by G J Morgan
I’d just finished writing to Dot, told her about our next destination, Mum’s progress, Molly’s dodgy tummy, a lot considering the size of a postcard, though the more I sent, the more I’d perfected writing small and to the point. The whole postcard thing had escalated, Dot made me promise I’d sent her one, so although she expected the first, she wouldn’t have predicted all the rest that must have come through her letterbox. Now it was just part of the ritual, my running joke, leave a town, or arrive at one, the first thing I did was buy a postcard, I’d lost count of how many.
The sun was relentless today, I looked over at Molly, contemplated sun block, but she looked contented and bronzed, her skin just like her stomach had acclimatized to the new surroundings. What before would have made her burn or spew her guts now was not a threat. I felt like a bad parent, sat there with a bottle of Chang in one hand and my daughter broiling just in front. That was as stressful as it got around here, staying cool, keeping rehydrated, though I’d picked up worse habits, new and old. Technically, it was Mum’s fault, claimed it was medicinal though all we’d smoked so far had cured little other than irregular bowel movements. But hey, to look at us, we’d never looked better, skin golden, waists thinner, wider smiles, we went to bed when we were tired, woke up when we weren’t.
I had another quick look over my list, everything ticked and ready. This day had been marked in my diary for well over a month so it wasn’t like I didn’t know it was coming, I just didn’t think it would be so soon, or ever happen for that matter. This was a huge deal, Mum said it wasn’t, but it was, I wanted it all to run smoothly. So even with my feet dipped in cool water, shaded by palms, despite this I still felt a little on edge, like, although I was expecting smiles, how long those smiles would last, I wasn’t so sure.
* * *
“Molly. Are you sure you don’t need a wee?”
She was ignoring me, not deliberately, she was too excited, hopping about, counting things.
We walked through the automated doors, past the suitcases and trolleys.
“Still glad you’ve gone wigless, Mum?”
“I think so.”
“Did you bring it with you in the end?”
“I’m gonna throw that bloody rat out on the street later. I don’t even know why I bought the damn thing. Complete waste of money.”
“Why did you?”
“Everyone else in my support group was getting one, so I kind of felt obliged to join in. It’s the done thing. Get cancer, get chemo, get a wig.”
“I prefer you bald anyway. It suits you. You must have the right shaped head for it. And I quite enjoy shaving your head. It was a strange experience the first time, but now I find it quite therapeutic. Quite erotic.”
“Shut up, you fool,” she said, punching me in the arm. “Sometimes I forget how I look. It might be a bit of a fright to whoever hasn’t seen me like this.”
“You don’t have to impress anyone, Mum. Just act yourself. Look how you normally look.”
“What, bald and breastless? A double mastectomy is hardly a nice welcome after a long flight. Does it look like I’ve got breasts, Tom? I’m still not sure about these new bras, feel like a lady boy.” She moved her chest towards me.
“I’m not answering that, Mum, on principal. Just relax.”
“Sorry. Every now and again I have these little moments. Normally I’m fine with it, everything that has happened, but some days, like today, I look at myself and get a little upset. I blame mirrors. I avoid them at all costs. No hair and breasts makes a lady feel ever so unwomanly. This illness is so bloody undignified.”
“Daddy. I’ve counted five Christmas trees, and one polar bear.” Molly was tugging at my leg.
“Wow. That’s a lot.”
“Santa Claus knows I live here?”
“Positive. You wrote him that letter, remember, saying where you’d be.”
“But we keep going to new places all the time. How will he know where I am now?”
“He just does, Molly. His elves know.”
“Can I write him a new letter when we get back?”
“Yes. But I’m sure he already knows. You were quite clear in the last letter that you weren’t in England anymore.”
“It might be Santa on the plane, Daddy?”
“No, I can assure you Santa is not on the plane.”
“Why?”
“Cos firstly he would be on his sleigh, secondly it’s not even December yet and thirdly you know who’s coming, remember? It says on your banner.”
We walked into the arrivals lounge, checked the flight details to make sure we were in the right place.
“You two thirsty?” I asked noticing the news stand behind us. “I’ll grab us some drinks whilst we wait. Think we’ve got ten minutes till they land.”
“Something fizzy for me, please. Nothing with sugar for Molly. It might tip her over the edge, I’ll find us some seats.”
I headed off leaving Mum and Molly to prepare the welcome banner as I joined the end of a long queue. The owner of the tiny kiosk wasn’t coping well under the pressure of lunchtime trade, there were raised voices over something. Hard to tell aggression from affection in Thai. Either way I ignored it, took my eyes elsewhere, browsed crisps and magazines, picked up a familiar newspaper.
I hadn’t read the news back home in a long while, but seeing an English tabloid I couldn’t resist seeing how the place was getting on in my absence. I flicked the pages, a royal engagement, snowstorms, traffic chaos. Not much had changed at all, everyone keeping calm and carrying on.
I browsed the rail some more, cars, health, interiors, celebrity. I picked one up, leafed through the pages. Put it back, did the same with another, funny the things you miss and don’t miss. It was a shelf full of upgrades, new engines, new phones, new kitchens, new bodies. Everything looked so alluring to a man who’d lived from his backpack the last three months. And even though I had no need for any of it, didn’t mean I wasn’t allowed to drool over things I’d never get to touch or own, that I would spend my whole life working out how to get. I put the magazine back on the rail, immediately noticing the front cover beside it. I read it again, had to do a double take to make sure.
Party dressing for under £150.
A decade of supermodels.
Predict your style.
How to dazzle in evening make-up.
A new Lilly. A Lilly in love.
I went to find the article.
“Yai puan!” said the man behind the till, pointing at the magazine still in my grip.
“Oh sorry,” I said, giving him my leftover change, as I curled it into my rucksack and quickly walked back over to banner and child.
“They’re here,” Mum said. “Well, their plane is. Right Molly.” Mum kneeled down next to her. “Look at your photo and tell me when you can see them come through the door. Keep your eyes peeled.”
“There. There. There.” Molly shouting and pointing.
She was right. It was Lou and Rose. Matching Christmas hats, matching silver hair, matching grins. The biggest of grins, the kind that bring fathers close to tears, as Molly ran towards them, jumping into their chests like she was hugging Cassie herself.
* * *
That evening we ate like kings, my treat, I took them to a little restaurant just by where we were staying, a place we knew was authentic, but westernised enough not to put them out of their comfort zone. They seemed to like it, ate all the food, which was a good sign, the night felt too celebratory to be bothered by menus or new cuisines, lots of toasts and cheers across the table.
Lou was on top form, he’d had half a bottle of wine to himself, spent most of his time with Molly on his lap. She was full of questions, and of course he was full of answers, they talked of Thanksgiving, about Disney World, about Cassie. I couldn’t stop staring at them both, Lou had her eyes a
nd mouth. Molly had her nose and chin, her hair too, two versions of my wife right in front of me. She would’ve loved this moment, the pair finally together.
* * *
Everyone was home now. The ladies were asleep, excused themselves, both full up and tired. A busy day of chemotherapy and jet lag, between the pair of them they could barely keep their eyes open by the time we got back to our rooms.
Sounded like Lou and Rose had been busy. Florida to London, stopped there a few days, did all things you’d expect Americans to do, saw everything that could be seen, loved every minute. Then to Bangkok, where it was made quite clear they hated every minute till it was time to catch a flight to meet us in Phuket. I was impressed with their stamina, a lot of air miles for a couple approaching their seventies, not that it showed. Cassie never really told me what they were like before, I expected quiet and frail, awkward handshakes. What I got was instant energy, instant family, hugs that said far more than they were supposed to, hugs that settled things. Molly was sat with Lou, cuddled up on the sofa with cartoons and duty free, half asleep, Lou not far off neither. Despite the sun outside the whole house was about to fall asleep.
“I’m gonna pop out, Lou. I fancy a walk,” I whispered.
“We’ll talk later,” he mouthed over the babble of TV. “Once this one is in bed,” he smiled. He looked so happy, grandfather and granddaughter together, as I grabbed my bag, opened the door, instantly stepping on beach.
* * *
Nai Yang was deserted, some boys mucking around in the sea, ankle-deep, a few fathers tying up their boats. I heard you could surf here, but I hadn’t seen a wave or break since we’d arrived, everything here was still, even the wind knew how to behave. I’d never visited here first time around, there were always far more alluring places on the map than here, ones faster and louder. To look at the view now I was a fool to dismiss it, though most twenty-year-olds were foolish, or at least start foolish, it took a gap year to turn me from arrogant prick to someone half decent. Tonight, though, it looked damn near perfect, no umbrellas, no loungers, nothing to spoil the stretch of blue, a good place to think, grab some silence. I sat on the floor, kicked off my flip flops with eyes to the sky, before taking out the magazine curled and stuffed in my rucksack.
I should have never bought the damn thing, I thought, after reading it for a second time, should have left it at the news stand. Told me everything I didn’t want to hear, her new house for all to see, how excited she was about her career, how happy she was. A part of me knew I shouldn’t believe any of it to be an accurate reflection, but there would be some honesty, I just didn’t know what was and what wasn’t, which meant all of it blurred into truth.
Mostly it was about Max and her, love conquers all, second chances, made me feel sick, whatever he’d done, Lilly had fallen for it. Max was a pro at this, getting his way, I couldn’t compete, though I expected better of Lilly, thought she was cleverer than that, stronger. Guess I was wrong.
There was a time a few months ago where I still believed that there was a chance for us. For most of that summer I still clung onto hope, even though Lilly had made it quite clear there was none, her silence gave very little doubt that, whatever we had, had reached its end.
I’d like to say I accepted it, that I let go and moved on, but I didn’t. I rang her, messaged her, voicemails, rang her again, this went on for weeks. She never answered once, so all I had of her was what everyone else had of her, TV interviews, social media, what magazines printed. I became addicted to her, searched newsagents and websites, looked for answers, looked for her. It did me no favours, neither helped nor healed, just let things fester and rot. There was a heaviness to loving Lilly and for a long time I couldn’t cope with the weight. The only thing that got me out of it was getting on a plane – travelling saved me, cancer too, to some extent. I had to be strong for Mum, had to focus on her, my issues had to wait, the priority was her. And it had worked, my life here was a different one, gave me a revived purpose, shifted attention away from Lilly and onto something new. And there was me thinking I was finally cured, able to move on. Seeing her again at the airport, reading about her and Max together again. It brought everything back, made me realize that I was never over Lilly. I’d just learned to hide it better.
There were stars now, festoon lights too. It was time to head back.
The next morning, I threw the magazine away. For whose benefit, I wasn’t sure.
51
Lou had declared it a gentleman’s evening, told the women that we were going out, no questions asked. It was a declaration he’d made before, weekly in fact, since he arrived a fortnight ago – gentleman’s evening had become a sort of routine, however, Lou still liked to put on a show, make a big song and dance about men and men’s need to drink and smoke and talk. But it was an unnecessary show of masculinity, neither Rose nor Mum bothered, in fact Rose in particular always looked overjoyed at the prospect of another night off from her husband, practically pushing him out the door every time. “And don’t think you are sleeping in our bed tonight,” she would say. “You know drinking brings out your snore.” Lou didn’t seem fussed, looking equally as thrilled by both the excuse to drink and a guaranteed bed to himself.
* * *
The barman brought over another tray, replacing our empty bottles with full.
“Not that I’m moving regardless, but this is OK, I assume?” he asked me, pointing at his feet up on the chair. “Isn’t it rude to show the soles of your feet in this neck of the woods?”
“The barman has no shoes on, Lou. I’m sure your calluses haven’t caused too much offence just yet.” Lou smiled, reclined further back into his chair. This was a reclined evening, jazz in the background, or the Thai equivalent. The moon full and fat, the night windless, everyone and everything lethargic and laid back. I wasn’t drunk this time, intentionally, I’d stuck to beer, the safer alternative, having learnt the hard way last time, though there was talk of whiskey later, so already I knew the night had potential to veer off course. Lou was knocking quite a few back as normal, twice as much as me, though he was twice my size, told me I drank too slowly. Not that my lack of speed had slowed him down too much, he was the seasoned drinker after all and I got the impression it would take something a lot stronger than foreign liquor to knock him off his feet, unless they sold horse tranquillizers behind the bar.
I’d never seen a man so happy and content. He looked how every retired man should look, spoilt with food and wealth and sunshine, eyeing up bourbon he shouldn’t drink and women he couldn’t have. The arrival of Lou and Rose was the second wind we needed, gave Mum a boost, made Molly think less of home. It wasn’t like we’d even done anything amazing, just hung about the pool, took some nice walks, ate, drank, talked, nothing too strenuous, nothing ever was in Nai Yang. Mum was taking Rose to her hospital tomorrow, or Rose taking Mum, either way they were heading towards Phuket Town first thing, so although I was enjoying my wild boy’s night, in the back of my mind I was already working out the best way to entertain Molly with a hangover and little sleep. Lou finished his beer. “If I was thirty years younger, Tom,” he said, pointing over at the bar at high heels and not much skirt.
“I don’t think age matters here. Just the size of your wallet.”
“How big a dent?”
“2000 baht.”
“Tempting,” he said, counting the notes in his pocket.
“Might be best to check for an Adam’s apple first. I suspect that might not be a girl.”
“You forget I’ve been to most ports around the world. Adam’s apples I can handle.”
“Best to try all things at least once, hey?”
“That was my problem. I’m a devil when it comes to temptation. Sometimes once isn’t enough, young Tom.”
I took a gulp of beer, then a second. Though used to Lou and his tales of naval debauchery, I was still never quite prepared for awkw
ard.
“You ready to move on yet, Tom?”
“What, to another bar?”
“No. Move on. Women?”
I shook my head.
“You’ve had no one since Cassie?”
I laughed. “Are we having this conversation, Lou, seriously?”
“Pretend I’m not who I am. Pretend we are just two guys at a bar chewing the cud.”
“Well, to answer your question, no, I haven’t.”
Lou looked shocked, even a little disappointed. “Not even a fling? Bit of slap and tickle?”
“Should I have?”
“Each to their own, friend. Just don’t leave it too long, hey. There’s no shame in having that urge. We are men after all. Anyhow, it would be good for you to meet someone else. Fall in love again.”
“Perhaps.”
“You don’t sound very convincing. You not want love again, Tom?”
“Course I do.”
“Love is one of God’s greatest achievements. I should know. You’re talking to someone who’s been married four times.”
“Four times? Cassie never told me that.”
“Here, have a smoke, Tom,” he said, offering me a cigar.
“I’m fine, Lou.”
“Go on.”
“No, it didn’t agree with me last time.”
“I think the Jim Beam played a part in that too,” he winked. “Cigarette then?” he took a pack out of his shirt pocket, and was already lighting one before I could refuse. He took a big suck of his cigar.
“I love women, Tom. My biggest vice I’m afraid.” Giant exhale, a wall of smoke, thick and sickly. “Wives and sweethearts, hey. May the two never meet.”
“I can think of worse vices than women.”