by G J Morgan
“Does it hurt at all?”
Just then the waitress came over, asked us if our meals were OK, which they weren’t particularly, not that we complained.
“It hurts sometimes, yes.”
“Where? Your chest?”
“No, all over. My bones. Like I’m suddenly heavier.”
“I can’t imagine what that must be like.”
“Have you ever had a check over?”
“No. You think I should?”
“Well my brother had it in his bowel. Then there’s your father.”
“Dad had a heart attack, though?”
“Yes, but brought on by his lymphoma.”
“I thought he’d beaten that. I remember talking to him on the phone about it.”
“He did, several times. But there is only so much one body can take.”
We chewed our food.
“Sorry, Mum. Death is hardly ideal dinner conversation.”
“I feel better for talking about it.”
“People go strange when death is involved. Cassie became nameless for about two months. Became a ‘she’ for a long while.”
Mum laughed. “Mine has already become an ‘it’. ‘It’ or ‘thing,’ most people call it. Pete across the road won’t even give me eye contact. One friend can’t even speak to me without breaking down into tears. Silly really.” She took a sip of water. “,I need to visit the ladies’ room before I have to undo a belt loop,.” walking off down the middle of the restaurant.
she said, ’I ed,I regretted loading my plate. Beef, pork, Yorkshires, crackling, stuffing. Endless food, food we could have cooked far better at home, for half the cost. But, hey, it was a special occasion, I tried to ignore the carvery fumes that hung in the carpets and ceilings, pretended the toilets didn’t smell of gravy. A Sunday Roast when it wasn’t even Sunday.
“You OK, Mol?”
“It tastes squishy,” she said, pointing at her vegetables piled high and pale.
“Eat the broccoli,” I said, though even they looked the wrong shade of green.
“I’m full up, Dad.”
“Me too.”
“Can I have… ”
“You said you were full, little madam. And you haven’t finished your… ”
“A bowl of ice cream won’t hurt her.” Mum sat back down at the table. “Besides, today is a celebration. Balloons and ice cream are a given. Even for the adults. I’m surprised you are starting so soon. They don’t waste much time, do they?”
“It’s not like I have to work my notice. From what they’ve told me the first month I’ll mostly be in training.”
“Close by, I hope.”
“I’ll be close for the first week. After that, Wakefield, apparently.”
“That’s not close at all.”
“I’m promised a hire car which is good. Though it might mean I’ll be in hotels on and off.”
“You’ll need a couple of shirts and ties. We’ll pick some up on the way home. Asda do a shirt and trouser set, I’m sure. Not to mention a good wash and shave.”
“You’re not a fan of beards are you, Mum?”
“You look like Abraham Lincoln.”
“I was going more NME.”
“Well, I don’t think your new employer would appreciate either.”
The waitress came over, she took away our plates, promised us the ice creams would be a few minutes.
“This isn’t how you saw things panning out, is it?” Mum said, wiping her mouth with a napkin.
“No, not really.”
“This place is hardly helping, though we have got balloons.” She pointed at the one tied to the back of my chair. “And at least this new job will give you something to focus on other than you-know-what.”
“I’m OK, honest, Mum. I know you think I’m not. But I’m fine.”
“Well, I know being a bank clerk isn’t your dream job. Or being stuck with me. But if it means anything, I’m proud of you anyway.”
“Thanks Mum. I’m proud of you too.”
“Me? Why?”
“The way you’re dealing with all this. Not letting it get you down.”
“I haven’t much choice, Tom. But thank you anyway,” she said, just as the waitress handed out our sundae bowls of ice cream. “You said ‘it’ by the way. Remember you can call it ‘cancer,’ it’s not a dirty word, remember?”
“Same goes for Lilly too. She’s not a dirty word either.”
“I beg to differ,” she said as we took our spoons to our desserts, working out how to get past the sprinkles and the spitting sparklers.
* * *
Later, belly still full, I ironed my new shirts, the TV being ignored, as I wished for bed when there was still plenty of evening left. I looked over at Mum laid on the sofa, her head down, pencil sketching, the room felt tiny, the house, outside, everything smaller.
“Fuck this, Mum. Let’s do something drastic.”
“What?”
“This isn’t it.”
“Isn’t what?”
“Let’s go. Get out.”
“Go where?”
“I don’t know but just not here. Not this.”
“We talked about this before, Tom. You told me it was a bad idea. Persuaded me to stay here. You said give it a go.”
“I know what I said.”
“What’s changed? Why tonight?”
“This future isn’t yours, Mum, and it certainly isn’t mine. We’re kidding ourselves if we think it is,” I said, folding up the ironing board.
“I’m not disagreeing, Tom. I told you I wanted out.”
“I should never have applied for this job, any of them, should never have put Molly in that nursery.”
Mum put her pencil and paper down, sat up. “Whatever we do though, Tom, we do 100%. Promise me that. If we do this, me, you and Mol, then we do it properly. No half measures.”
“Even if it kills you?”
“Even if, yes.”
Mum looked excited, a smile I hadn’t seen in a while. “Will I need to find my passport?”
“I think you might, yes.”
“Good. I might as well leave a tanned corpse. What’s brought this on? A drastic way to avoid ironing I expect.”
“We can’t afford this, you know.”
“We can’t afford not to either, Tom.”
Part Three
Mum’s/Nov/Shot 14
Morgan
48
“We need to wash your hair tonight, madam. It’s knot city.”
No answer, brain focused on cartoons as I brushed out tangles and kinks.
“Dad, why isn’t the sound on?”
“There is no remote control. You’ll have to lip read, sorry.” Molly looked confused. “Like this,” as I mouthed ‘I love you,’ as she did the same back.
“Can I wear pink today?”
“No. I’ve got a nice white dress for you.”
“Please.”
“Molly, you can’t wear pink.”
“Why can’t I?”
“Your pink dress is dirty and mucky.”
“I’ll wash it.”
“With what?”
“Stain remover.”
“How do you know about stain remover?”
“I just know. I’d like some for Christmas.”
“You want stain remover for Christmas?”
“Please can I wear pink? Pink is my favourite.”
“Sorry, Molly. Today is not a pink day. Look, I’m wearing white,” I said, pointing to my shirt.
“Why?”
“Because some days the colours we wear are important. Some days aren’t meant to be pink.”
“OK, Daddy. I will wear white today. But tomorrow can be pink?”
&nb
sp; “Yes. We’ll both wear pink tomorrow, I promise.”
“Boys don’t wear pink. Can I wear my tiara today?”
“No.”
“Can I have plaits today?”
“What about just a ponytail? Make Daddy’s life easier.”
“Plaits are prettier.”
“You hungry? Shall we go out for a bite to eat before we get there? We’ve got time.”
“Yes. French fries, please. Ketchup. And Coca Cola.”
“Molly. You’re not allowed fizzy drinks.”
“Nanny lets me.”
“That’s a fib, Molly. Nanny never let me have fizzy drinks when I was little so I know for a fact she wouldn’t be giving them to you. Right, pass your hairbands please.”
“Nanny sings when she does my plaits. Can you sing please, Daddy?”
“I’ll try.” I said, not quite knowing where to start with either request.
* * *
She reminded me of Cassie, how she ate, wolfed it down as though, if she didn’t, then someone else would.
“You eat too many chips, young lady,” I said, stealing one from her plate. “Do you want to turn into a potato?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll have to peel you, boil you up, deep-fry you. I’ll do you a deal, eat something green off of my plate and I won’t turn you into French fries.” Molly leant forward, took a handful of salad.
“Nanny says I shouldn’t eat the salad here.”
“Look I’m eating salad.” I took a bit of vegetable, put in my mouth. “Am I being sick?”
“No,” she said, nibbling cucumber with caution.
“You look pretty today. Do you think I did a good job with your hair?”
“It looks funny,” she said, laughing.
“Does Daddy look pretty today?”
“Yes. Like a Prince. Can I paint your nails again?”
“Princes don’t wear nail varnish.”
“They do. I’ve seen them.”
“Where?”
“Here. At the night times.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me.” I smiled to myself.
“What?”
“Nothing. I was making a daddy joke.” I took my wallet out of my pocket.
“I know a joke.” Molly still analysing her salad.
“Go on.”
“Doctor, Doctor, I feel like a sheep.”
“And what does the doctor say?”
“That’s too baaaaaaaddd.”
I forced a laugh. “Who told you that?”
“Nanny.”
“I should have guessed.” The waiter came over, Molly asked him if he was an elf. The man smiled, despite his Christmas hat he wasn’t full of festive cheer.
“What about dessert?” staring at the back of the menu.
“Sorry, sweetheart. We’re not going to have time.”
“I always have dessert. Nanny says if I eat all my dinner then I can always have a treat. And look, I’ve eaten all of the salad now.” She showed me her plate.
“There’ll be lots of desserts and treats afterwards. Besides, I don’t want you getting seasick.”
“I won’t.”
“Well I’ve got a memory of a certain young lady being sick on a boat quite recently after too much sweet stuff.”
“The driver was going too fast.”
“Come on, Nemo. Let’s head over to the beach. Hold my hand tight, OK?” My voice was hard to hear over the traffic, as we ran past the scooters and tuk-tuks, dogs and trucks.
“Will there be a coffin? Will there be a body?”
“There’ll just be an urn, probably.”
“What’s an urn?”
“It’s like a stone bottle.”
“And what’s inside?”
“Ash and flower petals.”
“From the burnt bodies?”
“Yes. And they let it float away on the sea.”
“When I die I want to be in a tomb, in a pyramid. I don’t want to be burnt. I want to be wrapped up in bandages, with all my jewels and crystals.”
“That sounds expensive.”
“And a canopic jar.”
“A canopic jar? What have you been reading?
“Please,” squeezing my leg. “Promise.”
“I promise to bury you in a pyramid. Now let’s hurry up. It looks like something holy is about start.”
“There’s a lot of people, Daddy.” She gripped my hand a little tighter.
“They love a funeral here, that’s for sure,” I said, as we started to take our shoes off. We stood far at the back, behind the rows of chairs and backs of heads.
“What are they all doing?”
“Praying, I guess.”
“The urn is very small.”
“There isn’t much left after you’ve been burnt.”
“Does it hurt being burnt?”
“No, silly. You don’t feel anything when you’re dead.”
“Did Granddad get burnt? Is he in an urn?”
“Molly, you’re talking too loud. You are supposed to be quiet at funerals, remember?”
“Why?” she whispered.
“Because you are. Because people are thinking about things. People are sad.”
“Are you sad?”
“Molly, no more questions. Just watch and listen.”
“I want Nanny.”
“Molly, shush.”
We continued to watch, behind us motorbike versus motorbike, in front sad faces and sullen silence. It was strange this yin and yang, one side Mad Max, the other a quiet paradise. That was Thailand after all, spoilt, unspoilt, about to be spoilt.
“Who is in the urn?”
“No one we know.”
“Oh.” She looked confused.
“We’ve met her daughter though. The lady who runs the guest house. Look, she’s over there in the front.” I pointed. “Can you see her?”
“Yes. I like her, she lets me stroke her cat.”
“Remember what we said about cats? They are different than back home.”
“Why are we here, Daddy?”
“You’ll have to ask Nanny that.”
“Where is Nanny?”
“That I’d like to know.”
“Look there she is.” Molly pointed at Mum who was making her way through the crowd, trying to keep her balance and her hat on her head, as she walked barefoot across the sand.
“What have I missed?” she said, out of breath.
“Chanting mostly. How did it go?”
“Brutal.”
“You should have got a taxi.”
“I enjoy the bus.”
“Nanny. Daddy wants to know why we are we?” Molly asked, now sat on the floor covering her feet in sand.
“To pay our respects. What’s happened to your hair, Molly?” looking at me. “Looks like old rope.”
“Daddy did it.”
“When we get back I’ll do it for you.”
“Can we go soon please, Nanny?”
“Soon, darling. Ten more minutes.” Molly continued to dig.
“You OK, Tom? You look angry at me.”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“If this is what you feel you need, Mum. Dragging us all around more temples and processions.”
“These are my dress rehearsals. Try before I buy,” she laughed.
“It’s not funny, Mum. You should be putting all your energy into your chemo. Not the planning of your elaborate funeral.”
“I think this is my favourite so far. Nice being outdoors, not so crowded, calm.”
“Mum. I’m being serious.”
“So am I, Tom. I don’t take dying light-heartedly. When I die… �
��
“If you die,” I interrupted.
“If I die, I want it to be perfect. I want it done properly.”
“Haven’t you ever heard of Google? It’s quicker and means I don’t have to keep wearing this bloody linen suit.”
“It’s not the same.” Mum took her glasses out of her handbag. “We won’t be long.”
“Good, one thing these Thai funerals aren’t is short.”
“Stop complaining. Let me see the floating of the ashes and then we’ll go, promise. We need to finish packing before we head north. I’ll miss this place.”
“Be nice to have a different volume, don’t you think?”
“Too loud for you, darling?”
“No, too British. I’d just prefer somewhere a little more authentic.”
“I like the noise.”
“I know you do. I’ve seen it first-hand. Mum, you’re not eighteen. This wouldn’t be what a doctor would recommend.”
“I doubt a doctor would recommend any of this, Tom. I had to fight tooth and nail for them to let me fly, make them sign all their forms. We both knew this was what we needed. Yes, it isn’t the norm but what would you prefer, white sands like this, or white rooms back home?”
“You know my answer, Mum. Here, obviously. I just think sometimes you need to slow down. Remember your illness.”
“I don’t want to be reminded of it. I want to drown it out.”
“Just make sure you listen to your body, promise?”
“I will. I like to be around youth, Tom. It’s contagious, makes me feel young, makes me feel better. But I do agree with you, I think Nai Yang will be a nice change of pace, nice it’s so close to the airport too. How long till arrival?”
“Next week.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
“I’m a little nervous.”
“Well, you shouldn’t be.”
“You OK, Mum?” I asked her, as she took a deep breath, hands on her knees.
“I’m fine. I can take a deep breath you know. It doesn’t mean I’m about to keel over.”
* * *
We stayed for another twenty minutes or so, till Mum had taken mental notes and Molly was starting to play up. It was a short walk home back to our apartment, the three of us, well four if we included the stray chicken squawking at our feet.
“Can I see my friend when we get back, Nanny?”