Lucy, Izzie and Nesta did their best to comfort me, waiting at the gates for me with hugs and sympathy. I could feel them watching me every minute through morning classes, but even their kindness couldn’t take away the fear and shame I felt inside.
‘Do you want anything?’ asked Nesta. ‘Drink? Sandwich? Naked boy to dance in front of you to take your mind off things?’
The image of a naked boy prancing about the playground being chased by Miss Watkins did make me laugh for a moment but I shook my head.
‘No thanks. I’m off naked boys this week. Maybe next week. You can bring in a coach-load of them then.’
‘Sure,’ said Nesta, squeezing my arm, then reaching into her bag and getting out her tiny lip-gloss tin. ‘Here. Use this. You don’t want your lips to get dry in the sun. And let me know if you change your mind about the dancing boys.’
I took the lip-gloss and lifted the lid. The familiar scent of Nesta’s strawberry gloss was strangely reassuring. I applied a little then passed it on to Izzie. ‘I will. To tell you the truth, I’m off boys, period. Ollie phoned me yesterday and then texted later after I got back from the hospital, but I don’t even feel like talking to him at the moment.’
‘I wish there was something we could do to help,’ said Nesta. ‘I hate seeing you like this.’
‘You can help. You can tell me if there’s a God or not,’ I said.
Nesta laughed. ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘You might have got me stumped there.’
Lucy got her sunglasses out of her bag, put them on and tilted her head up towards the sun. ‘Of course there’s a God,’ she said. ‘Has to be. It’s obvious.’
‘How?’ I asked.
Lucy held up her hands. ‘Just look around you. Where did it all come from if there isn’t a God?’
‘Big bang,’ I said. ‘Universe expanding. Evolution.’
Lucy shook her head. ‘Nah. There has to be an intelligent being behind it all. There are too many fab things to look at. Birds. Fish. Animals. Flowers. That’s the proof for me. In the same way that you can’t have a painting without a painter, you can’t have this creation without a creator.’
‘OK, but where?’ I asked.
Lucy laughed. ‘You mean like his address? I don’t know. Although when I was a kid I used to write to God and post my letters in the postbox.’
‘Me too,’ said Izzie. ‘And I always used to put on airmail stickers. I imagined God up in the sky somewhere.’
‘Yeah. Why is that?’ I asked. ‘Why do we talk to the sky?’
Izzie shrugged.
‘I used to write to Santa Claus,’ I said. ‘And address the letters to the North Pole.’
‘And then put them by the chimney,’ said Lucy. ‘We all did.’
Up until then, Nesta had been munching on a peanut butter sandwich and listening. She swallowed her last bite. ‘OK, Lucy,’ she said. ‘I can understand your no creation without a creator bit, yeah, but it’s not all beautiful is it? It’s not all flowers and birds. Like if God created it all, why is there so much pain and war . . .’
‘God didn’t make that,’ said Lucy. ‘The human race did. It’s not God who makes bombs and guns, it’s people.’
‘But according to your theory, creator behind creation, etc., then the creator made everything down here. So God made the human race too, yeah?’ said Nesta.
Lucy nodded.
‘If that’s the case,’ Nesta continued, ‘then he must have known that some humans would have a nasty streak. If your God is so top, Lucy, what about snakes and crocodiles and oh . . . all the things in creation that are horrible . . . If God made them too then he’s got a nasty streak.’ She batted away a wasp that was flying around near her head. ‘And wasps! Explain them! Horrible things.’
‘And is God a he, she or it? Which, Lucy?’ asked Izzie.
Lucy pushed her glasses down along her nose and peered at us. ‘Stop ganging up on me,’ she said. ‘I’m not an expert. I just believe that there is something, that’s all, and it makes me feel good to pray sometimes. I can’t explain it, but don’t give me a hard time over it. And in answer to your question, Iz, God’s a she. Haven’t you seen those T-shirts with the slogan, When God made man, she was only joking? Makes sense to me.’
‘Haven’t your books told you anything, Iz?’ I asked.
Izzie shrugged her shoulders. ‘Some say that God isn’t so much like the clichéd, white-bearded old bloke, but more like a force or energy . . .’
‘Yeah,’ said Nesta. ‘Makes more sense. Like in Star Wars . . . may the Force be with you . . .’
‘But we don’t know where it is or why it is . . .’ I said. ‘Freaky when you think about it.’
Nesta got out her sunglasses and laid her head back like Lucy. ‘Phew, it’s hot!’ she said, gesturing at the sky. ‘Listen guys, the sun is shining, the sky is blue, we have each other. My philosophy is just get on with life and have a good time while you can. You could drive yourself mad questioning it all.’
‘I can’t help it,’ said Izzie. ‘I really want to know why we’re here and what for and where we go when we die and where we were before we were born.’
‘Just accept that you have a pea brain,’ said Nesta. ‘Some things are just tooooo darn big for you to understand.’
Izzie playfully thumped her arm. ‘Me? A pea brain? Cheek. You’re right, though. Looking for answers can drive you mad. The number of times I’ve asked teachers and my parents. No one’s told me anything for sure.’
‘Where do people go when they die, Izzie?’ I asked.
‘Devon,’ said Izzie, giggling. ‘Remember I told you about that little boy at my stepsister’s wedding? He said that prayer. Our Father, who art in heaven . . . only he said Devon. If only it was that easy and you got his address and phone number in the telephone directory, like, Doctor: 142 Baronsmere Road; Plumber: 56 High Street; God: 28 Paradise Close, Devon.’
‘I reckon the only way to find out what happens when you die,’ said Nesta, ‘is to die and find out.’
‘There are books on the afterlife,’ said Izzie, ‘and loads of stuff on the Internet about people who have had near death experiences. Most of them said it was wonderful and took away their fear . . .’
‘Yeah, but how do we know it wasn’t a dream or wishful thinking?’ asked Nesta. ‘And all that stuff that’s in books, most of it’s speculation. We don’t really know, do we? You know what I think it must be like, dying?’
‘What?’ I asked.
‘Like going to the airport and knowing full well that you’re going on a journey, only no luggage allowed. No make-up, no mags or mobile phones. And you don’t know the destination.’
‘Really, really freaky,’ I said with a shudder.
‘Might be, might not be,’ said Nesta. ‘Thing is, though, we don’t know. None of us. But what we do know is this: here we are now. We’re mates. Life is OK – most of the time, anyway.’ She smiled sympathetically at me. ‘So as I said before, stop freaking yourself out thinking about how it might be and enjoy what is.’
‘Wow,’ said Izzie. ‘That is so Zen, Nesta. You know, you’re quite wise in your own stupid way.’
Nesta grinned. ‘Ta. Just called me Guru Schmuru.’
I looked around at the three of them. Maybe mates are proof that there’s some good in the world, I thought. Never mind angels or airy fairy stuff you can’t see. I’ve got the real thing with Izzie, Lucy and Nesta.
‘And I don’t think it does any harm to pray now and again,’ said Lucy. ‘In case anyone is listening.’
Izzie put her hand on mine. ‘You’re thinking about all this because of your dad, aren’t you?’ she asked.
I nodded. ‘Sort of. Does make you think, doesn’t it? You know, when something like this happens.’
‘What did your mum say when you rang at break?’ asked Nesta.
‘She said he’s stable but he’s still not able to talk or move much. Mum says he knows she’s there, though. She told him to blink if he understo
od what she was saying, and he blinked five times.’
‘He’ll be OK,’ said Nesta. ‘He’s Scary Dad. He won’t go down without a fight.
I wished I could be as sure as she sounded. And I wished that I could believe that there was a God who listened the way that Lucy believed. I decided to put my uncertainty aside and pray anyway. I had nothing to lose, so each night I prayed that Dad would recover fully, that I’d get a chance to apologise and that he’d be able to come home soon. I wasn’t sure if anyone or anything was listening, but somehow it made me feel better to talk through my thoughts, hopes and fears out loud.
Every day we visited the hospital and each day there wasn’t much change. I was allowed in to see Dad, but I wasn’t sure he even knew that I was there, even though he did blink in reply when I asked questions. Most of the time he looked like he was asleep, and it was horrible seeing him strapped to all sorts of machines. I so wanted to apologise to him, but wasn’t sure he would hear me.
There was talk of a convalescent home.
Talk of physiotherapists.
Talk of wonder drugs.
But nobody really knew how things were going to develop. It was awful seeing Mum around the house. She was so quiet and looked so strained, and I realised how dependent Dad and she were on each other. I was reliant on my mates and hadn’t even known them that long. Dad had been Mum’s companion for almost forty years, and without him grumping about the place she seemed lost and didn’t know what to do with herself.
She went into work as normal, saying that there was no point in her sitting around moping and that she still had her own patients to see. Marie fussed about cleaning, cooking and insisting that we all ate properly to keep our strength up. I think it gave her something to do, although the endless scones and quiches she made inevitably got binned as no one had much appetite. Paul mainly occupied himself by lying on the sofa watching hours of daytime telly. Mum would normally have told him ‘to get off his backside and do something useful’ but she didn’t tell him off once. She didn’t say anything about Mojo sleeping on the end of my bed every night either. Even he seemed to have picked up on the fact that something was wrong and was being especially attentive to me.
The atmosphere in the house was so subdued that I was grateful that the girls insisted that I spent time at their houses whenever I wasn’t at school or the hospital. They were my strawberry-scented guardian angels, always on hand at break and lunch with chocolate, lip-gloss, magazines and chat to try and take my mind off things. They seemed to understand that I wasn’t in the mood for talking a lot so we’d just hang out, reading magazines or soaking up the sun.
Ollie e-mailed but I didn’t feel like answering. He also texted a couple of times. I let him know that Dad was ill so he didn’t think that I was rude not replying, but when he texted back again I sent a message that I’d be in touch properly when things were better. In my experience, boys upset the balance and my balance was upset enough as it was at the moment.
Five days after Dad had been in the hospital, Mum got a call saying that he was showing signs of coming round fully. We raced to the hospital and there he was sitting up a little and looking very grumpy. He was still weak, but he could clearly see and he could definitely hear and talk and feel.
I’d never felt so relieved in my life.
‘We’ll have him back up and about in no time,’ said Dr Miller. ‘He’s doing well.’
‘Hrumph,’ groaned Dad. ‘Call this doing well? Your eyesight needs testing, man.’
After that his recovery was swift, and it wasn’t long before Dad was back in his Scary Dad persona: ordering the nurses around, telling the doctors what to do, moaning about the food, being woken up too early, the noise, the hard bed, lumpy pillows and the man in the room next door who was snoring. I was so happy to hear him and grinned every time he opened his mouth to complain. It meant Dad was back. He was getting better.
‘A change of lifestyle,’ said Dr Rolland, one of Dad’s doctor friends who was over one evening for a visit. ‘That’s what you need, Richard. Take a break.’
‘I will, I will,’ said Dad. ‘Just get me out of this place.’
‘All in good time,’ said Dr Rolland. ‘Just a couple more days, but don’t even think of getting back to your normal routine. Time off is what you need.’
Dad pulled a face and, for a moment, looked like a naughty schoolboy, but he nodded. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’m not an idiot.’
‘Didn’t say you were,’ said Dr Rolland, ‘but if you don’t take heed of what your body’s telling you, you will be.’
As a further sign that Dad was recovering, Marie and Paul went back to their respective homes. The night after they’d gone, I finally got some time alone with him.
‘Um . . . Dad?’
‘Yes?’
‘About . . . well . . . about what happened . . . you know . . . at Homebase?’
Dad nodded.
‘Yes. But before that, I . . . I said some awful things and I want you to know . . .’ I felt a lump come into my throat and I didn’t think I was going to be able to get the words out. ‘I . . . I want you to know that I’m truly sorry and I didn’t mean what I said and I do love . . .’
Dad put his hand over mine. ‘Forgotten, TJ,’ he said. ‘We all say things in the heat of the moment, but you and I know what we really feel about each other, don’t we?’
Tears pricked my eyes and Dad looked at me with such tenderness.
‘Hey, hey,’ he said and squeezed my hand. ‘No need for the waterworks.’
I leaned over the bed and rested my head on his chest. ‘I’m so glad you didn’t die, Dad.’
‘Me too, TJ,’ he said softly. ‘Me too.’
When God made man, she was only joking.
‘Where are you off to?’ asked Mum, theThursday evening after we’d got back from the hospital. It was exactly one week since Dad had collapsed, but it felt like a lifetime.
‘For a run,’ I said, as I laced up my trainers and headed for the front door.
Mum gave me a quizzical look. ‘But you’re wearing make-up.’
‘Never know who you might bump into,’ I said, and waved. ‘Back soon.’
I took off down our road and jogged over towards Cherry Tree Woods. I felt the need to work off some of the pent-up feelings and energy after the rollercoaster week with Dad. There was a light rain, but the evening was warm and it felt good to be out in the fresh, fragrant air after so many evenings cooped up in the hospital room with its airless, claustrophobic atmosphere. All the front gardens were beginning to flower – pink montana and roses of every variety tumbled over porches, and pergolas, yellow laburnum and lilac trees dripped flowers over fences, while rhododendrons and azaleas budded in corners. I knew all the names because Mum’d taught me them when we used to go for walks when I was little.
I got to the park and, after once round, still felt I could go further so I ran towards Highgate and down to the Archway Road. As far as Biasi’s, then I’d turn back, I thought. Biasi’s was the restaurant owned by Luke’s parents. He worked in there sometimes and, as I ran towards it and it came into view, I had an idea. I’d get a takeaway for Dad for his lunch tomorrow. Mum could take it in for him. He loved good Italian food and had complained non-stop about the hospital food since he’d been in there. I could go into Biasi’s and get him something. I had a ten pound note in my pocket so it should be enough. He’d love it. I slowed my speed down so that when I arrived there, if by any chance Luke was working, I wouldn’t look like a pink sweaty Betty.
There were only a few customers at tables when I pushed the door open and made my way over to the bar area, where a middle-aged man was talking to Mrs Biasi. She looked as glamorous as ever, in a low-cut red top showing off her ample cleavage. I didn’t expect that she’d remember me as I’d only been in there once with Nesta and the others. It didn’t matter. She seemed to treat everyone like they were her long lost friend.
‘Eat, enjoy,’ she was say
ing to the man as she handed him a takeaway carton. ‘And come back soon, it’s always good to see you, and bring that lovely wife of yours.’
I waited until she had finished, then took a step forward. ‘Er . . . I wonder if you can help me. I want to order some food for my dad. He’s in hospital so I thought my mum could take it to him for lunch tomorrow . . .’
Mrs Biasi’s expression became concerned. ‘Oh, your papa’s not good, so sad,’ she said.
‘He’ll be OK, I think. Just he hates the hospital food . . .’
‘Understandable,’ said Mrs Biasi, and she made a face like she had a bad smell under her nose. ‘It not good.’
‘So something light and fresh, I thought.’
‘You good girl. You think right. We fix him something very nice in the kitchen. I have just the thing for him. You wait here. Eat olives,’ she said as she thrust a bowl towards me then disappeared into the back. I popped an olive into my mouth. It was delicious. Then I looked around for Luke. There was no sign of him; only one Italian-looking girl serving the waiting customers. It felt strange to be on Luke’s territory: exciting in one way as I knew that he might walk in at any moment, and scary in another as I wasn’t sure how I’d react. Or how he would. It had been months since I’d seen him and the sharpness of his features had begun to dim in my mind. Was he really as gorgeous as I remembered? Would I feel the same about him? Now that I had met Ollie, I wanted to know if those feelings for Luke were still there.
Mrs Biasi came back about ten minutes later and handed me a bag that smelled of herbs and garlic. ‘Your father will enjoy this,’ she said. ‘Made with fresh pesto and sundried tomatoes. Very good. My own recipe. Now you make sure you come back if he’d like some more. Good food and sleep, that’s what he needs. Tell him to rest. Not get up too soon.’
I had to laugh. She had never met him and here she was saying what he needed. I paid her for the food and was about to leave when I found myself turning back.
‘Er . . . I . . . is Luke around?’
Mrs Biasi gave me a penetrating look. ‘Luke? Ah. You’re a friend of Luke’s?’
Mates, Dates and Sizzling Summers Page 5