The Time of Their Lives

by Maeve Haran

  Half an hour ago she was feeling positive, clear that she was making the sane, rational choice, the best thing for her children. And now here was Bella yelling at her that she should be fighting to the death.

  Come on, Laura, pull yourself together, she told herself sternly, you’re the adult here. She needed that drink. She shouted to Bella that she would see her later but Bella had disappeared upstairs.

  As if by some sixth sense of friendship, Ella was standing under the lovely Queen Anne portico of her lovely Queen Anne house waiting with her arms wide open.

  ‘Come on, I’ve lit the fire in the sitting room. Let’s sink into the sofa and open the Sauvignon. Come and tell me everything Rowley said.’

  As she stood outside the Princess Lily Hospital, Sal asked herself again why she hadn’t told her friends what was happening. Any of them would have been happy to come with her today.

  Partly it was pride. Sal had always had this feeling, encouraged by her stoical, unsympathetic mother, that illness was somehow weak, something that should be resisted. Besides, if the news was bad, she didn’t want to suddenly be ‘Sal-with-cancer’. She didn’t want people to adopt that special cancer voice when they asked ‘How are you?’ She didn’t want anyone to tell her stories of other people’s cancer.

  In fact, she deeply resented the thought of having cancer at all and not admitting to even the idea seemed to make it less real. It was much easier to treat the possibility of cancer as a massive inconvenience than to acknowledge its true seriousness.

  In the waiting room for the breast clinic, Sal discreetly studied the other patients. There was a fashion-conscious woman in orange leggings and matching Converse trainers, wearing an Orla Kiely top Sal had envied when they’d featured it in Modern Style. She had two young women with her, perhaps in their early twenties, who must be her daughters. They were chatting ten to the dozen to take her mind off where she was. Occasionally, they swapped anxious glances. How old was she? Fifty? Certainly not as old as Sal.

  Opposite sat an older woman with a dramatic-looking companion whose bright red lips and dark eyebrows grabbed one’s attention. She seemed too old to be a daughter. A work colleague accompanying the patient to hold her hand, perhaps? Sal could hardly believe it when a name was called and it turned out to be the younger woman who got up.

  Finally, it was Sal’s turn.

  ‘Ms Grainger? Hello, I’m Pam, your Breast Care Nurse. I’ll be your contact at the hospital.’ Sal found herself confronting a plump, blonde Australian who radiated confidence. She pressed a card into Sal’s hand. Sal’s stomach lurched. If she was going to have a permanent contact, the news must be bad. ‘Mr Richards is ready for you now.’

  ‘Right, Ms Grainger, come in.’ This was a new tone. Authoritative and brisk. She could do business with this tone. Its owner was tall and suave and surprisingly young. ‘You’ve met Pam already?’

  Sal nodded. Was it significant that she was seeing both of them at once? The women before her in the queue had only seen him, she was sure.

  ‘We have the results of your core biopsy. There was an indication from your mammogram that we ought to look further. I’m afraid the pathology report confirms it.’

  ‘I have cancer then.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

  ‘You have a tumour, yes. It is quite large, and palpable to the touch.’

  ‘Is that bad?’

  ‘Palpable would indicate a tumour is cancerous.’

  Sal took a deep breath, trying to keep calm. ‘Can I just say,’ she wanted to get things clear from the outset, ‘I’d rather you were completely honest with me. I am sixty-three, unmarried, used to looking after myself, and I have no dependants. What I do have, which is worrying me no end at the moment, is a terrific new job editing a magazine which I am due to start imminently.’

  ‘I see, yes. Well, I’m afraid breast-conserving surgery is not suitable in your case. The problem is not so much the dimensions of the tumour, although it is quite large, but the relationship to your breast size.’

  Sal almost felt the temptation to laugh. She’d always had this crazy notion that one positive about being flat as a pancake was that she wouldn’t end up with breast cancer.

  ‘Your lymph nodes are also infected, which indicates the advisability of a mastectomy.’

  Shockwaves reverberated through Sal. Somehow she had known all along the news would be bad. The lump was too big and too hard to be trivial. But a mastectomy!

  On the other hand, if she had to have it, there was no point delaying. ‘Can I have the operation immediately? The thing is, I can’t afford to delay. Given my age, this job was pretty hard to find and I really don’t want to lose it.’

  Mr Richards looked at her over his glasses, penetrating light-blue eyes boring into hers. ‘I’m afraid not. You will need neoadjuvant chemotherapy first. We need to reduce the size of the tumour before we operate and there are other factors that tip the balance towards waiting.’

  Sal knew there must be a hundred questions she ought to be asking. It was just that she couldn’t think of any of them.

  Instead she said simply: ‘Am I going to die?’

  Mr Richards leaned back in his seat. ‘With a mastectomy, plus five years of Anastrozole, the prognosis is excellent. It may not seem it at the moment but you have one of the best cancers. But I think we should start the chemotherapy as soon as possible.’

  Sal realized that she had started to cry and hated herself. It was the thought of losing her hair.

  ‘Your Breast Care Nurse will talk you through the process further and will always be on hand for your appointments.’ He shook her hand.

  Pam led her to a smaller consulting room and handed over a small carrier bag.

  It was much like the goody bag she got at glitzy press launches, but instead of designer samples and free body lotion this one contained helpful booklets on coping with hair loss, a catalogue for post-surgery bras and a leaflet explaining different drug regimens. Welcome to cancerworld!

  ‘Read the leaflets and look on the Internet, everyone does, and then please come back to me with any questions you want to ask. Any time. My number’s on the card I gave you.’

  It struck Sal, as she made her way out of the hospital, that everyone else had someone with them. White-haired Asian grannies had their daughters-in-law, and some had their tiny grandchildren there too, who doubled as translators; grumpy men on crutches had wives trailing behind them; anxious middle-aged sons pushed frail-looking old men in wheelchairs; even a drunk had a fellow drunk.

  Of course, given the statistics of how many people live alone, she couldn’t possibly be the only one who was unaccompanied. Besides, it was her own stupid, stubborn fault.

  She bought herself a consoling Twix and made her way home to wait to hear how soon it would be before the poison would be pumped into her veins.

  The time had come, Claudia decided, when she had to have a proper talk with her mother. Since Olivia was never at home, the only way to do this was to join her mother on one of her endless jaunts. Today it was a furniture-painting workshop in a local art gallery.

  ‘I’m so thrilled you’re coming!’ Olivia did indeed sound delighted. ‘I know you’ll love it. Think, you take some hideous unloved old table and turn it into something beautiful. What could be more rewarding?’

  An unexpected wave of guilt washed over Claudia. Maybe her mother signed up for all this stuff not because she was manic, but because she was lonely. Claudia had never been one of those daughters who did everything with her mother. In fact, she rarely did much beyond the occasional duty visit. Perhaps the doctor was exaggerating?

  Then she remembered the crazy round of skiing lessons, colonic irrigation, tequila tasting and laser eyebrow treatment Olivia had been signing people up for. Not to mention the £99 teeth-whitening treatment for an ancient neighbour who had dentures.

  ‘The thing is,’ Olivia was busily telling her daughter, ‘you never were a joiner. As you get older you hav
e to start joining in, dear, or you’ll end up being miserable. Too many old people are stuck at home in front of the TV. You don’t want to become like them, do you? In fact, your father’s becoming one, now that I mention it.’

  ‘Mum, he has fractured his hip.’

  ‘That was weeks ago. He used to be such a live wire.’ Olivia started enthusiastically stripping old paint off a small table with coarse-grained sandpaper. ‘Now he never does anything. He’s turning into an old man.’

  Claudia knew it was no good reminding her mother that he actually was an old man.

  ‘Very good, Mrs Williamson,’ the course organizer congratulated her mother. ‘Come on, Claudia, is it? Chop chop, look how well Olivia’s doing!’

  Claudia took out some sandpaper and began on the wooden chest she’d brought.

  ‘Excellent.’ The organizer smiled. ‘Now use the coarser sandpaper to give it a key for your paint. Then go and choose your paint colours from over on the table. Did you bring the brushes I suggested?’

  Claudia shook her head. She was beginning to feel like the dunce of the class.

  ‘Never mind,’ Olivia offered generously, ‘you can share mine.’

  By lunchtime, Olivia’s side tables and the wooden chest Claudia was working on were sanded, primed and ready for the next stage.

  ‘What design are you going for?’ Olivia enquired. ‘I’m doing fruit and flowers on mine, a sort of autumn cornucopia.’ She began busily painting her base colour.

  Claudia decided on a starry sky for hers, consisting of silver stars on a midnight-blue background. At least that couldn’t be too artistically challenging. The process was surprisingly absorbing and somehow the afternoon flew past without any kind of proper talk with Olivia.

  It was actually dark outside when the workshop organizer did a final tour of all their efforts. She picked two out for special commendation. A geometric design with a hint of Braque about it, and Claudia’s starry sky. Claudia, who had rarely won anything, felt absurdly pleased. It was only as they were packing up their stuff that she remembered the purpose of today was supposed to be less creative and more a way of finding out how her mother was.

  On today’s evidence, Claudia had to admit, she seemed absolutely fine. ‘Why don’t we have a cup of tea on the way home?’

  ‘Let’s go to Igden Manor,’ Olivia suggested enthusiastically. ‘They have an offer on there. Three-for-two afternoon teas.’

  OK, maybe not so fine. How did her mother even know all this stuff about offers?

  ‘Since there are only two of us, let’s ask Caroline who’s running the course if she’d like to come too.’ Olivia was about to bustle off and ask her.

  ‘No. No, nicer with just us,’ Claudia insisted.

  They were just in time for tea at the hotel, which turned out to be one of those country houses, all log fires and wood panelling. The afternoon tea consisted of enough sandwiches, scones and cakes to feed an army. Surreptitiously her mother emptied most of it into her handbag, wrapped up in one of the hotel’s white linen napkins. ‘That’ll do for your father’s tea. I’ll be out tonight. I’ve signed up for a course in digital photography.’

  ‘But, Mum, you don’t even have a digital camera!’

  ‘You’re always so negative, Claudia.’

  ‘Look, Mum, we need to talk. I’m worried about you. You’re always rushing, rushing, rushing – signing up for all these weird and wonderful things. How do you even pay for them?’

  ‘They’re mostly seventy per cent off.’

  ‘Even so, you have to pay something. It must mount up.’

  Olivia beamed. ‘I put them on the credit card.’

  ‘Does Dad know?’

  ‘I don’t know what your father knows. He’s such a sad old stay-at-home these days.’

  ‘He’s worried about you. So am I. Mum,’ Olivia was staring into space, refusing to acknowledge the concern, ‘so is the doctor at the hospital.’

  ‘Worried about Dad, you mean.’

  ‘No, you. He called me up specially. He thinks you may be suffering from manic depression.’

  ‘I’ve never heard anything so ludicrous in my life! Can’t someone be busy and enthusiastic without being landed with some ridiculous label!’

  ‘All right, Mum, let’s leave it for now.’

  ‘I should bloody well think so!’ Her mother’s voice was almost a shout, making the other guests turn round. And then, just as suddenly, she was back to normal. ‘Do you want that last cucumber sandwich? If not, I’ll take it home for Dad.’

  She went off to argue with the management that if there was a 3-for-2 offer, there ought to be some reduction pro rata of 2 for 1.

  ‘Got a fiver off!’ she announced on her return. ‘You don’t need to worry about me and money.’

  But Claudia wasn’t reassured. The next day she called the credit card company and asked to discuss her mother’s situation. They were deeply unhelpful. It was bad enough that they refused to talk to her because of ‘data protection’, but they didn’t need to sound positively gleeful about it.

  There was only one thing for it. She’d have to enlist her father’s help. As soon as she knew her mother was out at yet another activity, she went straight round.

  ‘Look, Dad, we really are going to have to do something about this. She must be spending a fortune. Where does Mum keep her bank and credit card statements?’

  Len was unhappy about going behind his wife’s back, but finally agreed after much persuasion.

  ‘Goodness knows. But she stuffs all the things she doesn’t like the look of into that bureau over there.’ He indicated a battered old piece of furniture in the corner of the sitting room.

  Claudia opened it up. It was the old-fashioned type where the lid lowered into a desk top revealing rows of small drawers and cubby holes. There was nothing of any financial interest in these, or in the top two larger drawers. The bottom drawer was more hopeful. It was chock-a-block full of papers and letters. Claudia got them out and sorted them into piles, feeling more and more sick as she did so.

  Her mother had signed up for countless cut-price courses, outings, hotels and products. She had even paid for hotel stays she had not taken. Claudia sat down with a calculator and went through every bank and credit card statement.

  Since April that year her mother had spent over four thousand pounds, only paying off the minimum she’d had to each month. And, what was more, Claudia was pretty certain it was four thousand pounds they couldn’t afford and probably didn’t even have.

  Ella sat at her computer screen and began to tap out an indignant post. She knew she probably shouldn’t but felt that this was something she had to get off her chest.

  ADULTERY IS NOW SO COMMONPLACE

  IT DOESN’T RAISE AN EYEBROW

  This is the statement made to a friend of mine by her divorce lawyer, Ella typed furiously, releasing all her indignation, and I think it is one we should all be angry about. We are lucky to live in a fairly liberal society, and that is a precious thing.

  I am not about to advocate stoning when a husband or wife strays from their marital vows, but not even raising an eyebrow, and viewing adultery as commonplace? That seems equally wrong to me. Adultery is a breach of the marriage contract, and, worse than that, it is deeply disrespectful to your partner. Sometimes in a very unhappy marriage it may be unavoidable, but to accept adultery as a minor social breach like using the wrong knife and fork means there is something wrong with that society.

  If adultery is considered so trivial, there is nothing to stop any of us being unfaithful whenever we feel like it. And if we do that, the whole idea of marriage becomes pointless.

  ADULTERY SHOULD NOT BE CONSIDERED COMMONPLACE BUT A HURTFUL BREACH OF CONTRACTUAL RULES FREELY SIGNED UP TO BY BOTH PARTIES. IT IS ALSO A BREACH OF THE MUTUAL RESPECT THAT UNDERPINS MARRIAGE.

  IF WE CONSIDER MARRIAGE AN INSTITUTION WORTH HAVING WE SHOULD ALWAYS RAISE AN EYEBROW.

  Eyebrow-raisers of the world unite!
>
  Ella pinged her blog into cyberspace and logged off.

  She had some dry cleaning to pick up from the High Street. She’d do a shop while she was there and cook something nice for tonight.

  By the time she’d been to the fishmonger, greengrocer and dry cleaner she realized it was time for Wenceslaus’ shift in the café to end and she might as well offer him a lift home.

  When she saw him behind the bar, now a fully qualified barista, no doubt greatly adding to the customer base with his soulful good looks, she felt a wave of almost maternal pride. There was no doubt that he was an asset to the place. To your average Moulsford teenager it would be like discovering Robert Pattinson serving you a flat white.

  She was about to wave to him when she saw the painful evidence of her last thought. A young woman sat at one of the tables nursing an empty coffee cup and watching Wenceslaus.

  But it wasn’t a lovesick teenager who would languish and then recover.

  It was her daughter Julia.

  Ella caught Wenceslaus’ eye and could tell he was well aware of Julia’s presence.

  Steeling herself for a scene which she knew would make her deeply unpopular, Ella decided to take action. ‘Hello, Julia, love!’ Julia jumped, looking guilty. ‘I’m just driving home. Fancy a lift? I thought I’d offer Wenceslaus one, but it seems he’s got to work later.’ She glanced towards Wenceslaus and saw that though he was pretending to clean the counter and tidy up the stack of biscotti, he was also listening. Fortunately, although he had said nothing, he had enough intuition to understand what lay behind this conversation.

  ‘Oh,’ Julia eyed her mother suspiciously. ‘All right, then. As long as you don’t ask me what I’m “giving” Neil for supper, as if I were there to anticipate his every need. He’s out anyway, like he is most nights, at a business dinner.’

  ‘Right.’ This information explained a lot. Julia’s main problem, it seemed to her mother, was neglect by her husband. ‘Do you fancy having supper with me? Just some roast fish, nothing special?’ Julia could have the portion she’d been going to cook for Wenceslaus.