Welcome to the Real World

by Carole Matthews

  I have tried very hard to stop thinking about Evan David, but it hasn’t really worked. Even now, I can’t understand why he was so keen to get away from Nathan. Honestly, you’d think that he’d seen a ghost from the way he completely overreacted. My mind has tossed it around a thousand times, but still I can’t rationalise it.

  ‘Who are you?’ my dad says as I emerge into the kitchen.

  ‘Leave it out, Dad,’ I say. ‘I’m not in the mood.’

  He gives up and sinks into his chair.

  The other thing that I need to address in my life is my parents’ continuing separation. If I don’t get my bonkers dad out of this flat soon, I’m quite likely to murder him. He seems to have put himself into early retirement and hasn’t gone to work since Mum threw him out, which means that he isn’t giving me any money to stay here, despite the fact that he eats the entire contents of my cupboards the minute I fill them. As far as I can ascertain, all he is doing is sitting watching Des and Mel while snacking, with the occasional foray onto the Internet to look up more illnesses that he can come down with. My bedroom floor is littered with my dad’s checked jumpers and other items of clothing that you really don’t want to see of your father’s. The lounge is a bombsite, as there’s a bed permanently made up on my sofa, and my bathroom shelf has been bombarded with shaving foam and spent razor blades. At least he’s still washing and shaving, I suppose.

  Before I turn round and go back out to the King’s Head for tonight’s rousing performance, I need to do some laundry. There are a thousand other chores I need to do, too, but they can wait. Having clean clothes is something of a priority. ‘Is there anything you need washing, Dad?’

  ‘Just a few bits,’ he says. ‘I’ll go and fetch them.’

  I’ll get something proper to eat later. Maybe Carl and I will hit the nearest chip shop. My life could not be any more glamorous, could it? Needing a quick snack to stave off the hunger pangs, I root around in my cupboards, but, once again, my dear parent has eaten me out of house and home. The only thing that’s left is the cheap and nasty cereal that even Squeaky isn’t keen on. Pulling the box out of the cupboard, I stick it on the table while I putter round the kitchen trying to find a bowl that hasn’t already been used. When I finally lay my hands on one, I go to pour out some cereal and find that the box is completely empty. What is it about blokes that they can put empty boxes back into the cupboard or the fridge? Why can’t they simply throw them out like women do? I shake the box again, but unlike David Blane, I still can’t make any cereal materialise out of thin air. I could kill my dad, really I could.

  He takes that moment to reappear with a pile of washing.

  ‘Why didn’t you think to leave me any food?’ I ask.

  Taking in the cereal box, he says, ‘There’s bread.’

  I open the bread bin. There isn’t.

  ‘I’ll get some tomorrow,’ he promises. ‘If I remember.’

  ‘You better had,’ I warn him. ‘And while you’re at it, it’s about time that you remembered you’ve got a wife. If you’re not careful, she’ll be starting divorce proceedings while you’re pretending to have lost your memory.’

  He straightens up a bit at that, but fails to rise to the bait.

  I snatch the pile of laundry from him and throw it on the floor in front of the washing machine. Even this washing machine is an ancient hand-me-down from Carl’s mum, but it has served me well for the past few years. My dad shuffles to the kitchen table to sit down while I sort out the shirts and pants, wishing I had some of those massive laundry tongs so that I didn’t have to touch my father’s underwear. There’s a pair of trousers, too, and I pull out the pockets in case he’s left any loose change in there which will wreck my washing machine as I couldn’t cope with any unexpected expense at the moment. The only thing in there is a business card, which I go to hand over and then the name catches my eye. The distinctive Fame Game logo looms up at me. Stephen Cauldwell’s name is in bold capitals on the front. I wish I had one of Nathan’s inhalers to hand, because I can feel myself starting to hyperventilate. Flipping the card over, I see Stephen Cauldwell has scrawled a message on the back. It says, quite simply, Fern. Call me! Stephen. My hand starts to shake.

  Holding the card out towards my dad, I demand, ‘What’s this? What’s this?’

  He has the good grace to go ashen. ‘I can’t remember. I’ve got Alzheimer’s.’

  ‘Like fuck you have!’

  My dad frowns at me. ‘That’s no way to speak to your father.’

  ‘Perhaps I’ve inherited the Tourette’s syndrome that you had last week. Or had you forgotten about that, too?’

  Dad stares morosely at the table.

  ‘How did you get this card? Did he come here?’ I yell. ‘Did Stephen Cauldwell take the trouble to come here and you didn’t tell me? You’ve put this card in your pocket and simply forgotten?’

  ‘I did forget,’ my dad insists.

  ‘And what does that say about you?’ I ask. ‘I’ve put up with all this stupid behaviour, and when it comes to something so important to me, you can’t get your act together long enough to tell me?’

  I feel hysterical. Blood is pounding round my veins, and I’ll swear there’s a red mist coming down before my eyes. I’m more angry than I’ve ever been in my life.

  ‘When did he come here?’

  ‘Er…yesterday,’ my dad says. ‘Or the day before. Not long ago. I really can’t remember.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Nothing much.’ My dad sounds very cagey. ‘He just said you were to call him.’

  ‘You weren’t rude to him? You didn’t tell him to fuck off?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Dad says with a wobble in his voice. This is not giving me the utmost confidence in his recollection.

  ‘If I thought you’d done this deliberately, Dad, then I’d never forgive you.’

  He looks affronted. ‘That’s a terrible thing to say.’

  ‘And this is a terrible thing to do. Have you any idea how important this is to me?’

  ‘I’m beginning to realise,’ he mutters.

  This does nothing to calm me down. ‘The Fame Game and Stephen Cauldwell could be my only chance to get out of my miserable life, out of this miserable hovel of a home. Don’t you want that for me?’

  ‘Yes.’ My dad perks up. ‘And I’ve done something today to help with that?’

  ‘What?’ I briefly wonder whether he’s managed to lever himself off the couch for long enough to have a look at what’s wrong with the fridge.

  ‘I got rid of that filthy little mouse.’

  My blood turns to ice, and I can feel my jaw drop. ‘You did what?’

  ‘I got rid of it. You’d have been overrun with the things if I hadn’t. Do you know how much disease they carry?’

  ‘What did you do?’ I say. ‘What did you do?’

  My dad now looks more uncertain. ‘I bought a trap.’

  ‘You didn’t think to buy a loaf or some milk or some cereal, but you made the effort to go out and buy a mouse trap?’

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased,’ Dad protests. ‘They carry dirt. There were mouse droppings on the floor.’

  ‘What did you do with him? Did you take him to the park?’

  Dad looks very shifty.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘No. Tell me that you bought a humane trap?’

  My dad’s eyes travel towards the swing bin in the corner of the kitchen.

  ‘No,’ I say again. ‘Please tell me you haven’t done what I think you’ve done.’

  ‘Love,’ he says. ‘It’s for the best.’

  I go to the corner and open the swing bin. Sure enough, Squeaky’s tiny, crushed body is lying on top of screwed-up kitchen roll, an empty soup tin and last week’s copy of the Mail on Sunday.

  Gently, I pick him up, stroking his broken grey body, and fall to the floor, huddling over him on my knees. I hear myself sobbing loudly and screaming, ‘No!’ over and over again, but I can’t sto
p myself. It’s as if this noise is coming from someone else, not me. I’ve lost the plot, I know. But the unnecessary death—the needless murder—of Squeaky represents all that has gone wrong in my life. All my failures come crushing down on me, like the cruel trap must have done on Squeaky’s scrawny body. If I can’t even protect a bloody mouse, then how do I deserve my place on this planet?

  I wrap Squeaky’s body gently in a piece of the discarded kitchen roll and then lay him on the floor by the back door and weep over him.

  Eventually, I feel Dad’s hand on my shoulder. ‘It’s for the best,’ he says again. ‘I did it for you.’

  Standing up, I wheel round. ‘It’s not for the best. And it’s not for me! All this is about what you want!’

  My dad takes a step back. He’s looking at me as if I’m a gorgon. Perhaps a mass of snakes have sprung out of my head, because I’m certainly hissing and spitting. My arms are whirling wildly. I’d never understood the term blind fury, but I do now. My vision is blurred and I lunge for my dad, catching him on the shoulder. He grabs my hand.

  ‘Don’t, love,’ he says. ‘Don’t get yourself worked up for nothing.’

  ‘Nothing? How can you be so fucking dismissive of my pain?’

  ‘What about my pain?’ Dad retaliates.

  And the red mist definitely comes over me now. He still doesn’t understand or doesn’t care what this means to me. I don’t think that my dad is in pain. I think he’s insensitive, selfish and a sponger.

  Whirling round, I grab the empty cereal box from the table and lash out at him with it. I hit him round the head, resounding thunks, while he tries to fend me off.

  ‘Fern!’ he shouts. ‘Calm down. Calm down.’

  But I don’t want to calm down, I want to make him hurt as much as I’m hurting. I want him to know what my pain feels like.

  And then he stops fighting me and clutches his chest.

  ‘Try another one, Dad,’ I snarl, and whack him again.

  This time he falls to his knees, clutching at the table.

  ‘What’s this—a feigned heart attack?’ I stand over him hands on hips, breathing heavily. ‘Well, it won’t wash.’

  Dad is gasping. Almost convincingly.

  ‘I want you out of here,’ I roar. ‘I want you out of my life.’

  Dad starts crawling towards the door. He’s nearly there when he collapses onto his stomach and just lies there.

  ‘Nice try,’ I growl furiously. ‘You should audition for the local amateur dramatics group. I’m sure they’d love a performer like you. However, I’m less impressed. So, if you don’t mind, I’m going to get ready for work.’ I go to step over my Dad’s inert body. ‘Don’t you dare touch Squeaky. I’m going to bury him in the park tomorrow.’

  Then I notice that Dad’s lips have turned blue, and I know that even he can’t fake that. I also know from my long experience with Nathan that this is not a good thing.

  I bend down and shake him softly. ‘Dad?’

  If he jumps up in a minute or starts to laugh, then I’m finished with him, really I am. Blood relative or not, I’m washing my hands of him. But my dad doesn’t move. His eyes are wide and staring. A gurgle comes from his lips, but it’s clear that he can’t speak. Then I realise that this is one illness that he isn’t faking—in fact, this is deadly serious.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ I say and bolt for the phone, punching in 999 as fast as my fingers can manage it. I give the emergency services my name and address, begging for an ambulance to arrive within the next few minutes.

  I rush back to the kitchen. ‘There’s an ambulance on its way,’ I tell my dad. ‘Hang on. Just hang on.’

  He doesn’t look like he’s hanging on. And then some first aid that I learned nearly twenty years ago in the Girl Guides somehow kicks in. My panic abates and a calmness descends on me, and as I prepare to give my dad the kiss of life, I say, ‘Neither of us are going to enjoy this.’

  Fifty-three

  I don’t know how they do it, but the paramedics arrive what seems like seconds later. They move me aside and, in a calm and professional way, immediately start to administer CPR to my dad. And I promise that I will never, ever criticise our lovely, overworked National Health Service ever again.

  They load Dad onto a stretcher and gently carry him down the stairs to the waiting ambulance. I follow and sombrely sit next to Dad, taking hold of his hand. He gives me a wan attempt at a smile as the paramedics hook him up to a dozen different things.

  ‘He’s lucky you were there,’ one of the paramedics says to me as we set off for the hospital. ‘You’ve probably saved his life.’

  I don’t dare to tell him that I was the architect of my father’s heart attack. I’m not sure what the prison sentence is for attempted manslaughter of one of your parents, but I’m pretty sure I don’t fancy it.

  My dad has his eyes closed and looks peaceful, but he’s gripping my hand. How fragile we are as human beings. I stroke his hair from his forehead, which is soaked with sweat.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ I say.

  ‘Me, too,’ he whispers.

  At the hospital, they admit Dad to the Coronary Care Unit, and while they do, I shoot out into the car park to phone Mum and Joe from my mobile.

  Mum, it seems, isn’t at home and, as usual, her mobile phone is turned off. It’s probably sitting next to the kettle in the kitchen where she normally keeps it—fat lot of use that it is there. We’re always banging the drum to get her to understand that we want her to use her mobile in case of emergencies. But my mum is the sort of person who doesn’t believe in emergencies. Now we’ve got one, and goodness only knows where she is. Dialling Joe instead, I’m relieved when he answers within three rings. I explain the situation, and he promises to get one of his neighbours to watch Nathan for a couple of hours while he comes down to the hospital.

  Then I call Carl and cry into the phone. He utters soothing words, shushes my tears, promises to tell Ken that there’s yet another domestic emergency in my life and that I won’t be in for work again—I must definitely be in line for the sack by now—and then my darling friend says that he’ll also come down to the hospital as soon as he can, making me crumble again.

  I go back up to the ward and find my dad settled in a corner bed. A tiny Thai nurse is tucking a clean sheet around him. There’s an array of pink stickers attached to his bare chest with wires snaking out through a smattering of white hair. He’s hooked up to a drip and a heart monitor and there’s a blood-pressure cuff on his arm, but he’s looking slightly better. Some of the colour has come back into his face and he’s sitting upright. I get a rush of affection for him and go over and hug him tightly.

  ‘Mind you don’t knock off any of these gadgets,’ he warns, ‘or they’ll think that I’ve croaked it all over again.’

  Before she leaves us alone, the nurse clicks her tongue against her teeth and says, ‘Your daddy is lucky man.’

  He’s wired up in a hospital having just had a heart attack, and people keep telling me he’s lucky? He doesn’t look very lucky from where I’m standing. He looks like a doing-poorly old man. A tear rolls down my cheek.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ Dad says. ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘That was a close call,’ I sob.

  He pats his heart. ‘Plenty of life in the old boy yet,’ he says. ‘I’ll be as right as rain.’

  ‘Oh, Dad.’ I wipe away the tears with my sleeve, sinking into the plastic chair by his bedside. ‘I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.’

  ‘I’m going nowhere,’ he assures me. Then he looks at me, slightly shamefaced. ‘And there’ll be no more silliness from now on.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ I say, and we both exchange a sheepish grin. ‘Joe’s on his way. He’ll be here soon, I should think.’

  ‘I don’t know how Nathan copes with all this,’ he says.

  ‘Me, neither.’

  ‘He’s made of sterner stuff than I am.’ Dad lies back against his pillow. ‘I just want
to get out of here and get better.’

  ‘And I want everything to get back to normal.’

  He clears his throat. ‘Did you call your mum?’

  ‘I did,’ I tell him. ‘But she’s out.’

  Dad glances over at the big clock on the wall, and a frown crosses his forehead. ‘She never goes out at night. Where can she be at this time?’

  I pretend that my attention has wandered off down the ward and avoid answering his question. I daren’t tell him where I think my mum is—there’s no way I want to be responsible for giving him another heart attack.

  Fifty-four

  Evan had taken doses of Lemsip, Night Nurse, Benolyn Expectorant and a clutch of Nurofen—an array of drugs that any self-respecting junkie would be proud of. Yet still he felt awful. His head throbbed and his nose ran. The throat doctor had visited earlier this evening, had swabbed his throat and had felt his glands and, finally, had pronounced him unfit to sing. The charity concert was off.

  Now he was lying in bed, all alone, feeling sorry for himself. It was a cold, he scolded himself, nothing worse. He was a typical bloke, blowing all illnesses completely out of proportion, but with the added neurosis of an opera singer. It was an irrational train of thought, but he always worried that after a cold he might lose his voice permanently. What would he be if that happened?

  Evan felt that he was probably well enough to get through one song, but not a whole concert. Rupert had gone to the concert anyway to apologise for his absence and glad-hand some people. Another tenor, Johan Reiss, had stepped in at the last minute. He was good. He would save the day. But he wasn’t another Evan David. Plus Evan hated to think that his image might be tarnished by not appearing. He always worried that the higher his star ascended, then the farther it would be for him to fall. And there were plenty of tabloid newspapers braying for the chance to accelerate his plummet to earth. He’d have to make a huge donation to the charity to make up for it—and with a spirit that wasn’t entirely altruistic, get Rupert to leak it to the right places.