by Angela Huth
Douglas gave her the faintest smile, patted her on the head. He looked so . . . what was it he looked? I couldn’t put a name to it for a moment. Then I suddenly knew what it was: undignified. That was it. For the first time I could ever remember, my husband’s dignity had been ripped from him. He sat hunched on the floor, oily bare feet ashamed in the fluffy pile of the carpet. His thin hair darkened by the lavender oil, and all askew.
‘Go on, tell me you don’t feel a difference.’
Meriel gently stroked his feet with a possessive intimacy that gave me the creeps.
‘Can’t say I feel any benefit yet,’ he said carefully, ‘but then it’s early days.’ He gave Meriel another smile. She put her arms around his neck. ‘Oh my dear, dear girl,’ he said, with a kind of exhausted relief, as if this physical contact with his daughter was something he had been hoping for for a very long time.
Upstairs, Douglas had a bath and washed his hair. But nothing would get rid of the smell of the lavender. It came off his skin like some terrible incense, increasing the discomfort of our argument – whether we should agree with Meriel’s well-meaning but useless theories – that went on till dawn began to light the familiar things of our room, and the day threatened.
But having lost my argument, I did my best when it came to a show of solidarity. I wore my new red coat, and the gloves Douglas had given me at Christmas, for our visit to the specialist. Douglas put his thoughts to the man with all the articulacy he was capable of when addressing a difficult client. You’d think he’d been an advocate of alternative medicine for years, the way he described the reasons for his decision. He was determined to give it a try, he said. A man had to have faith in his daughter. The specialist listened politely, a sceptical frown on his brow. Then suddenly he shrugged his shoulders, almost as if he thought there was no point wasting precious time on one so obdurate as Douglas, and suggested a compromise. Why not go along with Meriel’s ideas, he said – after all (and here he allowed himself a small chuckle) they could not do much positive harm. Why not start the course of treatment right away as well? There was a small silence while Douglas considered this reasonable proposal. The specialist looked at his watch.
‘In cases like yours, there’s no time to be lost,’ he said.
With this piece of news, Douglas made up his mind instantly.
‘No,’ he said. Til give my daughter a chance first. Just for a few weeks.’
‘Very well,’ said the specialist, and saw us out into the stuffy corridor. I felt as if our lifeline had been snapped. But I kept my fears to myself, and drove Douglas to his office. He was to start arrangements for his deputy to be in charge. Although he intended still to work some days a week, already it was apparent he was not up to a full week in the office. Fatigue hit him every day after lunch. This afternoon, however, he seemed to be full of beans. I secretly wondered, only for a moment, whether there might be something in Meriel’s gobbledy-gook after all – some magic, some transference of will. I don’t know. I do believe miracles can happen. Though nothing could convince me Meriel could be the perpetrator of the sort of miracle we needed.
I got home late that afternoon, having been shopping at Sainsbury’s. I got home to find that Meriel had already been on a spending spree of her own. The kitchen table was entirely covered with fruit, vegetables, and several blue glass bottles of essential oils and many packets of vitamins. In an expensive-looking new liquidiser she was making raw carrot juice – I refrained from asking, but imagine Douglas must have lent her his credit card, or given her cash. A pile of chopped liver with a nasty bluish-purple shine lay on a board. On top of the fridge, propped up in the rude mug, a joss stick was burning. Its sickly smoke curled down over us. The blinds at the kitchen window were half-drawn. Meriel’s portable CD player was on the draining board, Indian music mewing forth.
‘What’s all this?’ I asked, lowering my own bags of provisions to the floor.
‘Day one of Dad’s diet. Starting with supper. Don’t put on that face, Mum. Give me some credit.’
Did I put on that face again at supper? I hoped not. But as I watched Douglas struggle with a plateful of raw liver mixed with grated carrot, I could not be sure. Later, Meriel insisted on more pulling of his toes, though she did agree to a scentless oil. I could not bring myself to watch this revolting performance again. I went up early to bed and wept into the pillow.
‘Please see some sense, Douglas, and stop all this nonsense. There’s no time to lose,’ I said, when at last, exhausted, he joined me.
He made an effort to be consoling. He promised me that if Meriel’s methods did not result in definite improvements quite soon, he would return to the specialist.
‘Don’t you see,’ he said, ‘that she’s come to make amends. If we reject her now, we’ll lose her for good. As it is, she’s back to loving us, wanting us, needing to do something very important for us. It would be madness to reject her. She’d be gone for good. We must give her a chance, whatever the cost.’
What could I do but nod, agree? Whatever feelings a wife may have, she must not add to her ill husband’s problems.
In the middle of the night, I heard Douglas get up and go to the bathroom. He was there a long time, terribly sick. I pretended to be asleep. The days go by slowly. Fraught. She’ll stomp into the kitchen, Meriel, with bags of fruits and vegetables, pulses and grains and vitamins. There hasn’t been any meat in the house – apart from the raw liver – since she came back. Not a thing I fancy, and I can’t very well bake a batch of scones just for myself. Never a ‘Anything you’d like, Mum?’ What’s more, she’s taken over. She’s in charge of what goes on in the kitchen. All I’m left with is the clearing up. Still, I suppose I can’t complain. She’s here, she’s all over her father, paying him more attention than she has done for years. Almost an obsessive attention, I might add, as if it’s important to her to make her point, to prove her alternative methods are right, superior.
She comes down late – never an early riser. So I do the breakfast, eating half a grapefruit to keep Douglas company, though I can’t take the carrot juice. Douglas says its not bad, once you’re used to it. He’s been a hero, forcing himself to get used to Meriel’s diet, I’ll say that. Nowadays he only goes to the office twice a week – Meriel packs him a salad and fresh orange juice the night before – and comes back looking ashy in the evenings. But quite cheerful. ‘Don’t you think Dad’s looking better, Mum?’ Meriel keeps asking. I can see in his eyes Douglas is hoping for an encouraging answer. So, yes, I say, I believe he is. That’s not the truth, of course. I keep the truth from both of them. My private opinion is that he’s a bad colour – yellowy skin, a jaundiced colour. Also, he’s lost a lot of weight very quickly. Half a stone in a couple of weeks, I’d guess. But that’s not surprising, considering the rabbit food Meriel insists he eat. And when he’s in her presence, I’m bound to admit he puts on a show of good spirits, swears he’s feeling better. That pleases her. She kisses the top of his head and pats him with her big hands. I hate her at those moments. I believe I really hate her.
Evenings, there’s a routine. After supper, she and Douglas go next door for another massage session. I really can’t abide to watch. They’re back on the lavender oil, now: as far as I’m concerned, the sitting room has become uninhabitable. It stinks. So, after supper, I sit in the kitchen with biscuits and tea – Meriel’s vegetarian concoctions aren’t exactly filling, and of course I won’t touch the raw liver – watching the telly. Every night Meriel tells me, at the end of the session, they’re getting somewhere. An inner peace is replacing the old stress, she says. I look at Douglas, but he won’t meet my eye.
One night it’s one-thirty and they’re still in there. I know Douglas needs to go to bed, it’s his office day tomorrow. So I tap on the door, poke my head round. Well, it’s really spooky. There’s dreadful Indian whining music, the smell of joss sticks curdling with the stench of lavender oil. Douglas is laid out on the fluffy carpet, bare yellow feet pokin
g out of the end of his trousers, hands of paler yellow spread out on his thighs, eyes shut. The flesh of his face, was my immediate thought, did not seem to belong to the same man. It was a terrible colour, a sort of thin grey, like the flesh of a snail.
Meriel, kneeling behind him, looks up. Her fingers are twirling about in the air above his chest, as if she is kneading invisible pastry.
‘What do you want?’ The usual aggression.
‘I think it’s time for your father to come up to bed.’
Meriel went on with her twirling, as if I had not spoken.
‘Here, look at this, Mum,’ she said at last. ‘You can see what’s happening, can’t you? The core of his anger. You can see it coming out. It’s like smoke, isn’t it? It’s tangible. You can feel it.’ She pinched her finger and thumb together as if she was pinching snuff. It struck me she was completely mad. ‘Once Dad’s free of all this, he’ll be well on his way to recovery. Cancer’s, like, one hundred per cent caused by stress, anger, rotten feelings that fester into a kind of garbage inside you.’ Her chant was familiar by now.
‘Not one hundred per cent,’ I ventured.
‘Listen, I’ve studied all this. I know what I’m talking about.’
A matter of opinion, my girl, I said to myself. You’ve only been an undergraduate for under two terms, and you’re meant to be studying psychology.
But there again, perhaps all this sort of talk is psychology . . .?
Douglas opened his eyes and struggled to get up. He looked very tired, but managed a smile. Both Meriel and I put out a hand to help him up. He had taken off his jacket. I noticed that beneath his shirt his shoulder bones stuck out like wings.
‘Thank you, love,’ he said to Meriel and I felt myself stung by a terrible feeling. The pain in my chest, the jealousy, was tangible. Then, perhaps aware of my feelings, he put his arm around my shoulders, thank God, and leant on me all the way upstairs.
Meriel went back to university at last. Never have I been so relieved. I opened the sitting-room windows wide to try to banish the smell of lavender oil, then set about clearing up my kitchen. She’d left instructions everywhere – pinned to the walls, stuck to the fridge: lists of ingredients I was to buy, how to make a lemon dressing, the importance of carrot juice at all times . . . I don’t know. It wearied my head, trying to follow it all. I knew I’d never manage: my heart wasn’t in it. In my opinion, what Douglas needed was some nourishing food, something to keep his strength up. I felt like ripping all the bossy little instructions down, throwing them away. Then I thought, better not. Not till I see what Douglas feels. He may want to keep the whole ludicrous routine going. Keep on giving it a chance. Besides, Meriel had left with so many threats. ‘If you don’t continue the cure scrupulously,’ she had said, ‘it will be your fault if Dad declines. As you can see, he’s much better since I’ve been working on him. He’s a different man. Can’t wait to get back and tell the Healers about my success.’
I made a small batch of scones that day, put two or three on a plate for tea. When Douglas came home – he comes back much earlier now from his two days at the office – he took one, ate it slowly, relishing every bite.
‘Guilty?’ I asked with what I hoped was a mischievous smile.
‘Just very hungry,’ he said.
‘What if I made you a steak and kidney pie for supper?’
‘I’d eat it,’ he said. Well, we hadn’t had such a happy evening for weeks.
Douglas made some effort to return to carrot juice and so on for a couple of days, but we both agreed it was time for the experiment to come to an end. It was quite obvious there was no improvement in his condition: in fact, the truth was, as he admitted within a week of Meriel’s departure, he felt bloody awful. No energy, much worse pain in his shoulder.
‘But no need to worry,’ he said. ‘Mr Belton was so optimistic, remember? Said I’d probably got a few years, and quite a high chance of full recovery.’
‘But you wouldn’t start the treatment when he suggested it.’
‘Won’t have made much difference, six or seven weeks. All the same, I’d like to go back and see him.’ I could tell, by that, he was worried. We were sitting on the sofa. It was an overcast afternoon. He’d laid one of his thin hands on my knee. It quivered.
‘Why, Douglas?’ I asked. ‘I’ll never understand why you agreed to go along with Meriel’s daft theories.’
‘Surely you should understand,’ he said, so gently. ‘I had to win her back. We had to win her back. There’ve been so many years of alienation. I thought this might be the last chance. I thought it couldn’t hurt. Might even be something in it.’
‘You mean, you didn’t believe in it all, although you kept telling her you did?’
Douglas shrugged.
‘I couldn’t disappoint her, could I? Here she was, with something she really believed in. I haven’t seen her so enthusiastic, so involved in something, since she was quite a small child. Besides, I think she was trying to say sorry. Trying to make up for all the difficult years. I wouldn’t have had the heart to reject that. You wouldn’t, either.’
‘She didn’t like me any better, I noted.’
‘One thing at a time. She’s not capable of taking on several things at once, remember. She’ll come round to you.’ This was no time to argue.
‘So what do we do about telling her, Doug? About giving up her plan?’
He thought about it for a long time, in silence.
‘We don’t tell her,’ he said at last.
The following week we returned to Mr Belton, the specialist. He interviewed Douglas at length. It was hard to read his thoughts, but I fancied he looked concerned. Douglas, he said, had lost a stone.
‘I thought it was worth giving it a go,’ Douglas said.
‘It was up to you,’ Mr Belton said – not unfriendly, exactly. More, a little impatient. He made an appointment for more tests, X-rays. A few days later, Douglas left his office for good. Meriel rang up most evenings.
‘How’s the routine going?’ she kept asking. ‘Carrot juice three times a day? You must be getting used to chopping up the raw liver by now, Mum.’ We lied to her. We lied and lied, bright voices. She was full of smug pleasure, of course. The story about her father responding so well had been received with much interest, she said. These conversations were very trying. Each time Douglas put down the telephone he looked like a slain man.
‘I’d give the world not to be doing this,’ he said.
‘Let’s hope it’s not one more of our mistakes,’ I said. ‘Dear God, where did we go wrong?’ The question slipped out before I could stop it.
‘We’ll never know,’ said Douglas. Mr Belton summoned us to tell us about the results of the tests. This time, there’s no denying he looked grave. One glance at his face and I knew what the news was going to be.
‘The one thing that’s certain about this disease,’ he said, rubbing his healthy brown hands together, ‘is its unpredictability. Sometimes, when all the signs have given little hope, it suddenly becomes almost dormant. Other times, you’re pretty sure the patient has months, if not a few years, left, and the tumours multiply with a devastating speed.’ He paused. ‘I wish you hadn’t postponed the treatment,’ he said. ‘But we’ll see what you can do.’
He described it all to us in great and kindly detail, but his words were far away, blowing down through a thin tube in my ears that made an echo. On the way out, Douglas took my arm. I felt its terrible thinness. I felt the sinews tremble, but he was being so cheerful.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I’m going to lick this thing. I’m a fit man, and whatever Meriel might think, not an angry one.’
We laughed, standing there in the car park, the cars a paintbox of colours flowing into one another. It was the last time I can remember we laughed, and Douglas asked me to drive.
It all gathered such speed after that, there was scarcely a moment to get back to this journal. Besides, I couldn’t. I couldn’t bring myself t
o describe the horror of Doug’s fast decline: the small spasms of hope always quickly dashed by despair. I looked after him myself for as long as I could, then a nurse came in to give me some relief. His hair fell out. I became fascinated by a small pulse in his temple, beating away, roped in by a swollen blue vein, fat as a worm. Had they always been there, pulse and vein, beneath his hair, all the years of our marriage? It was the sort of thing I began to concentrate on, trying to deflect my thoughts from the reality of the situation. Douglas was dreadfully sick, and new pains began. Terrible stomach pains. It was time for all possible help, things beyond me. He agreed to go into the local hospice, a sunny place with windows on to a nice garden.
The time had come, too, to tell Meriel. I dreaded the call so much. In fact, I gave way to cowardice and wrote to her. I said the switch to conventional medicine had been a mutual decision. It was what Douglas wanted, what we thought would be best. I put it all as gently as I could.
Her first response was at midnight, waking me from a light sleep. A great spewing forth of abuse, anger, tears – all just as I had expected, only worse. Vitriolic. Accusing me of breaking her trust, betraying her. What sort of a mother am I, she asks. What sort of a wife? Giving up her way – so successful in just a few weeks, as we had all witnessed – and subjecting Doug to chemotherapy was tantamount to sticking a knife through his heart. When I tried to remonstrate, ask her to listen to reason, she just slammed down the telephone.
She kept on ringing. Whenever I came back from visiting Douglas – and I couldn’t worry him with all this, of course – she was on the telephone with her horrible accusations.
This morning was the worst of all. So vicious I can only hope it was the last time she’ll ring.
She accused me of killing her father.
‘If we hadn’t wasted weeks on your stupid methods, your father might not be lying there dying right now,’ I shouted back. I was suddenly angrier than I’d ever been in my life, with anyone.