Ring Road

by Ian Sansom

  And, naturally, he was one of the high priests. Bob decided how things got done. When he couldn’t instruct his disciples any longer by word of mouth – when he was too busy in meetings, or travelling – he did it by written rules and precepts. There were laminated instruction cards everywhere in the factory and at the Plough and the Stars, from the Sandwich Classics No. 1 ‘Lay Out the Bread’ card, right the way through to the Club Sandwich No. 75 ‘Garnish the Chicken Breast with V2 Flat Teaspoon of Chiffonaded Parsley’ card. If you were making Savory’s sandwiches, you made it the way Bob Savory would have made it himself. Or you went elsewhere. At the Plough and the Stars the same principles applied. The food was not exactly haute cuisine, but as Menu Consultant Bob offered people what they wanted: and they wanted buffalo wings, nachos and steaks well done. The details had to be correct. The chips were Bob’s chips, for example, and no one else’s: there was a way to do it. Bob’s way.*

  This was maybe why Bob found his mother’s illness so difficult to cope with. Illness is not a part of any system. It cannot be controlled with laminated instruction cards.

  The only goal you could set yourself, if you were ill, according to Bob, was to get better. That was the goal: that was the only purpose of illness, in Bob’s book. But Bob’s mother wasn’t going to get better. She wasn’t going to die just yet either, so there was going to be no fulfilment either way and Bob was used to fulfilment. He wasn’t accustomed to sitting around. He didn’t want to wait and see. His mother had taught him that, the virtue of setting goals, and having aims and achieving them, and now she was sick and he couldn’t believe it, he couldn’t believe her attitude. It was as if she’d given up – she, who’d always taught him to work hard and persevere. She seemed to be perfectly content in her illness.

  Bob could hardly look her in the eye any more, and because he couldn’t look her in the eye he could hardly look himself in the eye. He’d even started shaving using an electric razor, so he could avoid using the mirror.

  He’d always been punctilious in his personal appearance, but recently he’d found himself slipping – socks and pants unironed – and he knew he was somehow going to have to cut himself off from his mother. She was dragging him down. Her performance was affecting his own. The trouble is, you can’t sack your parents when they fail to perform – although people in our town, obviously, try their best to do so. The sheltered housing, the old people’s homes, these are big growth areas around here, and eventually Bob decided that it was time for his mum to go in among the others and join them. It was a difficult decision.

  He went to look the place over – Mellow Mists they call it. It’s up on the ring road, purpose-built, opposite Bloom’s, and the sign outside says, ‘We Specialise in Alzheimer’s, Dementia and Wandering Problems’, hardly a boast, one would have thought. The building is totally secure, and Bob had to be buzzed in from room to room and corridor to corridor. He arrived at a mealtime and there were people like his mother biting plastic knives and forks, and yelling because they couldn’t serve the food themselves, or cook it, and there were big grown men sitting in restraint chairs and other people wearing waist pouches where they had finger food that they were nibbling on, while others were folding towels or cutting out pictures from catalogues.

  It was appalling.

  But the staff seemed friendly and efficient, and Bob’s mother was definitely deteriorating. When she’d started getting ill it was just short-term memory loss and he could cope with that quite easily. But then she started with the Parkinson’s as well and he’d had to get the nurses in. And then she became confused and now she was angry as well. The doctor called it ‘increased agitation’. Bob called it going bonkers. She sometimes wore her pants on her head. She spat on the floor. She picked up imaginary objects and she’d say sometimes, when he brought her a snack at night when they were watching TV together, ‘I have to go home. My son’s coming home from school. I have to be there.’ He couldn’t cope with that. Other times she flirted with him, or she shouted at him – his mother, who had never shouted at him in his life. It was Bob’s father who had always been the shouter, his father, normally a quiet and placid man but who would occasionally explode with rage, inexplicable, huge parental rage, and although he never hit or struck Bob, as far as he could remember, Bob felt there was always the threat, the possibility of being struck, and that was enough. That was terrifying to a child.

  Bob remembered that feeling now, of fear and confusion and shame, and he remembered how he had struggled to cut himself off from his own fears and emotions. He’d succeeded, of course, like he succeeded in everything. When his father had died he hadn’t grieved at all; he’d been able to protect himself from his emotions. And now, when his mother swore at him or shouted at him, Bob realised he was going to have to withdraw himself again, slowly but carefully disentangling himself, cutting himself off from her. Bob liked to think of himself as self-reliant but he had always secretly looked towards his mother for reassurance and approval, and now she couldn’t give it to him any more. She was as good as dead to him. She was gone.

  He made sure she had the best room in the whole place, away from the ring road, overlooking a small pond out back, surrounded by shrubs and roses. He’d point out the roses to her and sometimes, if he arrived at mealtimes, he’d help feed her. Getting her to eat was becoming a problem – just to get her to open her mouth sometimes you had to put your fingers under her jaw and press up; one of the carers had showed Bob how to do it. To get her lips to open, you had to use your thumb and finger, and squeeze her lips together. To get her to swallow you had to stroke her throat. He didn’t like having to do that. It disgusted him. It was like feeding a helpless animal.

  After he’d fed her he would set off home to his big empty house, and on the way he’d buy a bottle of vodka and a pack of cigarettes, even though he was virtually a teetotaller and a non-smoker, and then he would sit in his big kitchen by himself and drink and smoke and cry, and when he was done, he’d get on with his work. His mother’s illness had made him vulnerable and he didn’t like being vulnerable. He had always strived towards feelings of invulnerability. Which was why he was beginning to get fed up with the Quality Hotel: the Quality Hotel was making him feel vulnerable. He was going to have to take matters into his own hands.

  * Robert McCrudden covers this question in some detail in Week 2, ‘But Is It Poetry?’ of Creative Writing (Poetry) I at the Institute, Tuesdays, 7.30–9. ‘Yes, it probably is’ seems to be the gist of the answer, judging by the submissions to the Impartial Recorder’s Poetry Corner and the work published in the Institute’s creative writing booklet, Tears of a Clown (£2.99, available from reception).

  * See note 58.

  * The report, Summary Conclusions: Sandwich Brand Recognition Indicators, compiled by Terry Carey, who basically is the Niche Naming and Premier Product Placement Consultancy, used the Niche Naming and Premier Product Placement Consultancy copyrighted methodology, ‘Seven Simple Messages’, to come up with the name Speedy Bap!. As Terry explains in point 1.1 of her 115.10-point report, ‘I call these messages simple because they are binary in form (your product is ‘x″, it is not ‘y″, the opposite of ‘x″). For total market penetration, the product name must send out no more than seven simple messages. This is the key to successful niche naming.’ Terry studied English Literature at Strathclyde University before going into PR and marketing, and it shows. Bob had skimmed through most of the report and concentrated on the conclusion. ‘115.10 Summary Conclusion. The suggested name, Speedy Bap!, works because it embodies Seven Simple Messages of successful Niche Naming. Bap is female. Speedy is male. Bap belongs to the past. Speedy belongs to the future. Bap is rustic. Speedy is urban. And, finally, ! is not?.’ Bob had never been to university, so he took Terry’s word for it. He just liked the name. He’d had a friend at school called Bap.

  † Bob, alas, like most of us, has never attended any of Barry McClean’s classes in ‘Philosophy for Beginners’ at the Institute
(Wednesdays 7.30–9.00), and so was not familiar with the fate of Sisyphus, the king of Corinth who was condemned repeatedly to roll a huge stone up a hill, which then rolled down again as soon as it reached the summit. There’s a moral here, in the story of Sisyphus, according to Barry, who lists Albert Camus’s Le Mythe de Sisyphe as recommended reading in Week 7, ‘Philosophy of Religion’.

  * See Speedy Bap!, chapter 1, ‘Bob’s Way’.

  17

  Condolences

  A dreadful chapter of much melancholy and confusion

  He’d never liked October, Mr Donelly. It was a dog’s breakfast of a month: rain and wind one minute, warm and settled weather the next. You never knew where you were with October. And now here he was, still receiving condolence cards, weeks after – that was typical October. The postman, Jerome Hegarty, did at least do Mr Donelly the courtesy of delivering to him first, as if the cards were exam results. Mr Donelly had known Jerome’s father, John Joe; he had worked with him at the printworks years ago and it was kind of Jerome to take the time and trouble.* Mr Donelly was feeling pathetically grateful at the moment, actually, which was not like him. He was all mixed up: it was October. He couldn’t believe how many condolence cards they were getting. It seemed a lot of people had only just heard, people they’d known all their lives. People right here in town. People who had missed the funeral and who thought they’d just drop a note instead, like cancelling the milk when you go away on holiday.

  Times had changed. He remembered himself when he was young, if someone died in town, you knew about it pretty soon, if not immediately, because of course you knew pretty much everyone in town, and you’d notice if they weren’t around, and even if you didn’t know them, if they were just someone’s cousin, say, you’d still be happy to line the street with everyone else when the time came to give them a good send-off, and the men would take off their caps, and the children would be expected to bow their heads, and everyone would stand in silence. No one these days took off their caps, but then no one these days wore caps. It was baseball caps, if anything, and Mr Donelly doubted very much whether people took off their baseball caps as a hearse went by, he certainly hadn’t noticed them doing so. These days even old men, who should have known better, and who should have been wearing proper caps, might see a hearse approaching from a distance and not even pause to nod.

  Shopkeepers actually used to step outside their shops, in the old days, when a funeral cortège was going past. They’d shut up shop, even if it was only for a few minutes. Of course, now all the shops have moved to Bloom’s and it was mostly charity shops on High Street and Main Street, so no one did that any more. No one cared. No one knew you anyway. Your passing away meant nothing these days to the community at large. Death was no longer a public event, unless it was a royal or a celebrity doing the dying, and then there was a ridiculous fuss about it, people making up for all their silence and embarrassment surrounding the subject the rest of the time. Death, Mr Donelly felt, had been rather diminished in dignity and stature recently. Death somehow no longer had the clout it used to. It was like everything else that wasn’t actually on the telly – it was no longer very important. It had become an amateurish, family affair, something you were expected to deal with all by yourself, and to clear up the mess after you. It was exactly the same with weddings. They’d been to the wedding of one of Mrs Donelly’s nieces a couple of years back and the minister, who’d been wearing a lounge suit and tie, had actually announced from the pulpit – had actually said this – ‘Please do not throw confetti either inside or outside the church. I’m sure you can appreciate, ’ he said, ‘it’s very difficult for us to pick up all the pieces.’ Well, no, Mr Donelly couldn’t appreciate it. He thought that’s what churches were for: to pick up all the pieces. But you could no longer expect other people to join in your celebration, or your mourning these days, not even the church. It was down to yourself. If you wanted to throw confetti, well, fine, but you were expected to do it in the privacy of your own home. These days, you have to smoke in the garden, wear a helmet when you’re riding a push-bike and cry alone. That’s modern life for you.

  The children had all made it back for the funeral. The youngest, Mark, he’d come straight over, right away, from America, as soon as Mr Donelly had picked up the phone and told him. Mr Donelly had rung him before breakfast and, before he knew it, there he was, Mark, standing in the kitchen, larger than life, eating a cheese-and-pickle sandwich before the clock struck midnight, giving Mr Donelly a hug. It was unbelievable, really. He’d got the hugging from America. Molly, his wife, had stayed behind to look after the children: they didn’t want them upset. Mark said that Molly had told the children that Nana had gone to be with the angels. What Molly didn’t say was that when she told them they’d said, ‘Who’s Nana?’

  Mark had been a big help with the arrangements. His job with the hypodermic needle incinerator manufacturer had been the making of him. He was a man now, Mr Donelly realised. He was in management and he seemed able to deal with all life’s little difficulties: that’s what managers did, of course. They sorted things out: they brought people in and they laid people off, and it didn’t really matter if it was dealing with personnel problems with a junior employee in tele-sales or accounts, or your own poor dead mother, it was just the same. Mr Donelly had never been a manager himself, so he didn’t really understand how it all worked, or how you went about it, but he had to admit he was impressed. He could remember when Mark wouldn’t say boo to a goose, and yet here he was, making arrangements on the phone, speaking to the funeral director, Sid Rodgers, who’d always done everyone in the family, and the solicitor, Martin Phillips, ‘tying up the loose ends’ as he put it. Someone had to. Jackie, Mr and Mrs Donelly’s daughter, the nurse, she was there from London, but she was too upset to be of much use, and her and Michael just kept setting each other off, just the same as they had when they were children, tormenting each other with their sorrows. They’d always been the emotional ones. Tim had made it back too, but he was keeping his own counsel. Mark had managed to track him down in Thailand, Mr Donelly had no idea how, and he was too tired to ask.* He doubted he could even find Thailand on a map – he’d certainly have had to have a few goes – let alone find his son there. It was Tim who was most like Mr Donelly himself – the eldest, the quiet one, the drifter, fond of dogs, of alcohol and strong opinions. Mr Donelly had never really got on very well with Tim. But still, it was nice to have him around.

  So there they were, all in the house together again, for the first time in years, getting through toilet roll and tea bags like there was no tomorrow. They’d finished a large jar of Branston pickle that would usually have lasted Mr and Mrs Donelly six months or more, and there was not a dry tea towel to be had in the house, and they were all thinking the same, and they were all confused by the same thought: that this was rather nice, actually, to be all together again, and it was a shame they couldn’t have got together for some other reason, because there was something missing now that spoiled the whole event, and just for a moment or two you couldn’t quite work out what it was, but then you remembered.

  She wasn’t there.

  They were without Mrs Donelly for the first time in their lives, and without her there was nothing and no one to hold it all together, and no amount of tea and sandwiches could put it right. This wasn’t indigestion and it wasn’t Christmas after all.

  It’d been her, really, right from when the children were young, who’d made things OK, who’d made the whole thing work. Maybe that’s where Mark had got it from, his managerial skills, just from observing his mother. Mr Donelly had no idea how it had worked, their lives: he’d just lived it. It was Mrs Donelly who always made sure there were enough toilet rolls and tea bags in the house, and sandwich spread for the lunches, clean nappies and clothes, big piles of them on the stairs, he remembered, and presents for the birthdays. The parents’ evenings, the exams, the doctor’s appointments: Mr Donelly had no idea how all these things had ha
ppened. He’d never even really noticed them, to be honest. He just took it all for granted. He used to get up before the children were awake, and put on the clothes Mrs Donelly had bought and washed and ironed and put away, and eat his toast, brush his teeth with the toothbrush and the toothpaste she’d bought, and go to work, and eat the sandwiches she’d made him, come back home again and eat the tea, read the books to the children that she’d chosen from the library. At weekends he did his bit, of course, put in a few hours with the wee ones, but he still found time to go to the pub and he still went to the football. All his needs were taken care of.

  He wasn’t entirely sure what he was going to do now.

  The first night they were all together, before the funeral, was OK. There were a lot of tears but Mr Donelly found to his surprise that he didn’t mind the tears. He was used to his children crying. He could still remember them crying when they were little. In fact, looking back, there were a lot of years, probably ten in all, the children spaced out the way they were, when the house had never been quiet, when there had always been the sound of a crying child: someone was hurt, someone was awake in the night, someone was sad. He could deal with that: reassurance, admonishment, a warm drink, a good night’s sleep.

  It was after the funeral that things had started to go wrong. Mr Donelly’s head was reeling and his children were expecting him to have serious conversations with them, conversations about the future, and about them and about himself, that he found much more difficult. This was more like when they were teenagers, and he’d never known what to say to them when they were teenagers. He’d left all that to Mrs Donelly.

  So he was glad when the time came for Mark to fly back to the States and for Jackie to return to London. Mark had always been Mrs Donelly’s favourite, her baby. There was a bond between them, the youngest son and the mother – that was just the way it was. She was devastated when he’d moved to America, although she never told him how upset she was: she’d always said he had to live his own life, wherever he chose, and the trouble is, sometimes children take what you say at face value, they believe what you say, and Mark chose to live his own life far away from her, across an ocean, which was only an eight-hour flight away, he always said, but an eight-hour flight represented a leap of faith and more than a month’s income to Mr and Mrs Donelly, and they were lucky if they saw him and the grandchildren once every couple of years. And the funny thing was, now his mother was gone, here was Mark trying to persuade Mr Donelly to come back to the States with him – he could come and live with them, he said. They had plenty of room. They had a guest room with a nice en suite and it’d be great for him to be around to see the grandchildren grow up.