The Man Who Didn't Go to Newcastle Page 8

  A student nurse, Yasmin, seeing my distress takes me off to the visitors’ room where we talk for half an hour about life, our children, cancer. She thinks the current increase in cancer is fuelled by our lifestyles. Yasmin is studying to be a nurse but she’s also going through the menopause, has five children and is a lone parent. She’s the sort of person who touches your heart – even though she yawns at least three times during our conversation. Am I boring her? Or is she just worn out? But she’s so kind. All these people, so kind.

  *

  After my conversation with Yasmin I return to the ward. Adrian seems calmer and has sent the girls out for a newspaper. Verity Jones arrives to see one of the other patients.

  ‘Haven’t you been to bed yet?’ I ask her.

  ‘Yes,’ she says and laughs. ‘It’s alright, I’ve got the day off tomorrow and I’m going to Wimbledon. How are you getting back to Frome?’ she asks.

  ‘We’ll get the train later,’ I reply. ‘Enjoy the tennis!’

  I realise we’re talking about Wimbledon in front of Adrian. One of the highlights of his year. Tennis, the love of his life. He’s even been a member of the Wimbledon club. His flat is full of Wimbledon memorabilia – T-shirts, towels, programmes, lots of tennis racquets and balls.

  My mind slips back to the summer of ‘83 when Peter was working abroad and Adrian had won, through his club, two tickets to the men’s finals. McEnroe was playing Chris Lewis, an un-seeded New Zealander, and Adrian invited me to go with him. As a non-tennis fan, I felt a bit of a fraud going to such a historic match but, at that time, McEnroe was as much a media star as a tennis player. Adrian drove to West Wickham to pick me up on a boiling June day. I left Jack with my parents and we sped off to Wimbledon in his Alfa Romeo.

  Three things strike me about that afternoon. Why Adrian asked me to share the tickets; how extraordinarily smaller the centre court was in the flesh than it appeared to be on TV; and the fact that, despite Adrian being a huge tennis fan, we left as soon as the main match was over and didn’t bother to stay to see some of the other stars take part in doubles matches. In those days Adrian was always on the hop. We whizzed off from Wimbledon to a nearby pub, downing a quick half, and then to another pub before speeding back to West Wickham.

  I felt as if I’d been caught in the eye of a hurricane. It was a nice feeling and I was flattered to have been chosen to go with him – but I do remember wondering what woman could keep up with his lifestyle on a permanent basis. Maybe none.

  *

  Now my poor brother appears confused and old before his time. He renewed his tennis club membership in May but, in light of his current situation, this seems an optimistic and unnecessary expenditure. I suggest he watches the tennis on the TV suspended above his bed, but he can’t find the television card I bought yesterday. I can’t find it either so I begin the rigmarole again of trying to reconnect Adrian’s television. The whole television scenario takes ages with me phoning, going up and down the corridors asking disinterested members of staff where the television card machine is, giving out my credit card details willy-nilly to complete strangers. I have to get this telly sorted for Adrian before I go. Eventually everything comes together and we get a picture on his screen.

  Frances has the remote and is triumphantly ready to tune in to Adrian’s choice of programme.

  ‘What would you like to watch, Adrian?’ she asks.

  ‘Nothing,’ he replies, deadpan.

  I resist the urge to laugh. After all this palaver, he doesn’t even want to watch television.

  ‘I suppose I could watch Rome at nine.’ One of his other loves – history.

  Why would he want to watch TV anyway? Everything is beginning to get to him. Things have changed. Before, we were working towards the discharge and now…now we have taken a big tumble downwards on the ladder leading to…what? Perhaps he will be able to step upwards again. I will him to be able to step upwards. After all, he seems to be on a lot of medication at the moment. Once he gets out of here and off the strong drugs things will improve. They must. They will.

  Before we leave his bedside, I hold his hand. When did I last do that? When we were three or four perhaps? In those innocent primary school days when I still believed I’d marry him…

  Sunday 1st July 2007– evening

  We leave Tooting and take the tube to Paddington. The Westbury train from Paddington mainline is packed and the only spare seats we can find are in a First Class carriage. When the ticket inspector comes round we upgrade for just ten pounds. Brilliant.

  I settle into the journey, cosy in my soft, wide, elitist seat, but soon decide I need some refreshment and recall something the ticket inspector told me – as a First Class passenger I’m entitled to a freebie at the buffet counter. I hurry off down the aisle, swaying with the carriage. Even First Class carriages sway. At the buffet car I order a tea. This is my first mistake. I don’t show my upgraded ticket before ordering my tea. Instead, I show it afterwards. The waiter presents me with two teas – the one I ordered before showing my ticket, and the one I’m entitled to for free.

  ‘That will be one-pound-eighty, madam,’ he says, charging me for the first cup of tea.

  Two polystyrene cups sit on the counter. ‘But I only want one,’ I say, ‘and I understood my drink would be free as I’m travelling First Class.’

  ‘Yes,’ he patiently explains as if I am primary school age, ‘but to get your complimentary beverage you have to show your ticket before I pour it.’

  ‘But what difference does that make?’ I persevere, even though it’s clear I’ve already lost the battle before it began.

  ‘You have to show your ticket before I pour the tea,’ the jobsworth repeats.

  I survey my two teas – my free tea, and the one costing one-pound-eighty.

  ‘Can I just take the free one?’ I ask. And in fact, they are just two cups of boiling water as I realise now I have to insert the tea bag myself before adding the milk too. So, we are quibbling over two plastic cups of hot water. I look around at the queue of fellow passengers forming behind me. Some are smiling with a supportive ‘yes we know, and we do sympathise, but basically we’re relieved this is happening to you and not us’ kind of look.

  ‘Anyone want to buy a cup of tea?’ I ask weakly. A few people snigger but there are no takers. I carry both ‘teas’ precariously back towards our seat. Maybe one of the girls will want the spare tea…I mean, cup of very hot water. Very hot water which, as the carriage lurches to one side, splashes my hand. Ouch.

  *

  During the course of the journey I realise we aren’t on the Westbury train after all. We have to change at Bath. It’s already dark when we sit tired and huddled round a table together in the waiting room at Bath Spa station. A sad-looking boy is curled up in a chair by the window. It’s Sunday night, so still technically the weekend and my mood is lifted by the arrival of a young couple who breeze in looking dressed up for a party. They sit (thankfully) behind my daughters where they can’t see them and the girl produces some complicated paraphernalia from her bag, laying various bits of paper and powder on the table. They then snort some white powder…

  Today is the first day of the new smoking ban in all public places. These two youngsters don’t seem deterred by the security cameras everywhere on every station in the UK filming our every move – and now also presumably making sure we don’t surreptitiously light up the odd Silk Cut.

  So…no tobacco allowed in public places as of today, but cocaine? Fine, just carry on snorting. They’ll be handing it out free to First Class passengers next. Oh, but do show your ticket before snorting, madam…

  *

  Once home I tell Peter the news of our London escapades.

  ‘It all sounds a bit seedy,’ he says.

  The July issue of the local parish magazine lies on our kitchen table. I pick it up and skim through the pages as I drink today’s last, and least stressful, cup of tea. I think to myself as I read the news of the local vi
llages, yes, this is my life now – news of bell-ringing rotas in the churches, of book clubs and gardening tips, the June weddings in the village. There’s even a report of a church service in one of the adjoining villages held specifically for pets that was attended by eight dogs, four cats, two kittens, one lamb and a horse.

  ‘Dogs,’ the report says, ‘ranged in size from a St Bernard downwards. All of the animals behaved impeccably, not even a bark out of place.’ Can animals go to heaven, though? I thought they didn’t officially have souls, so what’s the point in them taking part in acts of worship?

  Okay, the news in the parish mag isn’t particularly relevant to me – I don’t belong to the book club, haven’t met the happy couples getting spliced, and Billy didn’t attend the bestial church service – but nevertheless this is my world and I realise it has been for a long time.

  The person I am on July 1st 2007 doesn’t even flinch at the report of a church filled with livestock.

  Monday 2nd July 2007

  I’m glad to be home and back to working on the critiques for the Frome Festival Short Story Competition. While I’m typing away on the computer, Welsh Phil phones to say he’s just home from his holidays and is worried about Adrian.

  ‘I spoke to him earlier on his mobile and he says he’s not feeling too good and won’t make the pub quiz tonight.’

  I knew my brother could be the master of the understatement but this is ridiculous. The man’s in hospital with heart malfunction, cancer of the lung, kidney, liver and pancreas. He’s acting bonkers, wearing a paper nightie and disposable pants, and he’s apologising for not going to the pub quiz tonight. Now I’ve heard everything.

  I met Welsh Phil when Adrian was in hospital last time. He turned up at Adrian’s bedside when I was there, although I hadn’t twigged then just how important their relationship was. In fact Phil and Adrian are close friends and drinking buddies who go on a pub-crawl every Saturday night. On the phone Phil comes across as such a genuine person, it’s impossible not to warm to him. With his lilting Welsh accent and his deferential, hesitant manner, Phil comes up trumps.

  ‘What about a convalescent home? When Adrian leaves the hospital?’ he says. ‘I mean, I don’t know what you had planned? And I don’t want to interfere at all. It’s not really any of my business but maybe something like that would help him recover his strength a bit and then…I mean I don’t really know…it might help?’

  ‘What a great idea!’ I say.

  As soon as I put the phone down I google convalescent homes and come up with two in Wells.

  Later, I phone Adrian while I’m waiting in Asda car park for Emily and Frances to meet me after school. He croaks in reply as I tell him my plans as suggested by Phil and I can’t hear him properly, but he does say he’s much better. This is such good news. He is going to climb back up that ladder again after all.

  I’m still waiting for the girls when the sky turns purple and then gun metal grey. The rain is as sudden as it is heavy. So heavy I put the windscreen wipers on, even though I’m stationary. I can’t ever remember a summer like this. And I don’t only mean the weather. The girls arrive bedraggled and we whip round the supermarket with our trolley.

  *

  Adrian rings in the evening, keen to talk.

  ‘I had a nightmare and all the staff came running to my bed. I’ve also got pneumonia,’ he says and then coughs as if to give weight to this new revelation. I wonder what else there is he could have wrong with him. And yet at the same time I’m not sure what to believe. Has he really had a nightmare or did he perhaps try to get out of bed the way he did when I was there?

  I can’t see any point in pursuing this and so I sympathise and then change the subject to our previous discussion about convalescent homes.

  Pushing him forward, pushing him away from St George’s Hospital. Always pushing.

  *

  At night, before I go to bed, with the bathroom door locked, I cry in the shower. I cry and I cry. The water runs through my hair, down my face, into my mouth, and I cry some more. I cry as I remember what Yasmin, the trainee nurse said to me.

  ‘Let it out. Better out than in. If you keep it in you’ll make yourself ill.’

  Yasmin, one of the London angels.

  I do what she told me. In the privacy of the shower in my bathroom. Boy, do I let it out.

  Tuesday 3rd July 2007

  Adrian thinks he’ll be discharged in a few days’ time and I’m worried if I don’t take action and get him into a convalescent home he’ll just end up back in St George’s again – via the contents of a wine glass or ten. When he’s discharged this time I’ll have to go up to London – or someone will – to look after him until we can sort out a nursing home. At the flat there will be no one to look after him. My mother’s prophesy comes true.

  Once I’ve got the girls off to school, I sit down in front of the computer…and think. During my last visit to the hospital Adrian told me about a peppercorn subscription he’s been paying into a private health insurance scheme called Benenden which he joined when working for the Civil Service in his twenties.

  ‘I’m sure this Benenden has a convalescent home. It’s in Kent but I’d like to go there. PDQ,’ he said.

  ‘Kent! But you’d be miles away from us and…everyone,’ I said, unable to think of anyone we still knew who lives remotely near Kent.

  ‘But it will be free,’ he said. ‘I’ve been paying into this scheme for years.’

  I could tell where he was going with this. He wants to get his money’s worth. Maybe all those subs of one pound a month would now be his salvation.

  ‘But you’ve got money,’ I told him – not for the first time. I know for certain he has numerous shares both in this country and abroad, as well as other savings accounts, and ISAs. I also know he hasn’t been working for a couple of years, is classified by the DSS as a ‘Jobseeker’ and that he regards himself as skint. But he’s got savings for a rainy day. How much rain does a man need?

  ‘You could cash in some of your shares,’ I suggested, skirting around the obvious fact that he’s not going to need them soon and so he might as well spend, spend, spend. This was hard to point out, though. His voice was gravelly and he seemed so low.

  I discover the Benenden home is in North East Kent and decide to ring them later.

  Meanwhile I go to town and run into a few people. In Frome there seems to be lots going on. Everyone is talking about the Frome Festival. The festival we’ve worked towards all year begins this Friday. I am the person who organises the Frome Festival Short Story Competition and the prize-giving lunch which takes place in twelve days’ time. But will I even be there? This no longer seems a definite.

  When I get home I ring Benenden. They say they have a hospital but not a convalescent home.

  ‘I could research suitable convalescence for your brother as he has been contributing to our scheme,’ the Benenden employee tells me.

  Adrian will be glad to hear this.

  Later, Charlotte, the Discharge Nurse at St George’s, rings me to say Adrian has told her he’ll be coming to Somerset to be near me. I feel glad, touched to hear he’s chosen to be with us, and yet afraid at the same time. It is up to me now to play an increasingly positive role. I ring Carol. She is such a nice person. I can see why Adrian has stayed friends with her for so long.

  *

  His relationship with Carol goes back to the seventies, a period when our lives were separate though intertwined. At the beginning of the decade when Adrian was still at Warwick he visited me a couple of times at Essex University where I was an English undergraduate. I remember him swaggering down the path away from the lecture theatre block with his two friends, thinking there was no one at Essex quite as glamorous.

  After he graduated from Warwick, Adrian lived in a flat in Muswell Hill. Those were the days when we rolled joints on LP covers, and smoked to the sounds of the Steve Miller Band, and Pink Floyd. After graduating I moved into the Muswell Hill flat when
he moved on to start a new life in Cheltenham with two friends in a rented Georgian apartment on the London Road. I lived in Cheltenham too for a while. At that time people seemed to drift around. Jobs, flats, friends, lovers – were easy-come, easy-go. In Cheltenham Adrian fell in love with a local lass called Angie. Later he swapped Angie for the more stable Carol, who I’m talking to now.

  We discuss the possibility of Adrian going into a convalescent home.

  ‘But those places are so expensive,’ Carol says.

  ‘Money is not the problem,’ I say, again reluctant to point out that Adrian might as well spend everything he’s got.

  ‘But they are incredibly expensive,’ she persists.

  ‘He can afford it. Adrian has got money tied up in various places.’ Once more I ask myself, what is this money for if not to spend now in his hour of need? Adrian tends to be in this same mindset as Carol. He’s been hard up for a while trying to set up a business, but he seems to be overlooking the savings he’s stored up for his retirement. It’s the old rainy day thing again, and it’s pretty well pouring down from where I’m standing.

  ‘I suppose he could sell his flat in Putney,’ Carol suggests.

  ‘But selling property can take months,’ I say. ‘Shares can be cashed within hours in any bank. Money should be the least of his problems.’

  *

  I phone Adrian during the afternoon but there’s no answer. He phones me back at about ten on our land line and Ed answers. Ed (who is twenty-one) hasn’t spoken to Adrian for some months. I can tell by the expression on his face that he’s shocked by the change in Adrian’s voice. Ed’s trying his best, but it’s obvious he’d rather hand the phone over to me.