by Jemma Forte
To make matters worse, the camera keeps cutting back to where my mother is bopping away in the next room, doing thumbs-up signs to the camera. It’s as if she’s listening to something completely different and, egged on by the cameraman, for I suspect all the wrong reasons, she’s really getting into it. In fact she’s gyrating so much it looks like she’s auditioning for a lap-dancing job. Bleeding Love is a relatively slow-paced tune, yet Mum’s going at it like she’s trying to set a record for fastest dancer in the West, proving that she has precisely no rhythm whatsoever.
‘OK, stop there please … stop … stop, oh please make her stop,’ says Julian Hayes eventually while Hayley determinedly strangles the chorus.
I exhale, relieved that someone is making it end. Apprehensive, I look up. On screen the judges look flabbergasted. To my left Jason looks stunned.
Finally Hayley realises that Julian Hayes is in fact talking to her and stops caterwauling long enough to realise that the judges have fallen completely silent, only not out of respect. The silence is a shocked one and there are lots of close ups of each judge looking staggered that anybody who can look that good can sound that bad.
‘What was that?’ asks Julian Hayes.
‘What do you mean what was that?’ retorts my sister on screen, looking confused.
‘That,’ he says. His face is disappointed. I think he really had wanted her to be fantastic.
‘Bleeding Love,’ mutters Hayley, looking the tiniest bit sulky.
‘Bleeding racket more like,’ laughs Julian.
‘Bleeding ears as well,’ giggles Georgie Arthur.
‘Look,’ Julian Hayes continues. ‘I’ve got to tell you darling that not one note of that was in tune.’
‘Ah come on Julian, don’t be mean now,’ soothes Carisse.
‘It wasn’t that bad, was it?’ asks Hayley, genuinely shocked by his reaction.
‘It was worse,’ he says gravely.
‘Oh my god, poor Hayley,’ says Jason, looking horrified on her behalf.
‘Mm,’ I say. ‘Just you wait, it’s about to get even worse.’
From the sofa Mum flashes me a filthy look but doesn’t respond, for just at that moment a shot of her looking livid backstage appears on screen.
We all watch helplessly as my angry mother barges past two security men and runs down the corridor, on her way to make a complete and utter tit of herself. Now she appears on our telly, in the audition room, having run in looking demented, furious and, if I’m honest, unhinged.
Here at home everyone except Andy is looking very unsure. For some reason I’ll never understand, Andy is jigging up and down, rubbing his fat hands with glee, as if what my mother is about to do is a brave and brilliant thing, as opposed to the social equivalent of suicide.
‘I don’t think I’ll be going back to college after this,’ says a low voice next to me. I spin round. This is pretty much the most Pete has uttered to me in the last five years.
‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘Still, at least I know where our passports are kept.’
Then it starts.
‘How dare you judges?’ my mother’s shrieking on TV. ‘How dare you try and trample on someone’s dreams? My Hayley’s got more talent in her little finger than you have between the lot of you,’ she rages, her chest heaving in righteous indignation. Her eyes are practically popping out of her head and she’s panting. Let’s just say she’s not looking her most attractive.
The director’s obviously had a field day, because the camera keeps cutting from Mum to the judges, whose expressions range from gobsmacked, to mildly amused, to nervous. Then it returns to a dismayed, but thankfully silent Hayley.
‘Oh my god. Someone make it stop,’ Mum wails quietly from the sofa.
Meanwhile, on telly she demands to know, ‘How can you just sit there and put someone down like that? My Hayley is a little star, and if you can’t see that, you’re not the judges I thought you were.’
Meanwhile the ‘little star’ is glaring murderously at Mum, looking like she’d quite happily kill her.
‘Well, I can’t see it,’ says Julian Hayes wryly. ‘And unfortunately, I don’t think I was the only one who thought your daughter sounded like she was undergoing an operation without an anesthetic. Georgie, what did you think of Hayley’s performance?’
‘I have to say,’ says Georgie Arthur, albeit apologetically. ‘It was pretty shocking.’
Mum’s nostrils flare. ‘Carisse, you always speak sense. What did you think?’
‘I’m so sorry. It was bad,’ she says. ‘And I don’t think you’re doing your daughter any favours by telling her otherwise.’
On screen, upon hearing this rather harsh home truth, Hayley bursts into humiliated tears and rushes from the room, tottering on her heels, leaving my mum standing alone in the middle, indignant and ridiculous looking.
People in the green room start to boo.
It literally couldn’t get any worse.
Upstairs there’s an almighty crash as Hayley throws something, which sounds suspiciously like a television, across the room.
‘I have to say, it did sound better when we were actually there,’ pipes up Mum tentatively.
‘Couldn’t have sounded any worse,’ says Jason.
Just then we can all hear the ominous sound of my sister thudding back downstairs. She barges back into the room looking mildly deranged.
‘If you don’t turn off this TV right now I will smash it with my foot,’ she threatens, making her point in her own inimitable way. Though to be fair, she is literally dying of embarrassment. ‘Who’s got the remote?’
Dad and Pete both shrug.
Andy picks up a pair of his jeans off the floor and has a quick look underneath but only finds his hair gel.
I boot his rucksack out of the way, frustrated by how much of his shit is everywhere. ‘Maybe you’re sitting on it?’ I suggest to Mum and Martin, who in a panic try to stand in unison. The static caused by this sudden movement to their slankets means the crackle is audible. Mum’s hair is standing on end.
‘Ow, did you feel that babe?’ moans Martin. ‘I think I got a little electric shock off you.’
By now, my sister looks as though she might be about to carry through her threat of kicking the television to death when Pete suddenly pipes up, ‘It’s here,’ and produces the remote from where it’s wedged down the side of the sofa.
Hayley grabs it from him and wields it around, stabbing the buttons ferociously; stopping only once her pain is at an end.
Finally there’s silence, only in the next second it’s shattered by the sound of everybody’s mobiles beeping as the texts come flooding in. For once I am utterly glad to be me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
A few weeks after Mum and Hayley’s social suicide – which actually isn’t a laughing matter, they’ve had so much stick it’s unbelievable, some of it even from strangers in the street – I’m with Dad, sitting in the park. It’s a blustery October day but the park is full of people trying to make the most of the outdoors before winter arrives. From where we’re sat on a bench we’ve got a good view of the playground on the other side of the common. From here it resembles a noisy cage, full of movement, colour and life. The distant sound of children yelling as they chase each other around carries to us on the breeze.
We’ve exhausted the subject of Hayley and how we can try and cheer her up, and ever since have both been content just to sit, to enjoy the view and breathe in the fresh air. It’s weird, Dad being terminally ill has definitely given me a fresh appreciation of nature, of how very good for the soul it is to be outside revelling in it. He’s not well enough to go for walks any more, like we used to only a few months ago, but when I ask him what he wants to do, more often than not he’s usually just happy to sit somewhere and watch the world go by. A few weeks ago we had a trip to the coast, to Aldeburgh in Suffolk, a nice drive from Essex, where we sat and gazed at the sea. Medicine in itself. I’m always aware that he’s soaking up everyth
ing he can. That glimpse of the sea and its steely waves were so appreciated that day, as is every blue sky, the feel of the watery autumnal sunshine on our faces today, and the sight of the huge plane trees that flank the sides of the common swaying in the breeze.
I’m so glad that we can simply sit here together like this, and that he doesn’t feel the need to fill every silence with conversation. It’s one of the nicest things about him. ‘What’s happening with you and Matthew, then?’
I spoke too soon.
I sigh and am about to embark on some convoluted explanation when I decide to keep it simple. ‘He backed off. I think he does like me but he was very worried about getting into trouble for seeing me.’
Dad doesn’t reply at first but having ruminated on this for a while says, ‘I thought something was up. Still, you’ll be able to get together eventually, won’t you?’
I shake my head, more to make him stop than anything. I hate it when he talks like this. As if the end is nigh.
‘It’s all right,’ he says gently. ‘I’m all right with it Marianne. You know I was thinking the other day that you shouldn’t be so angry about my illness. In a strange way we should be grateful for it, ‘cos it’s brought us together.’
I know he’s trying to be sweet, but actually this last statement just makes me feel quite incensed.
‘I wish,’ I begin tentatively, aware that I am finally about to voice something I’ve been struggling with for a while now. I don’t want to upset him but at the same time he has to know what I’m feeling, and his illness doesn’t excuse everything.
‘I wish cancer hadn’t been the thing that made you find me,’ I say, staring straight ahead. ‘I wish you’d just wanted to know us anyway, without needing something so dramatic to make you realise it.’
When Dad doesn’t say anything I take it as my cue to carry on. ‘I hate the fact it took cancer for you to be interested in your own kids. Why didn’t you at least try before? Even if you’d just written us a letter, it would have been better than nothing, surely?’
I daren’t look at him as I wait for the answer.
After a while he says flatly, ‘Because I’m a stupid person.’
I sigh heavily.
‘Look, I wish I could give you a better, more satisfying answer than that but I can’t. But it wasn’t like I didn’t want to know you, I did. I just didn’t go out of my way to make it happen because I thought it was easier. Thought it was best for everyone if I didn’t “rock the boat”.’ As he says this he makes weary speech marks with his fingers. Then, burying his hands back deep into the pockets of his jacket he continues sadly, ‘Marianne, my life is riddled with regrets. I’ve spent years of it in prison, a lot of it alone and now look at me. It’s not exactly going to go down as the most inspiring existence in the world is it?’
I don’t know what to say.
‘But there have been good bits. I married your mother, who I loved very much. I mean, I know she’s nuts and she don’t half talk a lot of shit, but I’ve always loved her really. She makes me laugh.’
A large gust of wind blows into my eyes making them water. I hug my jacket round me and inhale deeply.
‘And, for whatever reason, she feels like home to me.’
He says this so simply, so easily. It’s a lovely thing to say and it occurs to me that to have someone in your life feel this way about you, would be a truly incredible thing.
‘And the other good things I’ve achieved in my life are you and Hayley, so why I didn’t have more courage, more strength to come and see you earlier I shall never know. I wish I had.’
‘So do I,’ I agree quietly. ‘I just feel like …’
‘Go on babe, get it all out,’ Dad says.
I swallow hard. ‘OK, so I just feel like I would have been so much happier if you’d been in contact. Even if all that that equated to was seeing you for the odd visit in prison it would have been better than nothing. You’re a good influence on me,’ I say wryly, my eyes brimming with tears. ‘And sometimes I can’t help wondering how things might have turned out if I’d had you to help steer me in the right direction. As it is I’ve wasted so much time.’
Dad looks up at the clouds that are skidding across the sky and exhales loudly.
‘And it just seems so unfair, and cruel, that … just as I’ve got to know you, I have to lose you.’
‘I know, and I’m so sorry,’ Dad says simply, reaching out for my hand. I pass it to him and we sit there, side by side, hand in hand for a while, me weeping silently, Dad immersed in his thoughts.
Eventually he says steadily, ‘These last few months have been the happiest of my life though, you know.’
‘Have they?’ I say, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand and sniffing loudly while wondering how the hell that can be true.
‘Yeah,’ he says, sounding like he really means it. ‘I might be ill Marianne, and I might be in pain and all that, but I am so proud of you and so lucky to have had you in my life, even for this short while and I think that’s how we have to look at it. It’s just better not to focus on the years we’ve missed out on, but on the months that we have had, because they have been amazing and I want you to … I need you to remember that. Will you please?’ he asks, and I’m horrified to hear the catch in his voice.
‘I promise,’ I say firmly, nodding my head, keenly aware of what an important moment this is. ‘I promise that I will always remember our time together and all the things that you’ve told me. And I also promise that I will try not to waste any more time with anything by being … well by being me,’ I say and now the tears are rolling down my face.
Dad gestures to me to come in for a hug and I bury my face in his chest and let him stroke my hair while I have a good, healthy cry.
‘I love you, Dad,’ I manage snottily.
‘I love you too babe,’ he says, his voice thick with emotion. ‘And you know what?’
‘What?’
‘I didn’t know what the word proud even meant till I met you. This pride that I feel now, it’s huge, massive. I feel totally full up to the brim with it every time I look at you.’
I wrap my arms round him tighter and am alarmed for a second at how thin his frame feels. ‘Thank you,’ I say, concentrating hard on remembering every single little thing about this moment. How I feel sitting here with my dad, the feel of his arms around me, the smell of the leather of his jacket, his voice, every little detail. I soak it all up because it’s not going to be here for ever. Soon he’s going to be gone and I don’t think I can bear it but if I can cling on to this moment maybe I’ll get through. If I can just lock it away and keep it inside, for I know in that moment that a change is coming, that his body is starting to lose the battle, that it’s the beginning of the end.
Two weeks later and Dad does indeed take a turn for the worse. Completely out of the blue I get a phone call from Matthew of all people, saying that they were at the hospital and could I come as soon as possible.
I’m there half an hour later, but as I park up my hands are shaking. Let’s face it I know I’m probably not about to hear anything very jolly.
Somehow I find my way through the maze of corridors and eventually to the ward where Matthew had told me I could find him. Dad’s lying in the last bed on the left-hand side of the ward, looking yellow, gaunt and tired. Clearly no one on this ward is in a particularly great state and there’s a smell of illness in the air. Hospitals make me feel pretty queasy at the best of times and today’s no different. The fact that Matthew is there helps however and I am filled with emotion as soon as I spot him anxiously looking out for me. Unlike the patients around him, he is brimming with life force and even under the draining strip lighting looks well and vital. I am instantly grateful for his presence but also unbelievably affected by seeing him for the first time in ages. It’s all very surreal.
‘Hi Dad,’ I say as I approach the bed, steeling myself to be brave.
‘Hello babe,’ he says, though it sounds as if m
erely speaking is taking all his effort. ‘Thanks for coming. I did tell Matthew not to worry about calling you, but he insisted.’
‘Well, I’m glad he did,’ I reply, in that over-chirpy way one does when talking to a hospital patient. Not once do I look directly towards Matthew during this exchange. ‘So, what’s up anyway?’ I say softly.
‘Oh, hang on a minute Marianne,’ says Matthew. ‘I’ve just spotted Mr Clarkson coming. We should probably wait for him.’
‘Fine,’ I mutter, glancing back down the ward to get a look at the man who is in charge of my dad’s health. He’s not what I’d expected at all. He’s reassuringly hirsute for starters, almost a formidable presence really, and sporting a gold Rolex that seems to scream how successful he is at his job. He reminds me of Tom Selleck back in his Magnum days, which isn’t a bad thing by any means. He’s dark and swarthy, has a burly build, and walks with the air of a man who knows what he’s doing. His face, however, is utterly inscrutable.
Once he’s reached Dad’s bed, he draws the curtain round us all, giving us privacy from the other patients.
‘Hello Ray,’ he says, cheerful but business-like. ‘How are you feeling today?’ he asks, grabbing his notes from the foot of the bed and squinting at them.
‘I’m all right, just a bit of muscle pain that’s all,’ manages Dad, who I’m starting to realise is the master of the understatement. He sounds so weak. ‘This is my youngest, Marianne. I don’t think the two of you have met yet.’
‘Ah no, I don’t believe we have, but I’ve heard a lot about you. Your father tells me you’re a very accomplished musician.’
I flame red and feel particularly self-conscious given that Matthew’s standing there looking so utterly … himself. It’s not that I’m not happy that Dad’s proud of me, but me and my music are so irrelevant right this second I can hardly bear it.
I gulp. ‘Well you know … I’m OK, so anyway, what’s the situation doctor? Why did Matthew think I should get over here?’