear the table and drive to Orchardleigh House to the PAC Pamper Day. A woman from the WI who used to know my mother is in charge of catering.

  ‘My husband used to cut your mother’s grass,’ she says as she pours me a cup of tea. ‘I read one of your stories the other day.’

  I’m intrigued and momentarily flattered. ‘Oh really. Which one?’

  ‘Err…I can’t remember…Is your mum still alive?’

  ‘No, she’s not, I’m afraid,’ I say, grabbing my tea and moving on. I climb the sweeping staircase to one of the bedrooms where I’m booked for a massage. Half an hour of bliss.

  Back home Fran is painting a sign for the short story prize-giving event for Saturday. She’s sprayed pink paint and glitter all over the garage floor.

  Wednesday 11th July 2007

  This morning I have my house dream. The dream is always the same – I have sold Moons Leaze (the house we live in) and there’s no going back. In today’s dream the house we’re moving to is poky and dark with lots of cupboards all over the purple walls. It’s nightmarish. I know I can’t get Moons Leaze back and my home now seems like a wonderful, lost land. In contrast, the house we’re about to move into is ghastly. As usual, my relief when I wake and realise I’ve been dreaming is beyond ecstasy.

  After breakfast I walk the dog. When I’m in the big field where the cows sometimes are – though thankfully not today as I don’t fancy being flattened by a herd of charging cattle – I phone Carol. The conversation lasts all the way through the field, and back. Maybe the cows are elsewhere, but the cowpats I have to dodge prove they have recently been in situ.

  We talk about Adrian, of course.

  ‘He’s taking twenty-seven pills per day. We worked it out when I was in there yesterday. That’s a hell of a lot of pills. No wonder he’s acting strange,’ she says. We touch on his money problems again and then I tell her he’s decided not to come to Somerset after all. ‘I understand his take on this,’ I say. ‘Why would he want to drive away from everything familiar and go to die in the middle of Somerset? Most people like to be at home when they’re ill.’

  As I get home Adrian rings me but I’m in a hurry to get to my teaching job at Center Parcs. He won’t be able to ring me there either as there’s no signal.

  ‘I can’t talk now,’ I say. ‘I’m going out.’

  ‘You’ll have your mobile with you, won’t you? I’ll phone you later.’

  ‘I’m teaching, though. So I have to switch my phone off.’ I don’t like to go into details about the location of my teaching job in the luxurious fake tropical setting of the Center Parcs holiday complex at Longleat, and anyway he doesn’t ask.

  After the class I have a swim in the outdoor lagoon followed by my regular slide down the wild rapids.

  Thursday 12th July 2007

  Charlotte rings me to arrange a meeting at the hospital to discuss Adrian’s future. I agree to next Tuesday. I leave a message on Adrian’s mobile but he doesn’t ring me all day.

  Margaret comes round in the afternoon. I ask her if she’s got any old beds we could borrow in case Adrian changes his mind and decides to come here after all. She says she hasn’t.

  I can feel him changing from day to day, getting more unsettled. Is this the weaning off the booze? He certainly seems to be fighting something…

  Saturday 14th July 2007

  My big day in the Frome Festival calendar: the prize-giving for the short story competition at which I am the MC and the general person on whom everything hangs. Yikes.

  This year I have been dreading it and wake up with a headache. But I have a new Nougat dress which has been altered to fit me and once I’ve poured myself into this fabulous garment I feel good. I feel great.

  From the moment I hammer Fran’s pink sparkly sign into the ground outside Orchardleigh coach house, to the time I drive away home, everything is hunky dory. The do is a success. The sun shines on Orchardleigh from noon to two pm even though it’s been cloudy and dull up to, and after, the event. If there is a God, maybe He’s looking down on me.

  Sam from the Lying Competition is at the prize-giving, reporting again I suppose. He looks even younger in daylight. A bit of a smooth Brad Pitt type but with dark hair. I can feel him staring at me as I line up with the winners and judges for a photo shoot. I feel about twenty. This is extremely flattering – I think – unless perhaps he’s trying to work out which of his mother’s friends I remind him off. Or which of his grandmother’s friends I remind him of…

  Our judges this year are delightful. The lovely Debby Holt and Booker short-listed novelist, Gerard Woodward. Both are charming guests and both angle their talks on the short story, focusing on the competition, which is perfect since many of the audience are wannabe writers. I give my usual speech with a bit of inside info about this year’s entries. We had lots of stories about dogs and cats, quite a few ghost stories and rather too many with vegetable themes. Marrows, cucumbers and swedes are best avoided, I advise, if entrants want to impress the judges. Everyone chuckles and then claps as the winners accept their cheques. This year, for the first time, we finish the event with an actress reading the winning story. At the end of the afternoon, reporter Sam comes up to me and asks if I can help him with some poetry he’s writing. I’m relieved to be able to say ‘no’. I have absolutely no expertise in the field of poetry.

  *

  Today I don’t make contact with Adrian at all. I rang him yesterday and the day before but haven’t heard back. Maybe he needs a rest from me. Perhaps I’ve been too pushy. Again we are so different. If something needs doing then I like to get stuck in, whereas he tends to mull things over. He’s still considering moving to Salisbury at some point, which is something he’s been thinking about for the past twenty years.

  Adrian may never now be able to move to Salisbury but I feel certain he wants to try to move back into his flat for the last year of his life. I really do understand this and will support him any way I can.

  In the evening I doze on the sofa – worn out by the day. The house phone rings but I let it go onto answer phone. Later when Peter is back I listen to the message. It’s Phyllis, his mum – in tears – saying her best friend Bessie has died. Bessie, a little roly-poly Scottish lady who has for years, ever since I’ve known her, been one of my favourite people – the sweetest of women, with a mischievous glint in her eye and not a bad bone in her body. Poor Bessie, and poor Phyllis who will miss her friend’s company enormously.

  Nonetheless, I feel inexplicably happy. I’m relieved the prize-giving is over and went smoothly. A few emails arrive from prize-winners and fellow Frome lit types thanking me and praising the prize-giving event. I think about what we literary bods have achieved over the few years the festival has been running. From starting with nothing we have put on so many events. Without meaning to, I find myself mentally planning next year’s competition. Lots of questions buzz around in my head. Who can I invite to be the next judge? Should I put the price up for the critiques (I’ve written eighty-four)? Shall we do the prize-giving at Orchardleigh again?

  What am I like?

  Sunday 15th July 2007

  Last night I dreamt Adrian was buying shares in Dainsbury’s, which, he explained, was a subsidiary of the more famous supermarket chain, Sainsbury’s. Also I dreamt I was in London but hadn’t thought about going to see Adrian. I then decided to visit him with a g
irl, who could have been anyone, but was no one I recognised.

  I awake feeling dizzy and sick. What’s wrong with me? Something I ate?

  I ring Adrian in the afternoon. He hasn’t rung or texted for days. He can’t speak well and sounds sedated but he’s worried about his shares again. He’s now saying he wants to cash them in and give the money away.

  I get a text from Carol saying Adrian rang her earlier as he wasn’t feeling well. I’m hurt because he didn’t ring me, but force myself to be logical. Would he have rung me before all this happened to say he wasn’t feeling well? Certainly not. All the same, I’m beginning to feel rejected.

  Carol goes on to suggest she stays with him in a rented, ground-floor flat, if they can find one, in London. ‘But he’d need to stay in a convalescent home until the 7th of August which is when I get back from holiday,’ she adds.

  This would suit me as we are going to the Algarve during the first week of August.

  By night time I feel tired and drained, although thankfully the sickness from this morning has gone. I ring my mother-in-law to express my sorrow about Bessie but I can’t carry on the conversation as it’s too sad. Poor Phyllis. I can tell she’s devastated. She and Bessie were nurses together, holidayed together, went to church together and shopped in Tesco’s every week before sharing tea and cakes in the restaurant. I tell her I’ll send a donation to Cancer Research in her memory. But what good is a cheque to Bessie? It might help someone else who’s in the same boat, but it’s too late for lovely Bessie.

  *

  ‘The situation with Adrian will be like a roller coaster ride,’ Peter remarks over dinner.

  If so, then I’m in the middle of a long dark tunnel. How long till I begin to see daylight at the other end?

  Monday 16th July 2007

  Adrian rings me while I’m out with the dog.

  ‘Ali, I’ve changed my mind. I would like to come down to you. I’ll stay in London for a bit and then move down.’

  ‘Oh, okay.’

  ‘You are still coming to the meeting tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘I’ll see you then…’

  Tuesday 17th July 2007

  The day of the meeting at St George’s. Rain has poured all morning but as my train leaves Warminster the sun comes out and steam sizzles from the rails. I stare out of the window, wondering what this meeting will achieve. If nothing else, at least I’ll get to talk face to face with the medics who are treating my brother.

  Just after Basingstoke I feel ill again. I’ve been reading for about half an hour, and have just drunk a cup of strong train-type coffee when I suddenly experience agonising stomach cramps and have to rush to the loo. However, finding a loo on this train isn’t straightforward. The nearest is occupied, the second nearest, flooded. I’m several carriages away from my seat when I eventually find an empty, dry toilet.

  I feel better by the time we reach Clapham Junction, but new horrors await me there. Three young lads are beating the crap out of each other by the ticket barrier. I’m shocked to see the ticket collector does nothing, except radio for help – although, on second thoughts, he probably has experienced this kind of behaviour before and so, sensible man. Other people stand and stare but I move as far away as possible. Violence is everywhere on TV and in movies but nothing on celluloid compares with the shock of experiencing real, in-the-flesh aggression. Unless we join the police, the prison service, or take up inner-city secondary school teaching, how many times do we witness actual physical violence in our day-to-day lives? I find it frightening.

  I keep moving but at the same time can’t help but look back over my shoulder. Two of the boys are still grappling with each other as they pass through the barrier (no sign of the ticket collector asking to see their tickets). As I watch I realise this isn’t just one person chasing another but one boy is the victim who is being pursued by the other two who look intent on killing him. I exit the tube station pronto, cross the road and get the bus to the hospital.

  *

  In the ward I approach Adrian’s bed only to realise it’s surrounded by unfamiliar visitors. I experience a moment of panic until a nurse tells me he’s been moved to a side room.

  ‘Outside the door you’ll find plastic gloves and aprons which you have to put on before entering the room,’ she tells me. Presumably they are trying to protect him from any infections. I gladly oblige by donning the plastic clothing. This new room has his name on the door, though wrongly spelt. He’s sitting on the bed and is looking much better. He’s fully dressed and even his voice sounds stronger. I sit down beside him but this outfit, in particular the gloves, makes me feel hot and sweaty. The hotter I become, the more the tips of the fingers bulge with moisture. The room is new and completely devoid of anything homely. No television either. Adrian is understandably desperate to escape.

  ‘I’ve got to get out of here. Did you manage to get any info on the homes in Somerset, Ali?’

  ‘Yes, we can look at them after the meeting.’

  I’m early for the meeting. In fact I’m the only person there at one o’clock and have to ask around for the other participants.

  Everyone is assembled by one-fifteen. The meeting consists of me, Adrian, Lucy, a doctor, a Macmillan nurse and Charlotte – all, except Adrian, are wearing plastic aprons and gloves like mine. The doctor who is young, short and not especially attractive (what happened to all the tall, fit ones?) begins by introducing everyone. Then he turns his attention towards me.

  ‘Alison,’ he says. ‘What do you understand to be the diagnosis and prognosis for your brother?’

  I’m shocked to be asked such a blunt question in front of Adrian and immediately begin to wonder what the point of this meeting is. I have absolutely no intention of answering. Swiftly I sift through my options. I could honestly reply with a list of my brother’s medical conditions and his ‘year to live’ prognosis, but have no desire to do so. How insensitive to be expected to talk about Adrian in this way when he is sitting in the room. I could walk out, but if I did I wouldn’t be helping Adrian.

  ‘Why do you want me to answer that?’ I chuck back as coldly as I can. Everyone else in the room remains silent. The doctor pauses. Hot sun streams through the un-curtained window. I sincerely hope my reaction shows him what a prat he is. Hey, this guy needs to wise up his bedside manner, big time.

  ‘You do realise,’ he pauses here. ‘…You do realise we’re talking about a matter of weeks rather than months,’ he says.

  Something slips inside in my world. The previously sweltering room goes cold. Adrian nods his head approvingly as if the doctor has just said ‘you are Mr Adrian Tilbrook of 8 Leylands, Viewfield Road, Putney?’

  I’m stunned. Did Adrian know about this prognosis? Did he lie to us all about the ‘year to live’? I’m sweating buckets into the gloves and trying desperately to remember who told me the ‘year’ thing. Surely it was Adrian himself. I look at my brother who is sitting on the bed. I’m in the only chair and all the others are standing in a semi-circle around us. One of the reasons for this meeting I now realise is to put me straight. Adrian hasn’t told any of us the truth. Lucy must have sussed this. This is why I am here. Jesus Christ. My brother has hardly any time left.

  The doctor then describes the kind of tumour Adrian has in his lungs as one of the most pernicious. I look over at my dear brother. His head is bowed. He looks old and grey, lips limp, eyes small, bony thin frame in too big clothes. I wonder whether every person in the room is imagining, as I am, how they would cope with such news. Adrian is a very brave man.

  We turn to practical matters. Where will Adrian go when he leaves St George’s this time? I make it clear he’s welcome to come to our house but between us we decide he’ll go home initially to his flat at the weekend with Carol for support. I’m aware at this point that Carol isn’t getting any say in this. The subsequent plan is for myself and Peter to collect him on Monday 23rd (or perhaps Tuesday would be better for me) and
bring him down to Dorset or Somerset to be near us – to one of the homes I’ve found on the internet. Then when Carol is back from her holidays he might return to London if she can move in with him.

  *

  During the meeting the subject of money comes up again.

  ‘Look, please. Forget about money,’ I suggest. I have to make it clear Adrian is not a charity case. ‘I think what Adrian needs is to go to a nursing home where he’ll be looked after. Somewhere he can relax, eat good food and build up his strength.’

  Everyone nods in agreement.

  Afterwards Lucy stays behind and broaches the subject of Adrian’s drinking. I can guess what she’s getting at – the chances are he’ll leave hospital only to be readmitted after a booze-up in The Gardener’s. I see her point. The drain on the Health Service – the anxiety for his friends and family. All the same, I do feel, well, what the hell. Does any of this really matter any more?

  Referring to his somewhat hedonistic past, Adrian tells Lucy he’s been a bad boy. I have to admit I like this. Even in his weakened state he’s taking control, and he’s being funny. He’s admitting he’s had a good time during the course of his life, he lives as he chooses to live, even though this is where it’s landed him.

  ‘I’ve drunk too much and I smoked fifty a day…’ he boasts. Why did he smoke so much for so long? If only he hadn’t, then none of this would be happening now. ‘They say the definition of an alcoholic is someone who drinks more than their doctor,’ Adrian carries on. I laugh out loud, although Lucy simply looks confused. These bloomin’ Poms got some weird ideas about what’s funny.

  We talk about other things in general and when the topic of money arises yet again, Adrian starts explaining to Lucy what liquid assets are…