by Sophie Duffy
I find Bex, wandering the corridor (yes, yes, I know) outside the high dependency unit, her face crumpled with worry, a hospital blanket wrapped around her. It’s serious. I only have to see her eyes to know that.
‘He has severe pneumonia,’ she says. ‘He needs oxygen to breathe,’ she says. ‘It’s my fault,’ she says.
‘Your fault?’
‘I was so angry with him I couldn’t see that he was ill.’
‘You’re not his mother.’ My words sound spiteful even to my own ears. I touch her arm, to show her I care.
‘He never had a mother to speak of.’ She is protective, moving away, siding with Tommo, as she always has, as she always will.
‘You’re still not his mother. He makes his own decisions.’
‘Heavily influenced by me. Otherwise they’re the wrong ones.’
‘But he came with you that day. He stuck by you.’
‘Yes, he did. But I’ve spent the last twenty-five-plus years feeling bad about that. And now I’ve been nagging him to give it all up, the playing in grotty bands in grotty pubs to grotty audiences, but it’s what he loves, it’s what he does and maybe he’s going to die.’
‘I’m sure it’s not that bad?’
‘He’s very poorly. They’re going to X-ray his chest. They looked concerned.’
She looks concerned too. Very concerned. Her forehead is wrinkled into a frown and she is fiddling with the silver ring on her non-wedding finger. She stops mid-twiddle. ‘What about the kids? Are they okay?’
‘They’re with Christie. She said she’d stay with them.’
‘Oh, that’s good.’ She sighs. ‘I know they’re old enough to look after themselves but they’ll be worried sick.’ She sighs again. ‘That’s nice of her.’
‘She’s a mother. She’ll understand.’
We don’t speak for a few moments, both lost in thoughts, then Bex says: ‘There’s a relatives’ room. Let’s go there.’
We go there, sit side by side on a sofa, listen to the tick of a clock.
Bex breaks the silence. ‘The old people’s friend.’
‘The old people’s friend?’
‘Pneumonia.’
‘But Tommo’s not old. He’s barely middle-aged. He’s forty-seven.’
‘He’s forty-six.’
‘People get over pneumonia all the time. They have antibiotics. He’s not overweight.’
‘He smokes.’
He certainly does. One fag after the other. Like my dad, smoking since he was a kid. He has to stop or it will kill him. ‘Maybe this will make him give up?’ I sound uncertain even to my own ears. I am actually uncertain.
‘That’s true.’ She grasps my hand and I’m back in my room on campus, top to toe with Bex in my bed, with the clean sheets, wondering if I dare reach out and touch her.
I feel an overwhelming sadness. For my younger self. For Bex. But not for Tommo. I’ve nothing left for him.
A nurse comes in the room. ‘We’re taking him up in a moment if you want to see him briefly.’
‘Taking him where?’
‘His X-ray.’
Bex drops my hand, on her feet in a flash. Same old, same old. Tommo beckons, Bex goes without a backward peep. That’s how it is. I accepted it long ago. I have loved Bex from afar. I did whatever I could to make her happy.
It was always Tommo that made her happy.
The heavy door clunks shut. I am alone on the IKEA sofa, clutching an IKEA cushion to my chest like a teddy bear. The clock on the wall says nearly midnight. Maybe I’ll turn into a pumpkin. Maybe Tommo will turn into a cabbage. A vegetable. Maybe he’ll die.
It is so clear now, sitting here alone in a room that must have witnessed so much grief. I know, as I have known deep down for many years, that I was well and truly conned by the father and son duo. I, Cameron, only had two drinks that night. I, Cameron, only willingly had two drinks.
Like Christie, there are things I now remember clearly. And like Christie, the things I now remember clearly are to do with Tommo.
Tommo calling me a poof. Tommo up and down to the bar. Tommo watching me and winking, his dark eyes mischievous.
And the orange juice. It tasted bitter. I thought it was the cold I was getting, a sore throat and a runny nose. But it wasn’t. It was the vodka that Tommo spiked it with.
Tommo is an English bastard. I am a Scottish fool.
I stand behind her, watching and waiting. Bex is holding Tommo’s hand; their fingers are entwined. Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath and so live ever – or else swoon to death. His hand is safe in hers. It won’t pluck a string again. It won’t strike a chord. If he gets out of this place, he could take Bex and the kids around the world. He could hunt down his parents and make his peace with them. He could accept money from them to pay for his children to go to university, to travel, to do whatever they want to do, to make the most of their talents and passions and skills.
But for now.
‘You need to rest,’ she says. ‘Take your hand in mine,’ she says. ‘Marry me,’ she says.
It might be a dream, the strangeness of the night, but I am pretty sure that’s what she says.
Anyhow, Tommo says yes. I hear him loud and clear. He says yes. Yes. Aye.
And this is my chance. I could say it. I could tell Bex that Tommo blamed her for the whole sorry Top of the Pops fiasco. I could tell Tommo that I know he spiked my drinks. I could.
But my phone goes again. Tommo and Bex both turn to look at me as I fumble with it, doing one of those comedy catch things that is part of my repertoire.
‘Fracking hell, Cameron,’ says Tommo. ‘You pick your moments.’
‘I’m sorry. I really should take this call.’
‘Go ahead,’ he says. ‘Don’t mind me,’ he says. ‘I’m only dying,’ he says.
I’m back in the relatives’ room with the clock and the sofa.
‘You were supposed to text me about the meeting,’ Amanda says.
‘Do you have any idea what time it is?’
It is nearly three in the morning.
‘Yes, Cameron, I know what time it is, thank you very much. I have a pony clock on my bedroom wall that is driving me insane with its ticking. I couldn’t sleep. Did I wake you?’
‘No, I’m in the hospital.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m okay. It’s a long story.’
‘Well, anyway, you were supposed to text me. I’ve been lying awake worrying and so I just thought I’d phone you and ask.’
‘I’m sorry I forgot to text you.’
‘Don’t worry about that just tell me what happened.’
‘Not good news, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh?’
I sit on the sofa, the reality gnawing away at me now. I have no job. I blew it. ‘They sacked me,’ I confess.
‘They sacked you? Really?’
‘Really.’
‘After all those years you put into that place.’ She is outraged on my behalf and I am grateful for that.
‘It seems Mr Sanderson wasn’t too impressed about the whole being-locked-in-with-the-ghosties thing.’ I try to make light of it though I know it was a stupid thing to do. ‘He has asthma.’
‘Everyone has asthma these days,’ she says.
‘Including me,’ I say.
‘You’re a genuine case, Cameron. I’ve seen you at your worst, remember.’
‘You have and I’m sorry.’
‘Me too.’
‘How long will you be at your mother’s?’
‘I’m not sure. She’s fussing around me, bringing me breakfast in bed and taking me to lunch at the golf club.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘It’s awful, Cameron. I feel like I’m twelve again.’
Amanda had an even worse teenage life than me. An all-girls’ school that excelled at music and sport. She can’t hold a tune in a bucket and she’s almost as dyspraxic as me.
‘At least you have a mother.’
/>
‘I’m sorry, Cameron. That was thoughtless.’
‘No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that, Amanda. You’re entitled to your feelings.’
‘You’ve been seeing Jeremy, then?’
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘It’s good, Cameron. I’m proud of you.’
‘You are?’
‘I am.’
‘Look, I’d better go. I’ll speak to you tomorrow. I promise.’
‘Do you mean today?’
‘Yes, today.’
‘Take care then.’
‘I will. And try not to kill your mother.’
‘I promise. As long as you tell me that long story tomorrow. I mean, today.’
I return briefly to Tommo’s room. He looks up and gives me his half-salute. There is a cannula in the back of his hand hooking him up to fluids and drugs. Bex gets up wearily from her chair, where she has been keeping vigil, and comes towards me. Hugs me. Holds me in her arms.
‘Thank you, Cameron,’ she says. ‘For everything you’ve done. You’re a star.’
But I’m no star. I am a spark. Sparks will fly. Stars will spin. Planets will crash and collide. Time and matter will disappear into black holes.
London Euston. Another train. Another destination. First-class so I can think in some kind of peace, though maybe now is not the time for thinking. No more thoughts, no more words, just action. *
I said goodbye to Christie early this morning. She was napping in Bex and Tommo’s bed, the twins next door. She heard me knock and hopped over to let me in.
‘How is he?’
I told her. I told her what I could.
‘How have things been here?’
‘I told the kids about the race to save my leg. I told them their dad was a valiant hero and I’ve transferred $25,000 into Bex’s bank account. Loulou knew her details. She’s a canny one, as you Scots would say.’
‘We’re not all tartan and whisky, you know.’
‘I know. You’ve got haggis and neeps as well.’
And I remembered her quip about the beavers and moose long, long ago. ‘Touché.’
She laughed. She remembered too. ‘It’s been crazy, eh? Meeting up again. Bex throwing my leg. You two in the lake.’
‘Crazy, indeed.’
‘Look, Cameron. I have an offer for you.’
‘Oh dear. I don’t have a good track record of accepting offers.’
‘Well, this is unlike any other offer you’ve ever had,’ she said. And she laid it out straight and I must’ve looked unsure because she said, ‘Go speak to your wife about it.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I will.’
Then I hugged her goodbye, a Canadian bear hug, and she said, ‘Sheesh, Cameron. I think you just cracked a rib.’
I think of Christie now, as I sit on this train, London to Birmingham. I think of that smile, that laugh, that way she has of looking at the world, facing it full-on, and I know in my heart, in my mind, and in the very depths of my soul, that out of all of us, the four of us, she is the brightest star.
Those who have insight will shine brightly like the brightness of the expanse of heaven, and those who lead the many to righteousness, like the stars for ever and ever.
Daniel 12:3
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*Deeds, not words, as the suffragettes would say. 100 years on and us Scots could take a leaf from their book.
Edgbaston, December 2013, Sunday
Cricket
The view from Amanda’s bedroom is reassuring and calm. A long suburban lawn. Established shrubs and bushes. A herbaceous border. A rockery. A pond with a miniature Monet bridge. And at the bottom, a whacking great weeping willow.
When I phoned her from the train to say I was coming, she sounded surprised, reticent. But she was there, waiting for me at the station, waiting for me in her mother’s ‘run-around’.
That was two hours ago. Her mum and dad are out for the afternoon at some fundraising do or other. We’ve had some tea and Madeira cake, I’ve told Amanda about Christie’s offer * and we’ve slunk upstairs to her bedroom with the rosettes and the pony clock to listen to the crappy music on her iPod (Elton John actually leaves me hankering after Barbara). Her parents will be back soon so I don’t have much time. I’m about to suggest something when she beats me to it.
‘Sit down, Cameron,’ she says gently, patting the space next to her on the single bed with its flowery duvet cover and plethora of scatter cushions.
I remove the cushions and pile them up on her window seat, take one last look at that whacking great willow tree swaying sadly at the end of the lawn and sit down on the bed, not in the space, but by her feet, so I can look at her.
‘Why did you come?’ she asks.
‘Okay. Here’s the thing.’
‘What thing?’
‘A big thing.’
She raises an eyebrow and I remember our monthly curry, her chicken korma and Cobra beer, just like Christie once upon a time when she still had two legs and I had a chance of happiness.
I still do. I still have a chance of happiness.
Take it, Jeremy says. Take it.
‘I love you and I want our marriage to work. Let’s go home.’
‘That’s good,’ she says. ‘Because I have some news.’
My phone rings. She says, ‘Go ahead, answer it.’
I let it ring. ‘Tell me,’ I say. ‘Tell me your news.’
‘I’m pregnant,’ she says.
‘You are?’
‘Yes, I am. Quite a bit pregnant.’
‘How much pregnant?’
‘Nearly half full. Nineteen weeks.’
‘And are you okay? The baby? Is everything okay?’ I start to cry.
‘Yes, Cameron. we’re fine. Now come here and hold me.’
I crawl up the bed and hold her. We lie down side by side. My tears make her mascara run and I wipe away the inky mess with the sleeve of my shirt, smudging it all over her face so it looks like she’s been up a chimney.
Gradually, my crying subsides as relief and joy bubble up into some new chemical I have never experienced and as my body relaxes, I think I can feel a bump of a baby pressing against me.
‘I have a scan next week, on Thursday,’ she says. ‘Back in Edinburgh. At Simpson’s. Will you come with me?’
‘Of course,’ I say. ‘I’m not going to let you down ever again. Till death do us part and even then I will come back as a ghost to watch over you.’
‘Unless I die first, of course.’
‘No, women always live longer.’
The phone goes again and this time I answer it because I see who is calling. And I know what she is going to say.
Scatter my ashes, strew them in the air.
Lord, since Thou knowest where all these atoms are,
I’m hopeful Thou’lt recover once my dust,
And confident Thou’lt raise me with the Just.
James Graham, Marquis of Montrose, on the eve of his execution in 1650
_________________________
*I will get to this eventually.
Edinburgh, December 2013, Tuesday
Braveheart
I am waiting in the café, Myrtle at my feet, a half-drunk cappuccino delivered to me by Gina, the thesis-writing barista. It is five to ten. He will be here soon.
I have the window seat so I can see him walking up the road, still upright for a man of his age. Grey, groomed hair, a leather briefcase, an expensive-looking coat that is nothing like Dad’s tatty anorak.
I stand up as the door opens, give Myrtle a gentle kick when she growls, though part of me would like to watch her sink her teeth into his Gieves and Hawkes tailor-made trouser leg.
‘Cameron.’ He proffers his hand.
I reach across the table and shake his manicured hand, and I make sure I have the firmest of grips. ‘Monsieur Dulac.’
‘Call me “Gerard”,’ he says, his French accent still clear after all the years of living in
England.
He sits down, places his briefcase carefully by his feet, his hand-made loafers polished to a shine a soldier would be proud of. Polished by someone else’s hands, no doubt.
Gina takes his order. Earl Grey. With a slice of lemon.
‘You’re probably wondering why I asked to meet you.’
‘I’m curious.’
‘Losing a child is something no one ever thinks will happen, except in their worst nightmare.’
Losing a child. As he says these words, I can see the ghost of his son in his intense, dark eyes. And that’s what Tommo is now: a ghost.
‘I wanted to see you in person,’ he says, ‘I owe it to you. And to my son.’ He looks out the window, rolls his shoulders, turns back to me.
My foot is jittering. I make a conscious effort to plant my toes to the floor, feel the solid comfort of Myrtle against my leg. What does he owe me? What does he owe Tommo?
Gina brings his tea. A pot, a hot water jug, tea cup, two slices of lemon in one of those ramekin things.
‘What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘No, I don’t mind you asking.’ He takes the lid off his teapot, leans forward a little to smell it, replaces the lid. Sits still for a moment so I wonder if Gina has brought him the right tea but I can smell bergamot, orangey and floral, so it must be Earl Grey. *
‘As you know, he was very sick in London,’ he begins. ‘Pneumonia. He had no chance to fight it because his lungs were full of tumours, his body riddled with cancer. It’s a wonder he didn’t succumb sooner. He got weaker and died two days ago.’ He says this like he can’t believe it. Who can believe it? Tommo dead.
‘I am very sorry for your loss, Gerard. Genuinely. I don’t know what else to say.’
‘Thank you.’ He pours his tea. The cup rattles. ‘I believe Rebecca phoned to tell you.’
‘Yes, she did. It was a shock.’
‘I thought nothing he could do would shock me but this was certainly unexpected.’ As if Tommo planned it. As if Tommo was ever in charge of his destiny.
‘When’s the funeral?’ I don’t know why I ask because I know exactly what Gerard will say.