by Alan Agnew
Upon graduating, we planned on living together in Chichester with Caroline securing a job in Portsmouth, just half an hour commute. We were about to sign on a flat in the centre of town, close to my mum when Caroline dropped her bombshell. She had been offered another job. It was her dream job, a Planning Officer based in Glasgow. She did not even stop for breath after the word Glasgow like it was a minor detail, and it was clear she was accepting it. Our best-laid plans suddenly became an invitation to me which I could accept or decline, regardless the party would be going ahead.
Caroline loved corporate life and living in a big metropolis. Her wardrobe changed instantly, and she looked terrific in her trademark pencil skirts and high heels. Her experience of living in Manchester made her better equipped than me in navigating the urban spread of buildings, the labyrinth of streets and alleys, and the pairing of poverty with affluence all under the same smog-filled sky. She made friends with ease, and we were always introduced as ‘Caroline and her partner.’
If we were not out with her new friends, we were hosting her family. Her parents would stay weeks at a time, her sister and boyfriend the weekend, and her cousines for lunch or dinner. Her university friends would visit, the single friends dragging Caroline to clubs, my standing invitation only when couples visited.
We each brought our strengths to the relationship. I took care of the day to day running of the house and the necessary admin tasks. Caroline provided an outside-in perspective, arranging our social life, where to live, what to buy and where to buy it from, and in truth paid most of the mortgage. My facilities management salary from the council being forever subject to budget cuts.
Despite having some ups and downs in our relationship, we got married five years after arriving in Glasgow. Dad made his excuses not to attend, and I know my mum was relieved. I proposed on the banks of Loch Lomand surrounded by the most beautiful rolling hills and reflections on the loch and planned a romantic stay in an old converted boathouse. But Caroline was so keen to share our news that we instead dashed home to celebrate in the West End of Glasgow, champagne with her friends at a swanky club.
On our first anniversary, we began the journey of starting a family. It was to be a treacherous journey without destination, involving consultation after consultation, experimentation, strict diets, and ultimately a failing fertility treatment, and all the while costing us our savings. If felt like a vicious circle as the process caused us so much stress, which of course reduced our chances further, thus creating more pressure. The required changes needed to our lifestyle during this journey meant no more crazy nights out painting the town red.
We responded very differently to these stresses. I became even more withdrawn, and Caroline would later argue that I had become even bitterer. My shame returns as I think back to the bitterness I showed at the constant reminders of our failing. I would scoff in the direction of pregnant mothers in the supermarket, curse those parents shouting at misbehaving toddlers on the bus and rant at friends who had the nerve to moan about motherhood. I found Caroline wanted to talk about it, all the time, to anyone who would listen. She would be on the phone from the moment she got home from work until I went to bed. In contrast, I felt more comfortable avoiding the subject altogether, allowing it to bubble up inside, under the surface.
Our relationship prior was fun, full of the innocence of youth and hope. Our moods on nights out always seemed to sync perfectly. We could be immature and stupid together drinking shots, become all sociable conversing with strangers thanks to the champagne or become all philosophical and put the world to rights over a full-bodied claret. The common dominator to all this fun being alcohol of course. Even at home we would celebrate the end of the working week with gin and tonics or liven up those slow Sunday afternoons with a bottle of white wine. It got out of control, consciously having meal choices like hot chilli or a rogan josh that were best paired with wine rather than orange juice.
By extracting the alcohol, we also removed much of the fun we had in our relationship. In retrospect, maybe our entire relationship was based only on good times. A long-distance relationship, exploring a new city, and getting married brought out the best in us, as they might in any couple. The anguish of trying to get pregnant and dancing to the tune dictated by fertility treatment does not do that, it was the first bump in the road, and we crashed. Maybe it was the reality check we needed.
Towards the end, Caroline threw herself into her work, with long hours, plenty of trips away and began socialising more and more with work colleagues. I was jealous and resented this, as I had few friends, just work colleagues whose friendship ended at five pm each day. It transpired that I was right to be jealous. His name was Harry Herbert, her boss. She was sorry but not remorseful. Sorry for hurting me or maybe just sorry I found out, but not sorry it happened. After a couple of months of awkward silence and false affection, she moved out. We put our trendy flat up for sale, listing it as ‘priced to sell’ with ‘no chain.’ It smacked of a divorcing couple selling.
Caroline insisted on accepting the first low offer we received. The final nail followed only days afterwards when my boss called me into his office to inform me that the council wanted to make some changes. I have learnt when people say this, the changes are never to your advantage, and changes make life worse. I was made redundant with immediate effect.
I had no plan. I was packing boxes three months later when I got the call from Roger, to say my dad had passed away. That, at least, gave me a short term plan.
Chapter Twenty-Four – 14 days after
After a night of thinking about Caroline, much of my morning is consumed with thoughts of Donald. Peter did not mention how long he would be kept in hospital, and I have no insight into his health, but my need for some answers is insatiable. I need to know what he told the police after the fire. Not knowing feels like the start of my sentence. A million thoughts racing through my head ever since I jumped over his fence. I am meeting Marie from Camwell this morning, and then I will take a drive up to the hospital, I just wish my head would stop pounding so I can think straight for a minute.
As I close my front door, I bump into the builders from yesterday. I had forgotten about them. ‘Hi mate, thank you for putting up the temporary door, I will call you when I have bought a new one and pay you next time, do you want me to make some tea before I go?’
‘No need thanks, Donald’s daughter phoned last night and left a key for us so we can crack on with the windows, she mentioned he is up at Rivers Hospital.’ I never considered Rivers. It is an hour’s drive, so it must be severe for them to bypass the local County Hospital.
I arrive at Costas and take a seat facing the door, the nagging doubt at the back of my head that she will not show after my garbled message. I tighten a napkin around my finger, wanting it to consume my attention away from wondering what truths she will tell me. After years of knowing nothing I am about to learn something of my dad and therefore my childhood too, was it all based on lies? At least I am easy to spot in Costas. I am surrounded by mums, legs shrink-wrapped in lycra with their designer prams, and teenagers in school uniform all on their phones getting the caffeine fix needed to see them through to lunch. I catch a glance of my reflection in the window, uneven stubble, bags under my eyes with a gaunt expression that I cannot shake.
I hold my coffee with both hands to hide my shaking and glance up to see Marie standing in front of me. She is no more than five feet tall, chubby cheeks, round glasses and hair tied in a bun to give her a few more inches of height.
‘Good Morning Mr Jenkins.’
‘Oh please call me Phil, nice to meet you Marie,’ I say, realising I did not know her surname. After buying a latte she sits opposite me, wiping the clean table with a napkin then wiping her glasses with her handkerchief before poising them on the end of her nose. She leans in towards me, her thick glasses magnifying her eyes that fix on mine, ready to deliver my diagnosis. She stares at me hard. Is she sizing me up? Deciding what and how m
uch to tell me? Can she hear my racing heartbeat? Just spit it out.
‘I am very sorry to hear about your father. He was a well-liked man.’ The relief floods my whole body, and I ease back into my chair.
‘What is it exactly you would like to know?’ she asks.
‘Everything, I…’ I catch myself, take a breath and glance to the door to relieve from her intense stare. My thoughts are a circus with a hungover ringleader. He was well-liked, I can relax, bite-size chunks of information.
‘My dad and I, well we drifted apart over the years, can you first tell me why he was a regular visitor to the children’s home?’
Marie sat up a little and leaned in a little closer. ‘We don’t advertise this much, but we advocate volunteering at the home, especially if they have life experience, much preferred over fancy qualifications I can tell you.’ She pauses and allows herself a conspiratorial smile. ‘The church introduced your father, along with Reg and Anna as part of some outreach program they were doing. We don’t necessarily do these things by the book.’ Another smile, more gratifying this time. She leans in closer still, I catch a scent of her rose perfume. ‘Too much red tape and paperwork.’ She whispers, inviting me even closer. ‘Your dad and Anna were with us for quite a long period, and Reg is still going strong.’
I sit back in my chair, taking in a breath of air not consumed by rose perfume. I instantly replay her response, full of doubt, my dad was a regular at church and had valuable life experience. I play it safe with Marie. ‘What particular life experience did he have to share?’
‘Oh, plenty of experience that is relevant to the children of Camwell; depression, suicide, guilt, financial problems, custody battles, and yet despite all this despair he remained in a positive frame of mind and of course kept his faith.’ Marie peels off her glasses to scrub them with her worn handkerchief, commanding her full attention. ‘He was a real inspiration for the children who, in some shape or form, have experienced the same emotional trauma.’
I had no idea. I always thought my dad just disappeared into his shell, became a hermit with alcohol his only purpose. I also did not know about the custody battle, mum kept that very quiet. It was the term of guilt that unnerved me from Marie’s roll call. Guilt from a heinous crime? Is that why he turned to the church, to repent? I sit forward on my chair, mirroring Marie.
‘Marie, do you know where his feeling of guilt stemmed from?’
Marie takes a glance to her left and right, checking for prying eyes. She takes out her handkerchief once again and rubs the lens on her glasses as if wanting to re-focus. ‘It stemmed from his debts,’ she whispers. ‘He did not go into any details of how he got himself into debt, but I know one of the consequences was having to cancel his son’s place at the new school. It was some elite sporting school, with an elite price tag too. Your brother had passed the entrance exams no problem, but your parents could no longer afford it given the financial pressures they were under.’ Marie sits back in her chair, holding her handkerchief tightly in her fist, inviting my response. I can’t respond. My mind races to Jimmy being taunted at school, no longer big-headed, a new but same uniform having to be bought.
‘Now don’t be blaming your father,’ Marie instructs reading my thoughts. ‘He was unequivocal that Jimmy had been suffering for years with depression.’
Yes, but Marie did not know Jimmy. She did not realise how vulnerable he was. ‘Did my dad ever tell you that Jimmy committed suicide dressed in his school uniform, on a day when there was no school?’
‘Yes, he did tell me.’ Her voice much softer now, the last traces of smile disappearing. She holds my hand between hers, tilting her head. ‘Your dad put two and two together, as I assume you did, sentencing him to a lifetime of guilt. I tried so hard to appease him telling him about the commonness of dressing to die. It’s a textbook action in psychology literature, about the individual wanting a formality to the event. It’s common for a suicide victim to be dressed in a uniform or suit, and I am assuming Jimmy did not have a suit. To me, it shows nothing more than the fact the suicide was premeditated.’
She was kind to my dad, but I know he would have taken the symbolism of Jimmy’s old school uniform at face value, and I feel my first pang of guilt for him.
We talked a little more about some of the experiences of the children, some success stories and about those that were less fortunate. We finish our coffees, and I thank Marie for her time. As she walks towards the door, she suddenly stops and turns to me, ‘If there is anything else I can help you with or help you make sense of, please don’t hesitate to call. He did try his best you know, and was always well-intentioned.’
I stare down at my empty coffee cup, what else do I need to make sense of?
I saunter back to my car and type in Rivers Hospital to the map on my phone. It is a specialist cardiology hospital on the outskirts of Salisbury, and the journey is a pleasure to drive. The A354 is a picturesque road winding through Cranbourne Chase chalk plateau, an area of outstanding beauty. From the windy road, I can see for miles into the distance across a patchwork of fields separated only by the belt of hedges. The contrasting pastoral shades blend effortlessly with the dark green trees dotted like pillows of the land. The rock scree slopes of chalk providing the perfect canvass.
The beautiful countryside views can only hold my attention for so long before my mind shifts to the conversation with Marie. I feel a sense of relief and pride that my dad rediscovered some purpose to his life. I also feel relief that his visits there seemed genuine, and a pang of guilt for contemplating otherwise. Nagging in my mind though, is how she made the point about not going through the usual channels which I assume to be CRB checks. I can only imagine his intentions were borne from guilt, stemming from either Jimmy or cutting me off or both. I feel a tinge of envy as green as the rivalling hedges outside my window that he afforded so much time to strangers when at the same time, he abandoned his son.
I know I am taking a risk by visiting Donald. I have no insight into his physical health or mental state, and I will be forever haunted by the confused look in his eyes as he looked up at me from the floor of his living room. That look of terror was all my doing, I was responsible for that. He would have been perplexed why I had set fire to his shed and so very nearly to his house. It is no wonder he swung at me, and I am grateful he didn’t have a blunt instrument in his hand at the time. He had no idea about my vendetta, my agenda. For all he knew I was completely crazy. He would not have been wrong.
The tranquillity of the pastel green rolling hills is disturbed by the concrete car park of Rivers hospital with a rash of signage and duplicate warnings welcoming me as I drive in. The original hospital is a beautiful ivy crest, old building that now stands dwarfed behind the sprawling new structures resembling bricked portacabins. Grey faces hungrily smoke cigarettes standing outside of the industrial entrance doors, a constant reminder of the pain, grief, and desperation felt here. Shoved in front of the small reception desk are self-service terminals, two of the three with an out of order sign stuck across the screen.
An elderly lady sitting behind the reception desk wears two badges indicative of society today, one reads ‘Here to Help’ the other ‘Be Kind, I am a Volunteer.’ Signs litter her desk warning that aggressive behaviour will not be tolerated, another stating physical abuse will result in prosecution, and a third informing CCTV is in operation. Behind the elderly lady, is a spaghetti junction of directions, each colour coded by ward and department. Her nervous smile provides a crumb of normality to the desk as I ask for directions to where Donald Lloyd temporarily resides. After consulting with her file, she directs me towards Hascombe Rivers hospital, on the same grounds as the main hospital but a private wing and deserving of its own identity.
The hospital main entrance hall is a metropolis of retail outlets, stalls, vending machines and signage, with people wandering in all directions without destination. I follow as instructed the green signs, avoiding the blue, red, pink and white
ones. The crowds begin to thin out and are replaced by abandoned wheelchairs and abandoned plastic chairs, the magnolia coloured walls bruised by scuff marks from trolleys. The smell of cleaning fluid is overpowering and warning posters on the wall unrelenting as I climb the wide staircase and cross over an internal bridge to double doors and a sign welcoming me to Hascome Rivers Private Ward.
The ward is deserving of its separate identity, a first-class upgrade on the economy version I have just navigated. Framed Art adorning the walls, real flowers in vases providing an aromatic scent, and literature showcased in oak bookcases with reading corners providing countryside views. Two nurses greet me at the reception, straight backs and hair tied back. Once again, I give the name Donald Lloyd as my purpose.
The young lady smiles and asks, ‘Are you family?’ She spots my hesitation straight away, ‘Because we are outside of visiting hours, and it is family only.’
I take this as an invitation, ‘Yes, I am his son.’
‘Oh, how lovely in that case your sister is here too.’
I feel tested and call her bluff. ‘Yes, a family visit to lift the old man’s spirits.’
‘Room 107 on the left-hand side.’
I sense her eyes watching me as I follow her directions. I was not ready to walk straight in. I planned to view him from afar, compose myself and approach him with my eyes open. I stand outside his private room, not knowing the scene that awaits me, with every move and delay being watched with interest by the nurse. I knock gently, and I am greeted by a female voice the other side, ‘Please, come in.’
I open the door slowly, greeted by two faces looking up at me, the lady smiles, and Donald gives a nod, a perfunctory gesture.
‘Oh, I am sorry Donald, I did not know you had company,’ holding my hand up apologetically, inviting him to send me away.
The lady, middle-aged, dark brown hair and wearing a big woolly jumper, stands up. ‘Oh, do not worry. I was about to leave.’