by Edward Docx
Now from somewhere in the gloom comes this muffled old-school beeping like we’re back in 1998 or something. And it takes me a moment to realize it must be an alarm – Dad’s alarm – which freaks me out – because I can’t believe that Dad even knew his old Nokia had an alarm function, let alone how to set the bastard.
‘Help me up, Lou,’ he urges. ‘Let’s get the tea on.’
He is sitting up. His pyjama shirt is open. I’m only just understanding what is happening: that he’s deliberately set himself to wake up at – what? I look back at my phone. Six thirty. What the fuck?
Ralph’s voice is an angry hiss from above: ‘What are you doing?’
Dad has thrown back the covers. His pyjama trousers have ridden up in the night so that his legs poke out the end; they look so thin and wan except where they are lividly bruised and swollen and I get a second pulse of aversion which I have to override.
‘We must get on the road,’ Dad says. ‘How many of those croissies have we got left, Lou?’
My brothers are stirring angrily.
I pass my father his fleece and help him get it over his head. He doesn’t seem to want to take off his pyjamas. He’s in a hurry.
‘Five or six hundred,’ I say. For a moment, his eyes are alive but somehow focused internally as if possessed. Then he smiles at me like he was doing before my brothers arrived. ‘We’ll have breakfast on the road. Get through them one by one. Help me up, help me up.’
‘The road to where?’ Jack asks, his voice rasping from somewhere above.
‘Zurich,’ my father says.
And it’s like with that single word he’s taken back all the authority he has ever ceded, like on this new morning, in this steady early light, his life is his own again – for all the good, for all the bad – and whatever we might think, whatever we may feel, however strong my brothers might be, we’ll no more deter him than determine him; his will is deeper than ours and his dignity and his suffering and his shame entirely his own.
‘I have to be there to meet the doctor,’ he says.
‘Jesus,’ Ralph rasps. ‘What time is this appointment?’
‘Two,’ Dad says. ‘And I don’t intend to be late.’
‘It can’t be more than three hours to Zurich,’ Ralph says.
‘I want to check in to our hotel first and take a shower,’ Dad presses. ‘Get sorted out for the interview. You can sleep in the back. We’ll drive with the back bed down again.’
‘I’m not driving to Zurich,’ Jack croaks.
‘Jack, this is just the appointment to get the prescription – nothing to do with actually taking it. I’m not going to miss it. I’m not going to miss it after all this. Lou, can you pass me my pills and the ibuprofen. Let’s get that tea on.’
‘The prescription,’ Ralph says, quietly. ‘The prescription.’
‘Yes. As I say. I’m going to be assessed by a doctor. Nothing else happens until the next day or the day after that.’ My father lifts his own legs with a tremor in his hands. His right ankle is swollen from the fall. His expression takes no notice. He’s all business. ‘Open up the doors, Lou. Let me get out. We need tea and then we’ve got to get this show on the road. Help me. Help me.’
I slide open the door and the fresh air is cold and welcome and new. The other motorhomes are all closed up – their windows opaque with human breathing. There is mist on the Rhine below and the pale valley and the pewter-coloured water are so still that they might have been enamelled.
‘I’ll drive,’ I say. ‘You sleep. Everyone can sleep.’
I pay with the credit card at the petrol pump. I am deep tired. I keep getting this idea that I need to hide away in some monastery somewhere and eat vegetable broths and rest up for a month. Jack comes out of the shop; he’s swigging apple juice. He has bought four cartons. Ralph has walked over to the street where he is standing in the drizzle, smoking. We look like ragged frontiersmen strayed into the suburbs of northern Zurich in search of supplies for the winter – short of cash, clothing and tempers. And everything here is grey. White-grey statues. Slick light-grey paving in the streets. Beige-grey buildings. Grey-brown Alpine water in the little rivers that run by the side of the road.
I feel the heat of the engine and smell the long-journeyed oil as I walk around the van. I want someone else to take over the driving. Doug. Where’s Doug when you need the bastard? I open the door. Unbelievably, Dad has swivelled his chair round to face the bed.
‘What are you doing?’ I climb in.
‘Park us over there.’ He indicates the tyre-pressure bay.
‘What?’
‘Just go over there.’
‘Are the tyres flat?’
‘No. But we’re nearly there. The satnav says twenty-eight minutes to the hotel. We’re early. We have time.’
I start the van up and point through the window so that Jack understands what we’re doing. He watches me drive slowly across the forecourt with an expression of hungover incomprehension. I stop and pull on the clockwork hand-brake. There’s a Michelin man looming over us.
Jack slides open the door and takes his brogues off to climb into the bed.
‘Conference,’ Dad says.
I twist round in the driver’s seat.
Ralph appears in the doorway behind Jack, their twin faces echoes of one another. ‘How can the gateway to the Alps be so depressing,’ he asks.
‘The centre is beautiful,’ Dad says. ‘The rivers and the lake. Best place in the whole of Europe for city-swimming. The water is exceptionally clean, too.’
My brothers have been sleeping; now they’re like drowsy soldiers who have just woken up and who do not yet understand that they have arrived at the front.
‘What are we doing in the tyre-pressure bay?’ Ralph climbs in after Jack and starts to prise off his boots. He’s wearing one of Dad’s fleeces and he looks for a second disconcertingly like Dad did in the photographs from when I was born. ‘Do we need air? Or is this lunch? Is it even time for lunch? I’ve lost track.’
‘Conference,’ says Jack, folding pillows behind himself so he can sit up.
Ralph slides the door shut without slamming it and crosses his legs. I turn the driver’s seat round and lean forward. Even Jack is looking dishevelled. As a family, we definitely need to clean ourselves up. But at least we never sulk.
Dad looks from one to the other of us and then says, ‘You think because I’m your father I know what to do.’
Jack shakes his head.
Ralph asks: ‘What’s going on, Dad?’
Dad ignores them. He’s past listening. ‘You do. You think I know what I’m doing. Maybe not in here.’ Dad fingers his temple. ‘But in your hearts. Inside yourselves.’ He makes a spider with his hand and presses it to his heart. ‘You believe I have a plan. That I have calibrated intentions.’ He pauses. ‘We’re always children and it takes us a lifetime to get over the fact that our parents don’t know what the hell they’re doing.’
‘Seemed obvious to me,’ Ralph says.
‘Well, you’re lucky,’ Dad replies, quickly. ‘Because I’m almost dead and I don’t understand the first thing about my own father yet.’
I unscrew my carton of juice. Though the others don’t see it, I can tell that Dad is on fire. You live with someone long enough and you can divine their mood by the way the smallest muscles are moving beneath their skin; I could sit all day in complete silence with Dad and I could pretty much work out which writer he was reading just by the way he held the book and turned the pages. And I can tell that Dad is getting high on the fumes of this fire – high with this weird excitement and something else, something that might be fear, or relief, or expectation. I don’t know. It’s like he’s freeing up. Like Zurich is suddenly his freedom and his permission, his impetus and his prerogative.
‘What I’m trying to say is that I don’t know what to do.’
His eyes go round us – deliberate, wounded, commanding.
‘I don’t know what to do.�
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We are sharing too little air. We need to wind the window down further. But the smell of petrol is too strong outside.
He says it again. ‘I don’t know what to do . . . You’re the only people I’ve got . . . So I talked to you about it. Maybe I should not have done that.’ He chews at his lower lip. ‘I hoped . . . I don’t know what . . . I’ve been . . . confused. I’ve been in a terrible state.’
Jack’s face wears the tight frown of responsibility – but maybe he’s grasping this at last.
‘What I’m trying to say is . . . is that you can’t see me clearly. Any of you. Because I’m your father. I’m your dad. And because of all that’s between us, it’s the hardest thing in the world to see you parents and your children clearly.’
Ralph starts slowly undoing the screw top of the carton that rests in the crook of his legs.
‘I can’t make the things I have done wrong right again in a day or two. Or six months. Or ever. And maybe it doesn’t actually matter. Like you say, Ralph, worse happens all the time. And maybe we understand each other a bit better – after this time together. But now – right now – we need to try to put all that to one side. I need you to see where I am – here, today, in this bloody garage. Not so much your dad, but . . . but because I’m a man. Like you.’
Ralph swigs from his carton. ‘I don’t know why, Dad, but it’s so much easier to take you seriously when you swear.’
Jack says: ‘Maybe you can—’
‘Wait, Jack. Hang on. My choices . . . my choices are to go through with this and die before it gets worse. And it will get worse. Or not to go through with it – and inflict suffering on me – and on you – and then die anyway.’
‘I—’
‘No, Jack, listen. When you talked about your boys, about what happened before they were born, you said that you “chose” life. That’s—’
‘I meant—’
‘That’s the word you used – when we were in the showers. You said you “chose life”. And it was your choice to make. Well, let’s not beat about the bloody bush. We choose all the time. It’s normal. Go to any hospital. Watch the news. We choose which people live and die – wars, famines, disasters. Who we help. Who we don’t.’ He smiles his lopsided smile. ‘Relativism is the luxury of the ethically decadent. When it comes down to it, we’re a very judgemental species living in a life and death world. Have to be. Has to be. Always were.’
‘This is so much more like it.’ Ralph swigs.
Jack’s voice is without combat: ‘Listen, Dad . . .’ He pauses. ‘I’m saying maybe you can do this. But n—’
‘The illusion, Jack, is that we are in the middle of life. In fact we’re in the middle of death. And we’re all agreed there is no God. So what can we do?’
‘I just think that now is not th—’
‘Let him speak, Jack,’ Ralph says. ‘Let him speak.’
‘What can we do?’ Dad asks again. ‘We just have to find the joy and sing while we can. We have to find the love and celebrate – often. We have to engage with one another.’
My father’s brow is deeply furrowed. The PDFs say that ptosis is the name for the drooping of the eyelids and that furrowing is an effort to combat this. He must be fifteen times more tired than we are . . . But he’s concentrating like he’s going to burn all the energy he’s got left in this one big bonfire. Like he’s going to ignite the world.
‘You get one quick life, boys. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. One quick life. And then it’s over. It’s over so bloody quickly. We all know this. But we forget, we forget. It seems like twenty minutes and you’re looking back and you’re thinking what . . . What was I playing at? What the bloody hell was I thinking?’ The words are coming out of him like he’s young again. ‘I’m not talking about your mothers. Not any more. Forget them. They’re not here. I’m talking about me and each of you. The four of us. I’m talking about us, now, together.’
Another VW van pulls out of the garage; it’s the new model; two generations later than ours; unaffected.
‘What I’m trying to say is . . . Forget the damage and the mess. For a moment. Just for a moment.’
He pauses as if to marshal the warring armies in his mind.
‘You know, there were so many days when all I did – all I did – was look after you two – you two strawberry-heads. When you were babies, I bathed you. I dried you. I dressed you. I fed you your milk and later your food – spoon after spoon – the two of you – despite all the moaning and the crying and the turning away. Then, when you were bigger, I sat on the floor and played with you. Lego. Jigsaws. All these endless jigsaws of wild animals. And all that drawing you used to do. Terrible scribbles. I held your seats as you rode your bikes. I watched for dogs from the corner of my eyes in the park. I stood beside you while you learned how to wee. I wiped your bottoms. I must have spent years of my life tending to your bottoms. I carried you out of the car and up the stairs to your beds. I took off your shoes. I slipped you out of your coats. I tucked you in and made sure you had your zebra, Ralph, and you your giraffe, Jack, and, later, that you had your little piglet, Lou.’
‘Where is my fucking zebra?’
‘And I read to you – oh so many books. I must have read you five thousand books. And when I went away, I missed your stupid faces so much. I used to sit with your pictures on my desk and tell myself I was writing my silly books for you. I tried to teach you to love the same things I do. I tried to teach you. I tried to answer every question you asked of me.’ He spiders his heart again. ‘I want you to know all this. I want you to feel it . . . in your hearts. Can you do that for me?’
He looks at Ralph. ‘I still have your zebra,’ he says. ‘It’s at home. You used to make it dance.’
Ralph meets his eyes. ‘Dad, I don’t think you—’
‘No, let me speak, Ralph – while it’s all here in my mind and before it crumbles.’ He raises his finger to his temple again. The PDFs say there is a cognitive dimension to the disease; a strange and subtle elation. ‘I can’t tell you how this last eighteen months has been for me. I watch a woman walk down the street and the slightest swing of her hips seems miraculous. I listen to a young lad whistling in the car park of the supermarket and I can hear creation whistling. And that’s before we get on to the rivers and the mountains and the forests and the coastlines. Or the music we make, the human voice, the dancing human form, the art we paint, the cathedrals we build, the poetry, the bloody poetry. The stark beauty of it all. Like you say, Jack: it’s all miraculous. Miraculous. Each moment – each and every breath. And you want to know something?’
We are silent.
‘I’m almost grateful for the illness. For the time it’s given me to appreciate my life and to see things in the true light of the real day. Instead of dying unexpectedly, I’ve been able to think – to consider. I’ve had time to review. It’s yet another privilege I’ve had. Among the many.’
‘Dad?’ Ralph asks softly.
‘And by the way, death is . . . well, I’m thinking of death as a mighty relief. Not just for me. But for all of us. A positive gift. For the human race. I mean – just imagine if all the shits who ruin the world for the rest of us . . . imagine if they lived for ever. All the angry old men. Imagine if they never ever died – the war-mongers and the people who poison our minds and our societies and our—’
‘Dad,’ Ralph asks again. ‘Are you actually doing this? Because you—’
‘I’m happy, Ralph. My ankle bloody hurts. But I am happy. And these last few days . . . I want you to know . . . They’ve been the best days I’ve had in a long old time. Even last night was . . . was superb in its own way. Meaningful. Worth it. Important. Transforming.’
Cars are pulling in and filling up with petrol. Driving away again. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world. People to meet. Places to go. And I am thinking that this is it: now that we’re here, we’re all changing our minds. I can feel it: Jack is hearing Dad at last; Ralph is hearing
him; I am hearing him. And so we’re all changing our minds. One more time. One more time. Those against – now for. Those for – now against.
‘I’m not going to say I’m not scared,’ Dad continues. ‘Of course I am. Only, I’m more scared of carrying on living. So I hope I get this prescription. And that it’s all straightforward. I don’t want any snarl-ups because of paperwork. And then we’ll see. We’ll see what to do after that. Tomorrow.’
He smiles.
‘Dad?’ Jack asks.
‘The sooner we do this, Jack, the sooner you can all live again. We should look at this time as if . . . as if it has been a great chance that most people don’t get. A real blessing.’
‘Dad.’
‘Because, you know, it’s not like this for most people – it’s not me having a stroke all lonely up in Leeds while you’re all at work in London or whatever. Falling down dead on my own. At some point, I’m going to have to go. And this has been great. We have had this chance. To be together. We get this prescription today and we see about tomorrow. Talk some more tonight and tomorrow . . . And we will see.’
Jack says: ‘Dad, I can understand why you think that this is a good idea. I can. But I—’
‘Sorry, Jack, something else.’ He presses tremoring fingertips to his forehead. ‘I keep not saying what I want to say.’
‘You—’
‘What I want to say is this: that we are what we give. We are what we leave behind. I only realized this yesterday at the cave like it was a blinding flash of insight – which shows you what kind of an idiot I am. Because of course – it’s obvious and the poets have been saying it since the dawn of time. All that a human being leaves behind is what he or she has created. Life is all about creation. The only meaning is creation.’ He manages his slow downward grin again. ‘It is not what you have taken but what you have given. Of course it is. Whatever you have given and whatever you have made. So here it is. In this van. Everything important that my life amounts to. And the thing that I’m most proud of. The three of you. The way you are. You three boys. Whom I love. That’s what I wanted to say. Just that.’