by Jemma Forte
‘Such as?’ I enquire, starting to sound like Basil Fawlty at his most frustrated and deranged.
‘Well, we were going to build a rockery in the garden next weekend for starters and then he wants to take me to DFS because we still haven’t got round to going yet. Plus we were going to get together with his mate Derek and see about renovating his caravan and …’
‘Look, Andy,’ I interrupt, rubbing my face with my hands, feeling drenched in stress. ‘I’m sorry and everything. I know you’ve had a great time with Martin, but this is my house, where I live, so I just don’t think you staying here any more is going to work out.’
At this point Andy looks like this is such an outlandish statement I almost begin to question my own judgement.
‘Well I guess we need to talk to Martin then. See what he thinks,’ says Andy gravely.
I feel like screaming.
‘OK, you’re just not getting it,’ I say steadily, his reaction making me question now whether I can cope with even one more night under the same roof as him. Where was a bouncer when you needed one? He was being so unreasonable.
‘Oh I’m getting it all right Marianne,’ he says petulantly. ‘But maybe it’s time you realised that it’s not all about you.’
‘… right,’ I say, beyond frustrated, unable to grasp what it was he wasn’t able to get. He was acting like I’d been talking Swahili and frankly, given the circumstances, is being unbelievably selfish. My dad is dying.
‘Andy, can you give me a second?’ I ask, desperate not to be looking at his pudgy face for even a moment longer. If he’s going to be difficult about leaving my house, he can at least get out of my room.
‘Sure thing,’ he says, strolling out of my room, but unfortunately not out of my life.
That night I barely sleep. Andy’s refusal to budge is playing heavily on my mind so endless hours pass miserably with me tossing and turning as I wonder how on earth I’m going to get rid of dough boy. Holiday romance turned squatter from hell.
In the morning it’s no surprise that as I head for work I’m feeling exhausted to the point where the only thing that gets me through the day is the knowledge that I have a music lesson to look to forward to that evening.
I’m really excited about this. It’s been far too long. My teacher has been away on the trip of a lifetime to South America and is finally back. I’m hoping I won’t be too rusty as I’ve been practising for at least an hour a day. I feel really sad that Ray isn’t able to come with me like he wanted to. There’s no question of this for the time being however. The chemo is underway and apparently taking its toll. When I phoned the hospital for an update earlier, he was too weak even to chat.
I miss him.
I miss my dad. This is an alien thought. Until a month or so ago I didn’t even have him in my life to miss. Suddenly there’s a big bubble of grief rearing its head in my belly, for with that last thought comes the knowledge that soon, missing him will be all I can do.
Walking through Mrs Demetrius’ door is like applying balm to my weary soul. Her house is one place where I can stop thinking, stop worrying about my life and how everything is going to unfold. I can practically feel my skeleton relaxing as I enter the hall and find myself engulfed in my teacher’s ample bosom.
‘I’ve missed you!’ she exclaims, the bangles on her arms jangling.
‘Me too,’ I say sincerely. ‘I want to hear all about your trip.’
‘Plenty of time for that,’ she replies. ‘Promise I’ll bore you about it later, but right now I’m dying to hear you play.’
My lesson is supposed to last an hour, I’m there for three. Maybe it’s because of everything that’s going on at the moment but I play with more passion, more feeling than I ever have before. When I finish the concerto that I’ve been rehearsing, Mrs Demetrius is moved to tears and later, after she’s shown me the photographs from her trip, she is unable to resist mentioning her favourite topic of conversation.
‘You have to apply this year, Marianne. I’ve spoken to them about the process and look, I’ve got some stuff for you to read.’
Reluctantly I take the Royal College of Music prospectus from her.
‘You’ve missed this year’s open day but the woman in admissions said I can phone and book a private tour. They do them regularly. It would only be for an hour and South Kensington is hardly far away. Will you at least consider that? I’ll come with you.’
It’s easier just to pretend that I’ll give it some thought, otherwise I know she’ll only keep on at me. I flick idly through the brochure and have to admit it does look amazing. It’s full of photographs of students playing in orchestras, or in music lessons. The buildings are majestic and it all feels like a world away from my own life. I can’t even imagine how incredible it would be to be somewhere where all you were supposed to be thinking about was music. I wonder whether the people whose faces are peering out at me know how lucky they are. It’s all ridiculously unattainable for someone like me though. Besides, even if I were to apply this year, which I’d have to do before October, I wouldn’t be able to start until the September after. By which point I’d be far too old to be a student. I’d look ridiculous. No, that ship has sailed, I decide stubbornly. Thinking ahead to the autumn causes a sudden almost physical ache in my stomach as my brain contemplates what may or may not have happened by then. I’d managed to banish my worries from my head for the duration of my lesson but obviously they were all just waiting round the corner.
‘Time will fly, Marianne,’ nags Mrs Demetrius, which only deepens my anxiety. ‘And I know you can’t picture it now but believe you me, October will be here before you know it, so you have to think about it. It’s still not too late for you. You’ve got your A grade in A level Music and you play like a dream.’
‘What about the fees?’ I mutter, sounding miserable.
Mrs Demetrius sighs heavily. ‘You know as well as I do that on that front there would be a way. We’d have to find a way.’
I can only imagine she’s referring to Martin and I feel a jolt of irritation. Surely it’s not really up to her to decide whether my family could afford for me to go – which I don’t think they could – though deep down I know it’s her comment about October being here before we know it that’s really responsible for the darkening of my mood. If my dad lasts six months from the time of diagnosis that means he’s only got until then so I don’t want time to whizz by. I don’t want it to be October. Instead I need time to pass in the same way it did when I was a little girl at school. Back then the six-week summer holidays seemed endless. Now, six weeks goes in a flash.
‘What’s wrong, Marianne?’ she asks, having figured out that there must be more on my mind than just my future. ‘You look so sad. Tell me?’
So I do. I sit and tell my lovely teacher, who’s also a great friend, everything that’s happened since that fateful night in April. The night my life changed for ever. And she listens and for now that’s all I need.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Over the next few weeks it feels like whichever way I turn there’s something tricky to confront. Andy refusing to budge from my house is becoming a major issue as I’m feeling increasingly uncomfortable in my own home. At one point I ask Martin and Mum to back me up by asking him to get the hell out, at which point they sheepishly admit that they’ve had a little chat with Andy and have agreed he can stay on as a lodger.
‘It’s just, he’s so helpful around the house,’ Mum says, as if that makes everything OK.
‘And he deserves a break,’ adds Martin. ‘He’s a good lad and just because things haven’t worked out with the pair of you, doesn’t mean we can’t show him some good old-fashioned British hospitality. And besides,’ he continues stoically, ‘We’ll miss him when he’s gone. Australia’s a long way from here.’
I stare at him aghast as his eyes start to glisten suspiciously. Frustrated beyond belief I leave him blinking and head for my room – where I seem to be permanently hiding out these
days. It dawns on me then that rationalizing anything with that pair of lunatics is going to be an uphill struggle so I give up. After all, why would anyone care what I think?
I try giving Andy the cold shoulder hoping he’ll be the one to take the initiative and evict himself, but that doesn’t work either. Desperate to get rid of him somehow, at one point I resort to asking him bluntly when he might be thinking of heading back to the other side of the planet but his answer is irritatingly mysterious. ‘When the time is right,’ he says, like he’s Mary frigging Poppins, waiting for the wind to change. Not that there’s an umbrella on the planet big enough to carry his bulk skyward.
So life continues in a strange state of limbo. I certainly won’t be heading off on my travels any time soon so instead I continue to save as much as I can. By now I’ve got over two thousand pounds in my savings account. And for now, like me, it can just stay put.
As for my dad, and that still feels a strange thing to say, he’s got through his chemo cycle and miraculously it seems to have given him a bit of a boost, although that may be down to the steroids he’s also been prescribed. Either way, Ray himself says he’s having a good patch so, determined to make the most of it, we see each other a lot. Our time together is intense and permanently laced with sadness and a yearning for things to be different. We quiz one another on all aspects of our lives. He wants to know everything about my life growing up and even the smallest detail seems to fascinate him. I too feel an urgent need to squeeze as much as possible out of our time together but am also mindful of how ill he is and how exhausted he can get.
It’s the end of May when I finally make it round to the flat he’s been living in since he got out of prison. I turn up with my violin, which he begged me to bring.
‘Here we are then,’ he says, opening the door and gesturing to me to go in first.
‘This is nice,’ I say, my eyes devouring their surroundings, and it is, it’s fine. It’s small, but spotlessly clean and in his manor of Hackney. However, walking into the living room through from the tiny hallway, it’s the lack of anything personal that gets to me and which feels a bit depressing. There aren’t any pictures in frames, no clutter of any description, although he does have loads of CDs on a shelf, which for want of something better to do I go over to examine.
‘Blimey, you’ve got such a wide range of music.’
‘That surprise you, does it?’ Dad says, hanging his coat on the back of one of the three chairs that surround the small table in the corner, which is where he obviously eats his meals. The kitchen is miniscule.
I shrug and carry on looking at the CDs. They vary from Johnny Cash and Elvis, to Elgar and Elaine Paige singing show tunes.
‘Fancy a cuppa?’ asks Dad.
‘Yeah please, thanks,’ I say, experiencing a pang of something that might be fear, or sorrow, when I notice that among the few books that are on the shelves is a copy of Lance Armstrong’s book and one called Chicken Soup for the Soul, a help book for cancer sufferers. I am immediately struck by a renewed sense of admiration at how well Ray is dealing with what’s happening to him.
We don’t talk about ‘it’ much. Somehow I can just tell he doesn’t want to, so that’s fine by me, and yet of course his illness, his situation, encroaches upon everything.
This is proved yet again half an hour later, by Dad’s reaction when I mention how I bumped into Teresa at the club some weeks ago now.
‘You’ve gotta get in touch with her,’ Dad insists. ‘Do it. You don’t seem to have a huge number of friends, so the ones you do have you must look after.’
I sigh, knowing he’s right. Only sometimes it’s so draining having to consider everything on a ‘life’s too short’ basis. Obviously when someone knows they’re going to die imminently, it makes a huge difference to their outlook. If I were in his position I would also want to try and live each day fully, to let the people close to me know how much they mean to me, and yet is that really how one is supposed to exist on a day-to-day basis? The reality is that the vast majority of us have no idea when our days will be numbered, which allows us to get bogged down with our day-to-day worries, to moan about stuff that doesn’t even matter in the grand scheme of things. And when it comes to people, although it might not necessarily be right, isn’t it sometimes downright easier to take them for granted, just a little, on occasion? Recently I’ve come to see that although putting things off that you could do today isn’t necessarily the best thing, it’s also a luxury that most of us never really appreciate.
‘I will call her,’ I say, not wanting to upset Ray.
‘Do it now,’ he says firmly. ‘That way you won’t forget.’
I feel backed into a corner. Firstly I can’t think of a reason not to and secondly I already recognise that look. I may only have known him a month and a half but have managed to deduce that my dad is stubborn. As stubborn as me.
‘All right,’ I say, getting my mobile out of my pocket. ‘I’ll ring her, but just for the record, I’ve made hundreds of friends. They just don’t live in England.’
Dad rolls his eyes, humouring me. ‘Bloody lot of use they are then,’ he mutters.
‘Teresa,’ I say for she picks up almost instantly. I’ve got butterflies in my stomach. ‘How you doing? It’s Marianne. I was just wondering if you fancied going out sometime?’
Thankfully she agrees. In fact she sounds genuinely pleased that I’ve rung and we arrange to go back to the club where we bumped into each other in a couple of Saturday’s time. That day will, in fact, be the day of Hayley’s Sing for Britain audition, so I figure I’ll probably feel like having a drink after that anyway.
‘Well done you,’ Dad says, looking really chuffed. His evident pride in having helped fills me with affection.
‘Now let’s listen to some music together and then, perhaps if I ask nicely, maybe you’ll even play some for your old dad.’
And so it is that time marches on and May has come and gone.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The big day dawns grey and slightly dreary considering it’s the middle of June. What big day am I talking about? Hayley’s big day. Actually, correct that, Mum’s big day. The weather may be deeply average but nothing’s going to dampen Mum’s downright scary enthusiasm. Not even the fact that Dad’s coming with us.
Since their initial disastrous meeting and Dad’s collapse, Hayley has met up with Ray a few times, always alone, which suits me fine. It feels right that the two of them should try and forge their own relationship.
It also leaves me free to enjoy my time with him in peace. My sister’s pretty much reverted to her old ways, refusing to discuss anything with me that might be remotely difficult such as how she’s feeling or whether or not she’s going to try for another baby. Every time I see her I am overwhelmed with sadness about it. I know she’s hurting and just wish there was more I could do to make her feel better. As it is I just pop round as much as I can and, if she’s in one of her odd moods, I tolerate it more than I normally would. At least I know her meetings with Dad must have gone relatively well because if they hadn’t I would definitely have heard about it.
From Ray’s point of view he’s just grateful she’s letting him in. I am too and have to admit, when I discovered that Hayley had asked him to come along to the Sing for Britain auditions, I had a job at keeping my amazement concealed. Though let’s be honest, Hayley’s going to need all the support she can get once she’s unleashed that voice of hers on to the public.
And so it’s a motley bunch making their way up to an arena in South East London by tube. There’s me – I don’t want to be here to witness my sister’s demise, but am the only one who realises how badly she’s going to get torn to shreds by the judging panel so need to be. There’s Hayley, obviously, Pete, who Mum insisted should come along to show support, Mum – you can imagine what sort of state she’s in – Martin, Ray – who’s in a wheelchair, which we’re all trying not to look shocked by – Matthew, his far better than average
looking support nurse, who has kindly agreed to come along to help out – yes! – Gary … and … wait for it …
Who could clearly not be missing from such a big Baker/Baxter family day out? Why, of course, the idiot I had a holiday romance with nine hundred years ago … Andy.
Well, obviously he has to come doesn’t he? Why, it’s only right and natural he should be here, despite the fact his mere presence brings out murderous thoughts in me and that he has NOTHING WHATSOEVER TO DO WITH US.
Sorry.
It’s just he’s still lingering like a bad dose of food poisoning and has ingratiated himself so far up Mum and Martin’s arses I’m beginning to think he’ll be here for ever.
His stubborn refusal to leave is really starting to grate now. It’s just plain odd frankly and him not budging and being all ‘pally’ with Martin means I’m growing to hate him in a way that practically brings me out in a rash every time I stop to think about it. He’s got his feet firmly under the table and because I don’t have the time or energy required to uproot them, it looks like he’s here to stay indefinitely. It’s so typical of my ridiculous life.
Right now I’m sitting on the tube opposite Hayley. We all have seats, apart from Matthew who’s standing with Ray, making sure his wheelchair doesn’t roll off anywhere. As we rattle around in the tube carriage, making our way towards Hayley’s certain showbiz death I can’t prevent myself from questioning her about her musical choice.
‘So, are you still set on doing Céline Dion?’
‘No,’ says Hayley. ‘You pissed me off at the time but having thought about it, Mum and I think you may have a point. Loads of people have done it in the past and actually it might feel a bit dated now.’
A bit dated. I force myself not to look incredulous.
‘Plus, I’d only be compared, like when people try and do a “Mariah”, so I’ve chosen something else.’
‘Thank god,’ I say with feeling, imagining those soaring notes in her squawky voice. ‘I mean, thank god you’re now going to stand out from the crowd.’