by David Lines
I stared at my face and my father stared back at me and I pushed my face right up to the mirror, so close that my breath steamed it up. ‘Are you in there, Dad?’ There was no answer and so I asked of my reflection one more time, ‘Dad, are you in there? Am I turning into you?’ Again there was no answer, but downstairs the back door slammed shut and I could hear my poor brother running away from me down the garden path, making good his escape.
I made some tea in a pot, not a mug, in case Chris came back. The chances of that happening were always slim given that his elder brother had just succeeded in delivering a very passable performance of a grade A schizophrenic. Or maybe it wasn’t a performance, I didn’t know any more. My head was so full of strangers tramping around inside it that just trying to grab hold of an even vaguely unhysterical thought was like jostling my way through an angry crowd. I could hear them upstairs, the strangers in my head, clicking their heels on the floorboards of my mind.
I listened to some Jam. I played the old ‘Funeral Pyre’ single. The sleeve illustration is of Munch’s The Scream – it is haunting, chilling, stark and barren, like something that Death doodled whilst killing time. The B-side’s equally, if not more mortifying. It’s a cover of an old Who song, ‘Disguises’. I was so sick of disguises – I needed to get back to the real me. I finished my tea and got on my bike and cycled down to the barber’s in Main Street. It was empty and shabby and wasn’t fit to kneel in the shadow of Grampa Lines’s old barber’s shop. It was missing even the fundamental basics of a barber’s – there wasn’t a Titbits or a National Geographic to be found for love nor money. I slid into the chair (not pneumatic) and the fat, ruddy pig of a barber appeared. ‘Afternoon, sir. What would you like?’
I looked at my perfectly cropped cut, identical in every way to Paul Weller’s, just like it had been for years. I took my time, admired it from every angle then finally I said, ‘Clippers. Grade one. Shave the lot off.’
16
A Man Of Great Promise
IT APPEARS THAT some time around the time that Paul Weller decided to split The Jam, he did so under the cloud of death. Paul had been on holiday in Italy and returned to find the black news of the demise of his old school friend and early member of The Jam, Dave Waller. Dave had been at Shearwater County Secondary School with Paul and joined The Jam roughly twelve months after the band first got together. From what I can gather, Dave wasn’t particularly musical, but what he did do was introduce Paul to literature, and Paul wrote this Style Council song, ‘A Man Of Great Promise’, as a tribute to his late friend. For me, it was the standout track on The Style Council’s album Our Favourite Shop, and it helped me in no small measure to deal with what Dad was going through. It’s classic Weller, and opens with church bells, not what you’d think given the subject matter, there’s no clanging bell of doom – instead, the bells are like those you’d hear at a wedding, full of celebration. That’s what this is, it’s a celebration of a man’s life. It’s funky and upbeat and light and soulful and the piano tinkles and the bass pumps and Paul sings high and breezily – it’s a song full of colour and warmth. It was exactly what I needed to help guide me through those dark and desperate days. ‘A Man Of Great Promise’ was the light in the distance, the distant beacon blinking on the shore for me.
The change in Dad was dramatic and instantaneous. Almost overnight he went from his old self to an old man and we could not kid ourselves that this was just some blip, something which would quietly go away. Cancer’s not the sort of thing you can sweep under the carpet.
Three days later we were about to take my father to the hospital to begin his course of chemotherapy. He sat downstairs on the sofa whilst me and Mum sat on my bed and talked together. ‘What will they do to Dad?’
‘They’ll give him some pills to try and make him better. Your father won’t like them, they’ll make him feel sick and then his hair will fall out.’
‘Just like that?’
‘No, not just like that, but over the next few weeks it’ll come out in clumps and he’ll also get very fat.’
Big tears welled up in Mum’s eyes and she tipped back her head to stop her mascara from running. I took her thin hand and held it in mine. I could feel the pulse in her wrist and I stroked her face and she dabbed at her eyes with a tissue and then she stroked my hand back. We were in our best clothes. We hadn’t talked about it, we just both felt like dressing up – it was the sort of day that required best clothes, like armour. Mum was in a two-piece navy suit with court shoes to match and under her jacket she wore a cream blouse and a cameo brooch on her lapel. I wore my heart on my sleeve and started crying. ‘Will they make him better?’
‘They’ll do their best, love.’
‘Will he die today?’
‘Not today, David. But soon. You have to prepare yourself. We all do.’
‘I’ve made Dad a tape to listen to whilst he’s having his treatment.’
‘That’s nice, dear.’
‘It’s some of my favourite songs. Do you think he’ll like it?’
She smiled and shook her head. ‘No.’
Dad was very quiet in the taxi on the way to the hospital. He didn’t drive because they’d told us that they were unsure how his body would respond to the treatment and that he might have to stay overnight but they wouldn’t know till after the first dose had been administered. Chris and Phil were at school and I’d swapped my rota day off to go with Mum and Dad. I wanted to know as much as I could about what they were going to do to him. I’d made a list of questions that I wanted to ask the consultant, and I added another one about why he was going to get fat. The taxi pulled up outside the hospital and outside, on the steps, a group of nurses stood around, smoking. Next to them was a man in a wheelchair, his arm hooked up to a drip. He was wearing blue and white striped pyjamas and he was also smoking, although he smoked his cigarette through the hole which had been cut in his neck.
Dad looked scared whilst we spoke to the consultant. He hardly said a word and sat very still, just nodding whilst they answered my questions. The getting fat thing was due to steroids, apparently. I gave him a kiss and a hug and he looked up at me and stared into my eyes and began blinking like mad. I thought he was sending me a message in Morse but he wasn’t, he was just trying not to cry in front of his firstborn, his eldest son.
A young nurse arrived with a wheelchair and my father walked towards it like a man going to the guillotine. Mum whispered something in his ear and he managed a faint smile, sat down in the chair and was quietly wheeled away. I asked the consultant if I could speak to him some more and he looked at his watch and said that that would be fine, but just for a minute. A minute was all that I needed – I had an idea and I needed to put it to him. ‘Tell me how bad the cancer is.’
The consultant frowned and looked at his watch again. I took that as a bad sign. ‘I think that it’s fair to say that the malignancy is at a rather advanced stage. Look, cancer is never good, it is, by its very nature, a bad thing. There are just differing degrees of bad. There’s bad, very bad and really very bad.’
‘So just how bad is it?’
‘It’s not good, let’s put it like that.’
‘It’s just one lung?’
‘No, I’m sorry to say that both lungs are affected.’
‘What if it were only one lung?’
‘Then if the other lung were entirely free, we could possibly remove the infected lung and see what happened.’
‘And Dad could survive with one lung?’
‘It’s not unheard of.’
‘Then take them both out and give him one of mine.’
The consultant didn’t know where to look or what to say. I was being completely sincere and genuine and to me it was the only logical solution: my father needed a lung and I had one going spare – simple as that. The consultant looked away, and then back at me. ‘That’s a very good idea, but it’s simply not possible, I’m afraid.’
‘Why not?’
My
questioning was making him uncomfortable and it was making me uncomfortable not getting a straight answer. ‘Seriously, it’s a proper offer. I’m sure my lungs are fine – I’ve only been smoking for five years.’
‘And how old are you now?’
‘I’m eighteen.’
‘So don’t you think you should think about stopping smoking yourself?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Good. And once again, thanks very much but let’s just see how well your dad responds to the treatment before we go and harvest your organs, shall we?’
‘OK – but it’s there if we need it.’
‘Deal.’
I put my hand out to shake his but he went even before he saw it.
Mum went back home on the bus and I said I needed to go into town. I wanted to be alone. I got a cup of coffee from the machine and thought about going outside to have a smoke with the nurses who’d be looking after Dad, then decided not to. I went for a walk in the hospital garden and sat, quietly, for hours on a bench and I thought about life, and about death and how long it would take for my hair to grow back. I desperately wanted to talk to my father, the thought of losing him was way too upsetting so I went back inside and I set out to find him. It wasn’t difficult – I just asked a nurse and she took me straight to him, to a ward where he lay fast asleep, curled up, recovering from his treatment. I didn’t wake him.
17
The Cost Of Loving
IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE death of my father I turned into a magpie. My mother invited me inside his wardrobe, to see what would fit, what would be fitting for me to have. I wore his black tie to his funeral. I wore his watch, and every time I stared at its face, his stared back at mine. I fell upon his Aquascutum raincoat and collection of Double Two shirts with relish, his leather gloves, his leather wallet all found their way into my possession. His drawer in the dressing table contained five different lighters. My wardrobe became a little shrine. Mum and I counted his ties: there were 122 of them. Combs took on an even greater meaning for me, and cabinets were searched for secrets. Tie clips and cufflinks, signet rings, nail files, army ID chain, photographs of his parents: these were the prizes, the personal mementos of my old man. I did not feel like a robber of graves, more like an archivist.
Leather-bound pocket diaries which dated back years suddenly became completely fascinating; I devoured insignificant dates filled with entries like ‘collect dry-cleaning’ and for a while became obsessed with unearthing the full story of ‘Menai Straits: 1.30 pm’.
I read them all, looking for something; a clue, maybe? And to what? No, I told myself, I was just being nosey. Peeping through the curtains of the pages of a man’s life. It was mainly business stuff – names, appointments, figures. But all captivating to me, nevertheless. I didn’t listen to much music at this time, but I did play ‘The Cost Of Loving’ a great deal. I hummed it to myself all the time; ‘doo-dut dut-dut-derr, doo-dut dut-dut-derr’ – it was like my mantra, it went some way in keeping me calm.
I helped Mum choose the casket from the man from the Co-Op. He came round with a catalogue and showed us about as much compassion as if we were ordering a new double mattress. He flicked through the various pages with a look of complete boredom on his face, even looking away as he spoke to us, ‘You can have this in oak or pine. The handles stay the same, though …’
The vicar came to the house and asked questions about my father so that he could stand in front of our family and friends and sound like he knew him. The answer to ‘What were his hobbies?’ – ‘Fishing …’ – became ‘Bill was an avid angler, well known for spending hours on all fours, stalking double-figure grass carp …’ The vicar had never set eyes on my father.
On the day that my father was cremated we all had funeral hair. It was flat. Outside, it was blustery and the September sunshine was broken. We all were. At half-past one, the man from the Co-Op came with his colleagues and opened the door of the funeral car for my mother. She climbed inside and we followed her, not one of us taking our eyes off the hearse in front that contained the coffin. When I first set eyes on it, that was when the word was driven home most; dead. I was expecting something larger, something bigger than the coffin – something more … stately. And then I thought that that’s all the casket is, really; clothes for the dead.
The drive to the crematorium was an easy one; the traffic was light and the journey was smooth. ‘Your dad would have loved a ride in this,’ said my mum.
I looked at Chris and at Phil and thought how grownup he appeared. He caught me studying him and looked at me and said, ‘What will become of us?’
‘We’ll be all right,’ said Mum.
‘Do you think there’ll be many people there to see Dad off?’ I asked.
‘We’ll have to see,’ said Mum.
The Co-Op had sent four pallbearers, each in cheap, black nylon suits which did not fit. Either the trousers were too long in the leg or their waistbands were far too tight. It was not fitting for a man whose life had been made to measure. They slid the coffin out of the car and then lifted it up onto their shoulders and carried my dad inside. Mum and I and Chris and Phil followed him, and them, inside. I was struck by how cold it was inside a crematorium. I thought it would have been much hotter. As we walked in, I looked up, for just a moment, and was brought to my senses by the sea of faces; I was expecting a rivulet – not an ocean. ‘Doo-dut dut-dut-derr, doo-dut dut dut-derr …’ Paul’s mantra helped me to keep calm.
We sat down and I was instantly aware of the weight of the congregation which was seated behind me. It felt as if it was surging against my shoulders, almost moving me towards the Co-Op coffin. I decided there and then that I would prefer to be buried; I’d much prefer to lay beneath the cold earth than go up in flames. I resigned myself to the fact that my father was going out in one glorious blaze and turned to face the vicar.
He spoke about my father as if they had been best friends since junior school and with a warmth and sincerity like that of a brother. He talked of my dad as if they had been through heaven and hell together and at the end of his address we should have been up on our feet and throwing flowers at him as if we were at the RSC. It was a virtuoso performance – the two men had never even met. The sepia rinse of memory washed over me and I wondered if the vicar had originally thought of a life treading the boards. He’d have made a perfect Hamlet. When he made the improvised move of winking at me when he said my name in his sermon, I simply gaped back; my mouth wide open like a wound.
Once the last prayers were dealt with we watched the coffin on the conveyor belt as it slid slowly behind the curtains to the taped music which came out of only one of the two speakers. The vicar nodded and we stood up and filed outside, back into the cars and were driven back to the house where we having the wake.
We had made sandwiches; ham, cheese, ham and cheese, ham and tomato, cheese and tomato, cheese and pickle. There was potted meat in white and potted meat in brown. And Twiglets. We had made mushroom vol-au-vents and there were sticks of celery in a vase, all of this laid out on the dining-room table over which we had laid a large, crisp white tablecloth. There were two bottles of sherry and I was in charge of keeping people topped up with either tea, coffee or the Bristol Cream. As I did so, moving from guest to guest, I thought about how much longer any of us there were going to be around for. I liked to think about Dad being with Granny and Grampa Lines, up above us in the great hairdresser’s in the sky.
I met cousins of my mum’s who I never knew existed. People who I’d never even heard of came to the funeral and I was shocked at how much I wanted to know about them: ‘You’re my mum’s second cousin, right? So what does that make us? And you’ve got two daughters, so what does that make them and me?’ I wanted to discover them all. I liked being surprised by relatives who I’d never met before; I liked the sense of belonging to something much bigger.
I was sorry to see them go, and we promised to keep in touch when we said our goodbyes: ‘It’s been
lovely meeting you. I do hope to see you again soon.’ Soon? I’d never set eyes on some of these people. I really did hope to see them again. It felt like the waste of a family, being part of something, something so thick and binding like blood and then never seeing them again. It felt like a terrible, terrible waste. When would I see them again? At their funeral? At mine? At some distant and unimaginable point in the future – when I get married? When my first child is christened? When somebody else here dies? ‘Goodbye. Drive home carefully. We should maybe do this again …’
We all helped clear up together. We washed the cups and saucers and collected up cocktail sticks. The house was so quiet, so eerie. I ran the Hoover round just to make some background noise. We all sat down and had a cup of tea. ‘There,’ said Mum. ‘That’s that, then.’
I went to my bedroom, lay on my bed and thought about my father. I thought about his love of Heinz salad cream and how the taste of it makes me gag. I thought about how beetroot was his favourite food and how if it came within six feet of me I’d try and run a mile. Smiling to myself, my head on my pillow, I remembered tiny things that seemed insignificant until that day. They became important to hang on to. I thought about sledging in the snow on Christmas Day. I don’t know how old I could have been, four, five? I got a sledge as my present. A beautiful wooden sledge with iron runners and oval handles on either side. Dad and I dragged it up to the top of the hill, to the top of Selby Road and there, against the backdrop of the big houses set behind their huge iron gates in the soft, floating snow I looked into his eyes, like milk in water, and said ‘Thanks, Dad. This is just perfect.’