They Do the Same Things Different There

by They Do the Same Things Different There (v5. 0) (epub)

  “Well, that didn’t do much good, did it?” Ernest had never spoken to his television before, and even as he did so he told himself he shouldn’t make a habit of it. But it seemed somehow appropriate. “Oh dear!” he said, still not swearing. “You’re bleeding again!” And so the TV was. Three spots of blood now lay in the bowl, small but very red and unarguably there.

  Ernest wondered whether it’d been his fault. Maybe he’d used the television too much, he’d exhausted it. And then he reasoned that he hadn’t watched it in days, that couldn’t be it. Then he worried himself all over again—maybe he’d not used it enough? Maybe it was because he’d neglected it. He stood in front of it, aching with indecision. “Sorry about this, old boy,” he said. “Hope this doesn’t hurt.” And he turned it on with a click.

  It took a few seconds for the screen to warm up. BBC1 was still there—well, as there as it ever was. It seemed to be some sort of garden program. Or maybe it was a western. He turned the knob, and found himself BBC2. It wasn’t crystal clear, but then, it was never crystal clear. The snooker was playing, and Ernest always enjoyed the snooker. He thought he should keep watching for a bit, try to ascertain whether or not the picture had got worse since he’d last watched it. And to see whether that snooker chap could pot the pink. As he sat down in the armchair he idly wondered whether it was Ray Reardon—but then, he supposed Ray Reardon had probably retired, which was a shame as he’d always liked Ray Reardon. The man who may or may not have been, but on balance probably wasn’t, Ray Reardon did indeed sink the pink, but came unstuck on the black—and Ernest never did find out what his name was, or whether he won the game at all, because he soon dozed off.

  He woke to the telephone ringing. And felt immediately guilty. Dozing off in front of the television! That’s what Lizzie used to do—he used to laugh at her a lot for that. Always affectionately, she knew that, she’d always laugh back. Her mouth would be open, and she’d be snoring, drowning out whatever was being broadcast. And Blackie, she’d be cuddled up to her mummy, seeing Lizzie on her favourite armchair was a red rag to a bull, Blackie could never resist,—she’d have to cuddle up, and she’d put her paws over her face as if she felt ashamed to be caught dozing like that, and she’d be snoring too, it was like a little whinny. With Lizzie snoring and Blackie snoring you really couldn’t hear a thing, and Ernest would laugh at them, and they’d laugh at him too—well, Lizzie would, anyway. And here he was, doing the same thing! The shock of the phone, and the rush of the memories, made his head spin for a moment.

  “Dad? Are you all right?”

  “Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You took a long time answering the phone. I had to ring off, try again.”

  “I was asleep,” said Ernest, and immediately regretted it. Now Billy would think something was wrong.

  “But it’s two o’clock, Dad.”

  “I know,” said Ernest, who didn’t, in fact.

  “In the afternoon. You shouldn’t sleep in the afternoon. You know what the doctor said.”

  “No,” said Ernest. “What did the doctor say?”

  “He said you shouldn’t sleep in the afternoon.”

  “What is it you want, Billy?” asked Ernest, hoping it came out kindly.

  “We haven’t seen you in a while. The family. We thought we might pop over.” And see if I’m all right, Ernest supposed. “And see if you’re all right,” added Billy.

  “I’m all right, I’m always all right,” said Ernest. “Have you been speaking to anyone? Has anyone said I’m not?” Ernest thought hurriedly. “That repairman. You’ve been speaking to him, haven’t you? Did you phone him? Or did he phone you?” Ernest couldn’t work out what was worse—that his son would be employing a repairman to spy on him, or that a repairman would be spying on him and telling his son by his own volition.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dad. What repairman?” So Ernest told his son the whole story. It just spilled out, and even as he told him he knew he should shut up, keep it all to himself, it’d only be more reason for Billy to come over.

  “Bleeding?”

  “That’s right,” said Ernest. “It’s not bleeding much,” he added hastily, but the damage was done, he knew that.

  “That doesn’t sound right, Dad. Televisions shouldn’t be doing that sort of thing. How’s the video? Is that still playing all right?”

  Billy had given his parents a video recorder for Christmas a couple of years back. Well, as Billy had said at the time, it wasn’t really a present—it was just an old cast-off, the family were upgrading their own, and rather than just sling it out he thought that Mum and Dad should have it. They’d never used the video recorder. It was in a box in a cupboard somewhere, Lizzie had packed it away, she took care of things like that. She had taken a look, and said that the television was too old—it wouldn’t have the right lead sockets or what-have-yous, but that they mustn’t tell Billy, it had been such a kind gesture. Ernest agreed, but he hadn’t thought it was a particularly kind gesture: it wasn’t as if they had any videotapes to play on it anyway.

  Ernest thought for a moment about all the things Lizzie had put in cupboards—he wouldn’t have said they had that many cupboards, but Lizzie had certainly put away a lot of things over the years, so they must be bigger than they looked. He’d have to go through them one of these days, see what was there. The thought gave him a sick feeling in his stomach, and he was almost pleased to realize his son was still talking nonsense down the phone at him. If he listened to Billy for a bit, it might distract him. “What?” he said.

  “I said it sounds like it’s broken. You should sling it out, Dad. Just sling it out.”

  Ernest said he didn’t want to sling it out; there was far too much slinging out going on these days. What with Blackie and with Lizzie and with, what was her name, Jane, yes, Billy’s own wife, Jane, you can’t keep slinging out everything when it gets broken, what about trying to mend things for a change? And Billy started to argue, and Ernest said he was sorry, and he was sorry, it was none of his business, of course. And he looked around desperately, trying to find something urgent that could end this phone call, get him free—and that’s when he saw the television actually leak blood, no longer dripping in red but spattering out thick and black, and Ernest hung up on his still protesting son.

  The blood lay in the bowl, warm, sticky like tar. Again, Ernest wondered whether it really was blood, but when he put his fingers to it they came away with the same tell-tale coppery smell. BBC2 was still playing snooker, but there was interference now; the picture kept strobing, as if it were in distress. Ernest quickly turned the knob to off, and then looked at the ailing set uncertainly.

  He wished Lizzie were there. He often wished Lizzie were there, of course—but never quite as fiercely as he did now. She would know what to do.

  On the shelves in the bathroom were a whole array of medical bits and pieces, most of them bought by Lizzie, so probably now out of date. Ointments, tablets in all different colours, painkillers that should be taken with food, some to be taken after food, and others to be taken as far away from food as possible. These were all useless, of course; if his television didn’t have the right socket for a video recorder it clearly wouldn’t have one for paracetamol either . . . And for just a second Ernest wondered whether his thoughts were altogether rational, but then he found a whole box full of plasters and put the worry out of his head.

  Lying beneath the television set, Ernest struggled with the sticky covering of the bandages, trying to pull them from first one finger then another. He still couldn’t see where the TV’s wound was, but the greater quantity of blood at least gave him a better clue, and he liberally pasted all possible areas with Elastoplast Extra. He felt a growl in his hip, and he crawled out onto the carpet, caught his breath.

  Lizzie would have been so good at th
is. She was never fazed by the sight of blood, not hers nor anybody else’s. He remembered that evening when Blackie had started coughing. She’d been dozing on the armchair as usual, making her little whinny snore—she’d been dozing and whinnying rather a lot recently. At first they had both laughed, because the coughing had woken her up, and the expression on Blackie’s face had been so scandalized—she’d always been a haughty dog, and that such an ugly sound could have disturbed her, and, even worse, that the ugliness had come from her, clearly appalled her. When they’d seen, though, that she’d been bringing up gobbets of black, and Ernest had begun to panic—what was going on, what should they do?—it had been Lizzie who had taken charge.

  “Go and get a towel,” she’d said. “Go on.” And she’d cradled Blackie’s head, wiped the glop from the mouth without a qualm, comforted her.

  “Is it blood?”

  “It’s bile. And bring me the phone. I’ll need to call the vet.”

  They’d stroked Blackie to calm her down, but she’d clearly been in some distress. And whenever they thought the coughing had stopped, that their dog had miraculously been restored to full health, off she’d start again. “I’ve made an appointment, first thing tomorrow morning,” said Lizzie. “We’ll have to keep Blackie in the kitchen tonight, close the door so she can’t get out.”

  “Why?” asked Ernest.

  “It’ll be easier to clean up the bile if we keep her off the carpets.” He’d carried Blackie down the stairs in his arms—such a big dog, such a dead weight. Normally Blackie would have cried and scratched to have been shut in the kitchen—she’d both cry and scratch merely to be shut away from her rightful place, at the foot of her mistress’ bed. But she didn’t make a sound of complaint as he’d closed the door on her, leaving her her favourite rug and her favourite cushion and her favourite squeaky toy. In the morning Ernest had opened the door, and Blackie didn’t appear to have moved from where he’d put her. Just for a moment he had a horrid thrill that she might have died in the night, just unexpectedly, she might have saved them the bother of having to. . . .—but no, when he’d called her name she’d raised her head slowly and incuriously. By the side he’d seen further traces of brown black gunk.

  “It’s the kidneys,” the vet had said. “There’s really not a lot you can do.”

  “Oh dear,” Ernest had replied. His wife hadn’t said anything, her mouth set in hard decision.

  “Can’t you fix her?” Ernest had gone on. “I mean, I know there are kidney transplants and things. . . .”

  “Not for dogs,” the vet had said. “Blackie could struggle on for a while longer, I can give some medicine. But the quality of her life would be drastically reduced, and she’d never be comfortable. I think you should strongly consider putting her to sleep.”

  Ernest had made to protest, but “Do it,” Lizzie had said suddenly, and he’d shut up.

  The vet shaved Blackie’s foreleg, and the whole while Lizzie and Ernest had stroked Blackie’s head, reassuring her. “It’ll all be all right soon,” Lizzie had promised her, “no more pain soon.” There was a syringe, it was in and out, and before Ernest could change his mind, before he could say, no, wait, this is wrong, we’re not trying hard enough, Blackie seemed to stiffen then slouch, and her eyes grew harder. And greyer. And wetter, or maybe that was just Ernest’s.

  “They didn’t have the parts,” he said to himself now, as he put a fresh Tupperware bowl underneath his poor sick television. “They didn’t have the parts, you see.”

  The next morning the plasters had come off. The blood had seeped through, made them sodden, and they’d fallen into the Tupperware with the rest of the matter. At first Ernest was heartened to see that the blood was red rather than the thick black he had been dreading—red seemed so much healthier somehow—but to counter that, there was rather a lot of it. When he’d gone to bed, the bowl had had no more than a few specks in it. Now it was lapping at the rim.

  Ernest found a bigger bowl—one from Lizzie’s brief but fondly remembered cake-baking exploits. And he was washing out the older one when the doorbell rang. He was still in his pyjamas and wasn’t expecting anyone.

  “What do you want?” he asked Billy. And it wasn’t just Billy either—there was his wife, and those two children.

  “I told you I was coming today, Dad,” said Billy. “Don’t you remember?” He stepped past him into the hallway. Billy looked frail and a little feminine, and not unlike his mother. It hurt Ernest to be reminded of how she’d once looked; it hurt him even more to see her features cut off, rearranged, and pasted so inaccurately upon this ineffectual man standing there. Standing so awkwardly, as if he were a stranger, as if he wasn’t even his son. “You’re in your pyjamas,” Billy pointed out.

  “I know.”

  “Yes. Right.”

  And after him trailed the two kids, barely concealing their disinterest, and then the wife. Oh, no, she wasn’t the wife, was she? That was the other one, before he’d got the divorce.

  “Hello,” he said to the children, wishing he could remember their names. “Hello,” he said to the woman who wasn’t the wife, and therefore wasn’t called Jane, he mustn’t do that again.

  “We’ve brought you presents, Dad,” said Billy. And indeed, the two children were each laden down with a cardboard box. “Put them down here, kids. That’s it.”

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” asked Ernest.

  “I’ll make some tea,” said the woman, and disappeared into the kitchen. This left Ernest with nothing to do but be drawn back to the cardboard box, which, he supposed, was the idea.

  “What is it?” he asked, when Billy opened the first one and took out some gadget or another.

  “It’s an answering machine,” said Billy. “You know, for the phone.”

  “Why would I want one of those? Nobody phones me anyway.”

  “That’s not true, Dad,” Billy said patiently. “I phone. I phoned yesterday, and you didn’t answer, I had to phone again. And it would make me feel much happier, if that happens again, that I could leave you some sort of message. No, don’t do that,” he said to the children. Ernest didn’t want to see what they’d been doing.

  “If it makes you happier,” said Ernest, not, he felt, unreasonably, “then it’s more a present for you than it is for me.”

  “If you say so, Dad,” said Billy with a sigh. The woman emerged from the kitchen with tea. “Shall we go to the sitting room?” he suggested.

  “When can we go home?” one of the children asked its mother, as it flopped into Lizzie’s favourite armchair.

  “Ssh,” she said, “not yet.”

  “But I’m bored,” said the child.

  Ernest stole a look of worry at the television set in the corner. He supposed it was resting, and if it were sick, it needed all the rest it could get. He didn’t want its peace disturbed.

  “And here’s your other present,” said Billy, with just a hint of playfulness. “Ta-dah! . . . There you are, you see.”

  It was another television. Newer, shinier, smaller, and a damn sight more plasticky than Ernest’s own.

  “I don’t want it,” he said.

  “Come on, Dad,” said Billy.

  “I already have a television set,” said Ernest.

  Billy laughed. “This old thing?” he said. “You had that when I was a kid!”

  “Forty-eight years,” said Ernest. “I bought it the month after I married your mother.” It had been one of those little peculiarities in her that he had never got used to. Most of the time she’d been so practical, so careful with money. But once in a while, right up to the end, she could surprise him, could indulge in a bit of a “splurge,” as she’d called it. The honeymoon had worked out cheaper than either of them had expected. Both of them supposed that the sensible thing would be to put the leftover in the bank, but Lizzie had grinned at him a little wickedly and said, “Well, we could be sens
ible. Or we could just splurge out and buy ourselves a television set.” He’d laughed, but she’d been serious, and so that’s what they’d done.

  He supposed it was the thing that had kept their marriage fresh. All those little surprises. “I’ve got cancer,” she told him one day.

  “Oh,” Ernest had said. “Oh dear.”

  “I don’t know what can be done, my darling. I don’t know, I’m sorry.” And she’d kissed him with so much tenderness, and he’d hugged on to her. He hadn’t wanted to cry, he had to be the strong one—and, looking back, he supposed she’d felt exactly the same thing.

  A few nights later he had been lying next to her in bed. After that hug they hadn’t mentioned the cancer again. As if ignoring it would make it go away. “You know I’m dying,” she’d said to him in the dark.

  “I don’t want to think about it.”

  “I know, darling. I know you don’t. But it’s there.” And she had held him close. “I’m not going to get better, you know. I’m only going to get worse. I’ve been reading up on it in the library.”

  “You think you know everything,” Ernest had said to her, not without spite. “But you don’t.”

  “It would be easier, it seems to me,” she’d said there, in that thick darkness, and it had seemed to Ernest to get thicker, to make his head swim, “if we just stopped it now. You could, you know. You could give me a kiss. Say goodbye. And put a pillow over my face. And that’d be an end to it.”

  Ernest couldn’t, and wouldn’t, he said he couldn’t and wouldn’t. . . .

  “I know, darling,” Lizzie had said, perfectly placidly. “I know.” His poor Lizzie, who’d never even smoked, dying of lung cancer.

  “I’m popping into the garden for a cigarette,” said the woman who wasn’t married to his son.

  Billy waved her on with a smile. One of the kids ran out after her. The other was too busy wrecking the armchair. Billy moved toward the old television, sick and neglected in the corner, and no doubt trying to sleep through all the noise. “What are you doing?” asked Ernest. “No.”