by Jemma Forte
‘Great,’ says Dad. ‘Look forward to it.’
‘Right,’ says Mum, opening the curtains again. ‘Well I’m going to get a bit of lunch on now, and I’ll bring you a little tray in. Just yell if you think of anything you want specially.’
‘I’m fine,’ says Dad looking tired and weak. ‘I don’t want nuffink thanks.’
‘Nonsense,’ tuts Mum. Happy that her work is done, she leaves the room.
I go to sit next to Dad.
‘Did you really feel anything?’ I ask curiously.
‘Not a sausage,’ he answers immediately.
It takes a second or two to digest this but once I have I can’t help it. I burst out laughing and although Dad is obviously tired out, for he has shut his eyes again, he grins broadly and squeezes my hand.
Later that afternoon Matthew comes round as promised and seeing him again is wonderful. I practically collapse on to him as soon as he’s walked in the door. He engulfs me in a huge hug and as we stand in the hall, him holding me tight, I can feel some of the tension in my body seeping out.
‘It’s so good to see you,’ I say into his chest.
‘You too,’ he says, pulling me away so he can look me in the eye. ‘I’ve really missed you.’
I can’t reply, I’m too choked and too happy to see him but I don’t have to, I think my face tells the story.
I leave him downstairs so that he can spend a bit of time with Dad and, when he comes up to my room half an hour or so later, I can tell he’s quite upset.
‘You OK?’ I ask, as my door creaks open and Matthew appears round it.
‘Yeah, fine,’ he says, coming in and sitting next to me on my bed. ‘You?’ he asks.
‘Terrified,’ I reply.
He nods.
‘Do you think he seems a lot worse?’ I can’t resist asking, even though I know hearing the answer will be like a form of torture.
‘He just seems very, very tired,’ Matthew replies diplomatically.
We sit in silence, alone with our thoughts for a while until he says, ‘I’m so glad we’re talking again.’
‘Me too.’
‘No, I mean really glad. To be honest I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you so I hope you haven’t ruled me out altogether.’
I shake my head. ‘I haven’t,’ I say. ‘Not at all but I need to be totally honest with you Matthew, I think when Dad dies I’m going to be a total wreck for a while so I’m probably going to get away for a bit. On my own, so I can grieve and get my head sorted out. Whether I get into the College or not, I need to have one last trip before I start.’
‘For how long?’ says Matthew, looking a bit anguished.
‘Three months perhaps …?’ I say, testing the water.
‘I could come with you.’
I sigh. ‘Matthew I can’t tell you how much I would love that, and it would definitely be the easy option, but I feel really strongly that it’s not going to be the right time to start a relationship. I already feel half-mad with grief and he’s not even gone yet. To be perfectly honest I know I’m full of anger about what’s happening but can’t really compute any of it at the moment. But that doesn’t mean it’s not all due to come out soon, and I don’t think it would be fair on either of us to burden you with all of it. Don’t want to put you off now, do I?’ I say, making a feeble attempt to lighten the mood.
Matthew smiles half-heartedly.
‘Do you get what I’m saying though? Matthew, I really like you, but my head is permanently swirling and I need to sort myself out or I’ll be no good to anyone. Do you know what I mean?’
He nods. ‘Yeah,’ he says flatly. ‘I do.’
I gaze out the window, wondering whether anyone’s with Dad. Probably not, so I should go back down in a minute.
‘Aren’t you going to ask if I’ll wait for you?’ says Matthew, half-joking.
I turn to face him. He’s so gorgeous; I can’t ever imagine getting tired of how lovely he looks, but whereas when I first met him my heart would swell with excitement every time I looked at him, now it’s too full of sadness to make room for anything else, which is why I know I’m making the right decision. My emotional batteries are totally flat.
I shake my head. ‘I’m not going to ask you to wait because it wouldn’t be fair. Why should you? Having said that, I really, really hope you do because I know you’ll be the first person I’ll want to see on my return and I also know I’ll be jealous as hell if someone else has snuck in there.’
His reply is to kiss me unbelievably tenderly, but as he does the tears roll silently down my cheeks. It’s all too much to handle.
‘It’s only three months, it’ll fly by I’m sure,’ he says, pulling away before giving me an enormous bear hug.
I just about manage to whisper, ‘Thank you.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
A fortnight later and it’s the day of my audition. I hardly even want to go. Dad’s sick, and when I say sick, I mean lie in bed all day kind of sick. The kind of sick that doesn’t let up, and his rate of deterioration has been frighteningly quick. The last time he sat in his chair was four days ago, and since then he’s only managed to sit up in bed a couple of times. He’s weak as anything, and hasn’t eaten properly for days. In short, my dad is dying. It’s horrendous to witness, this decline of his body, mind and spirit; though the spirit is clearly going to be the last thing to go. In many ways his aching, pain-ridden body is becoming a cage.
‘Good luck,’ he says, his voice reduced to a rasp. Despite what he’s going through and how much he’s suffering he is only too aware that today is the day.
Fortunately, the nurse appears just at that moment to give him his meds, give him a wash and change his sheets, which galvanises me into action and propels me out of the front door where Mrs Demetrius is waiting in a mini-cab that will take us to the station.
The audition goes well. I can’t tell you how grateful I am that violinists need accompanying on the piano, because having Mrs Demetrius there is the one thing that prevents me from having a major panic attack and heading for the hills the minute we arrive. As it is, her presence is reassuring; quietly encouraging, plus I know that if I tried to escape she would physically restrain me. So I have no choice but to face the panel of serious, almost dour-looking judges and to play as well as I am able.
I don’t have to tell you what I’m thinking about during the first movement of Mendelssohn’s incredible concerto, but it’s as if all the pain, joy, anger, love and despair that I’m feeling spill into my fingers and travel through the bow, producing so much emotion in the already powerful music. I don’t need the sheet music, having practised so much I know my pieces off by heart, so I do most of the audition with my eyes closed, lost in the beauty of what I’m playing and praying quietly to a god I don’t know if I even believe in. As the music washes over me, I pray that the immediate future will be as pain free for my dad as is possible, that the end will be as dignified as it can be, and for the strength to see me through it. By the time I’ve reached the end of my contrasting piece I know that I have never played as well so, if I don’t get in, at least I’ll be content in the knowledge that I couldn’t have done any more.
I think the judges are a little surprised to see my eyes glistening with tears as I come to a finish, but by that point I am beyond caring. I just want to get home. I want to switch on my phone and make sure he hasn’t gone anywhere.
I do briefly scan the judges faces to see whether I can glean what they are thinking, but they are silent and impassive, until one of them says, ‘Well, we’ll be in touch within a couple of days. Thank you so much for coming to see us today Miss Baker, and thanks too Mrs Demetrius.’
‘Thank you,’ I manage to say, before fleeing the building.
Outside, Mrs Demetrius finds me taking huge gulps of fresh air. She wraps me up in a big bear hug.
‘That was magnificent,’ she says, her eyes glistening with pride.
‘I need to get back,�
� I say softly, my face conveying my sense of urgency more than my voice. She simply nods. Everybody has stopped trying to make me feel better by pretending that Dad will be fine because no one can say that with any certainty any more. And so it is that we head as fast as we are able back to Chigwell, dropping Mrs Demetrius off on the way, and back to my house where I am beyond relieved to discover that my dad is still alive.
He’s fast asleep when I tiptoe into his room. Hayley’s sitting by him, staring into space.
‘How did it go?’ she says.
I shrug. ‘OK,’ I say. ‘How is he? How long’s he been asleep for?’
‘Ages,’ Hayley says, and her voice is a whisper.
That night Dad has a particularly bad night. He’s restless and in a lot of pain, which is unbelievably distressing to watch. If I’m honest his obvious discomfort makes me feel nauseous. I could never be a nurse. I don’t have the stomach for it and I cannot tell you how much I admire those who do have that vocation.
Hayley and I take it in turns to sit with him and even Mum does a stint. So much perspiration is pouring off his brow it’s as if he’s feverish, and yet to the touch his forehead is quite cold. We do what little we can to make him more comfortable. We mop his brow and try and wet his mouth with water, for he’s refusing to drink, and then, at two in the morning, when it all starts feeling a bit scary because he’s moaning with pain, panicking I phone the hospice for some advice. They tell me to up his dose of morphine, which I do. More drugs seem to be the only answer at this stage.
By the time the sun is rising in the sky, he’s completely doped up but settled and in such a deep stupor of a sleep it’s hard to tell whether he’s actually conscious.
‘Are you OK?’ says Hayley, poking her head round the door. I’d insisted that she went to get some rest an hour or so ago but she looks as shredded as I feel and I know she hasn’t slept.
I shake my head.
‘Come here, babe,’ she says.
I do as I’m told and she pulls me in for a hug. I literally cannot remember the last time Hayley hugged me spontaneously, and am still getting used to my sister being in touch with her previously shut-off emotions, yet it feels completely natural.
‘I’m glad I’ve got you,’ I mutter tearfully into her shoulder.
‘Me too,’ she replies with feeling.
I’m filled with intense love for my sister in that moment and am infused with the knowledge that I would not be handling this as well as I am – which is not very well at all – if she wasn’t here to go through it with. A sibling is such an important and wonderful thing to be grateful for, even if your relationship isn’t exactly perfect. Hayley’s the only other person on the planet who truly understands what it feels like to be our parent’s child and who, like me, is preparing to lose our father. It occurs to me suddenly that Pete will never have that kindred spirit, that is to say, someone who fully gets what it is to be the spawn of Martin and Alison.
Later that day, after a few hours of snatched, fitful sleep, the doctor comes to pay a visit. I ask him how long.
He looks at me thoughtfully.
‘It’s hard to say, maybe a week, maybe less.’
The atmosphere in the house changes altogether. What is happening in the front room now governs everything and, out of respect and sadness, we all go about our day in a muted kind of way. If someone’s watching telly, the volume is down quiet. Mum doesn’t sing as she goes about her business, though she and Martin do get the Christmas decorations out of the loft.
‘It’s weird, innit?’ says Mum thoughtfully, winding a strand of fairy lights round the banisters. ‘There’s something about this time of year that’s so spiritual, isn’t there?’
‘Yes Mum, I’d say there probably is something slightly spiritual about the religious occasion that is Christmas, i.e the birth of Christ etc.’ I reply.
She narrows her eyes at me. ‘Don’t be such a sarcy bugger you. What I meant was, that if your dad is going to leave this world soon, then it might as well be at a time when we’re all thinking about our blessings and little angels and things.’
I feel bad for teasing for I know Mum well enough to see that she is completely carved up, so now it’s my turn to give her a much-needed hug. Besides, I know what she’s getting at. Of course in one way, Christmas is pretty much cancelled. I’ve not had the wherewithal or inclination to even consider braving the crowds to purchase pointless gifts and yet somehow it does feel fitting I suppose, that this process, this ritual of dying is happening at a time so laden with meaning. And it is a process, for what I have come to learn is that Dad isn’t just going to die one day, out of the blue. Instead he is dying, right now, but it’s a long and drawn-out business. His organs and body are slowly packing up shop and yet his spirit remains intact, so in some subconscious way you can almost see it putting up a fight, only you know that ultimately it’s a fight it can’t win. It’s hideous.
By this point Dad is in and out of consciousness, but later on that day he’s not only conscious but also seems to be really aware of what’s going on around him and capable of a bit of conversation. Determined to make what lucid moments he has left as pleasant and meaningful as they can be I find a CD of carols by the Kings Choir. I put it on and then sit quietly with him, listening. They’re beautiful and uplifting and seem utterly appropriate. At one point he squeezes my hand, just a fraction, but it’s enough for me to know he’s there and I squeeze it back and tell him how much I love him over and over again and not to be scared.
Two days later I hear from the Royal College of Music. My world changes with the arrival of a single email. I scan it quickly and then take a second to absorb the information for myself. Once I have I head for Dad’s room.
The nurse is here, adjusting him in the bed and checking everything. They’re coming three times a day now, which is incredibly reassuring as I think we’re starting to find the responsibility quite overwhelming as his state worsens. It’s a responsibility we’re totally dedicated to, but that doesn’t mean to say the presence of a medically trained person isn’t hugely comforting.
‘Do you think he’s conscious?’ I ask.
‘He’s in and out,’ she says softly. ‘But it’s great to keep talking because the hearing’s the last thing to go.’
I’m not sure whether I find this fact unbelievably terrifying or comforting.
Still, I watch for a while longer as she goes about her business before taking my usual position by the bed.
‘Dad,’ I tell him steadily. ‘I got in to the College. I’m going to the Royal College of Music next September.’
I don’t think he can hear me though, and suddenly I’m filled with worry. What if it’s too late?
‘Dad,’ I say again, more urgently. ‘I got in, Dad,’ but he doesn’t respond. Now I get upset, furious in fact. This is the moment he’s been waiting for, for all this time. He has to know this before he goes. It feels so utterly important and I can’t bear the fact that I may be too late.
‘Please Dad,’ I try again, tears rolling down my face.
The nurse looks at me for a second.
‘He’ll hear I’m sure,’ she says. ‘Maybe not now, but he’s only recently had a very strong dose of morphine. I would give it a little while and try again.’
I take her advice and leave him to rest. I retreat to my room and fall into a deep, exhausted slumber. When I wake up it’s the middle of the night. I’ve been asleep for hours but as soon as I open my eyes I’m fully alert.
I thunder downstairs, terrified in case I’ve missed the opportunity to tell him my news. As I push open the door, I feel horribly nervous, which has become a commonplace reaction every time I enter his room, never sure of what I might find. Hayley’s sitting with him though.
‘Why didn’t you wake me?’ I say groggily.
Hayley just shrugs.
I look at my father. He looks tiny. His face has shrunk, caved in on itself almost and his pallor is waxy and grey.
&nb
sp; I take a seat next to Hayley.
‘I got in to the College,’ I tell her.
‘Oh my god, that’s amazing,’ she whispers back.
‘Yeah,’ I nod.
‘Does he know?’ she asks.
Now it’s my turn to shrug.
‘OK, you have to try and tell him,’ she insists and of course I agree so I try.
‘Dad,’ I say in a clear voice, edging closer to him. Hayley gives me a reassuring nod.
‘Dad,’ I try again and as I do there’s a brief flicker of movement in his face. I swallow hard. I hate seeing him like this.
‘Go on,’ says Hayley.
I focus and manage to say steadily, ‘I got in to the Royal College of Music, Dad. I’ve got a place. I’m going in September and it’s all thanks to you.’
For a brief second I think he hasn’t heard and that I’ll have to try again, but then his eyes suddenly flick open before falling shut once more, as if keeping them open simply requires too much effort, and then he says in a quiet, rasping voice, ‘That’s my girl.’
‘Did you hear that?’ I say to Hayley, welling up and when she doesn’t reply I turn, only to find my sister has tears streaming down her face too.
‘Yes,’ she replies, and we are so incredibly thankful for those three small words.
They are the last words my father ever speaks.
My dad, my lovely dad who I knew twice during my life, once as a baby and once as an adult, dies at twelve minutes past four that morning.
I wish I could tell you that he died peacefully but it was a fight until the bitter end. A fight for breath, a fight against the pain that was filling up every bone and muscle in his body and a fight to stop his organs shutting down, one that I could hardly bear to watch. The nurses came and Hayley, Mum and I were in and out, staying with him for as long or as little as we could handle until it all became too frightening and horrific to stand. When the end came it was almost a relief that this man who I have come to love so deeply and truly, had finally been put out of his pain and misery, but I am going to miss him so, so much and the pain of that has overwhelmed me and I honestly don’t know whether I’ll ever get over it.