The Man Who Didn't Go to Newcastle

by Alison Clink

  Adrian is ringing to see how I got on with Benenden.

  ‘They’re going to look for a good convalescent home for you. We need to get you strong again. You need some nursing care where someone is looking after you, helping you build up your strength.’ I speak these words but feel in my heart this won’t be the case. I’m aware I’m saying ‘convalescent home’ when what I really mean is ‘nursing home’ and I know from my experience when Mum had dementia that most nursing homes are unsatisfactory places. What will become of him? I can’t bear this pity I have. I can’t bear feeling sorry for him. It’s breaking my heart.

  During the daytime I’m fine. From the hours of nine in the morning to nine at night I am practical and clear headed, but by the time night comes the unbearable sadness overwhelms me. Adrian ends the phone conversation because he’s tired. His voice is getting ever weaker. He finds it exhausting just to speak.

  *

  I go upstairs to say goodnight to the girls. The ITN News has concentrated on recent terrorist attacks and Emily is anxious.

  ‘Look, darling. Think about it,’ I try calming her, ‘have you seen any terrorists in Great Elm recently?’ The idea is so absurd we both laugh. But I don’t mention the ‘shoe bomber’, Richard Reid, who strangely enough did live in Frome. And he was originally a South Londoner, born in Bromley…

  Wednesday 4th July 2007

  I try phoning Adrian in the morning while I’m out walking the dog, but his phone is switched off. I’m about to try again in the evening when Carol rings me. She’s upset following a visit to the hospital earlier on.

  ‘I’m talking to him and then he keeps drifting off mid-sentence,’ she says. I remember now that Carol is a big talker. I’ve always thought one of the reasons Adrian likes her is because she’s so garrulous and I too find her easy to get on with. Neither Adrian nor I are big talkers. ‘I think he’s sedated. And now he’s got a drip in his arm. I feel quite upset about it all. Anyway, I just thought you ought to know. I can’t imagine how many different drugs he’s on.’

  I ring the hospital and a nurse on the ward duty desk answers.

  ‘What actual treatment is my brother getting?’ I ask. ‘I mean, is he on lots of drugs? Is he going to have chemotherapy?’

  ‘No, he’s not due to have chemo until he leaves. Then he’ll come back as a day patient. At the moment he’s having injections of Fragmin which thins the blood.’

  This explains the drip, I suppose. I ask to speak to Charlotte.

  ‘Do you have any idea when my brother will be discharged again?’ I ask her.

  ‘He’s not due to be discharged because he’s still being treated with antibiotics for a lung infection.’

  Is this the pneumonia? Surely it must be. Is the drip in his arm for antibiotics rather than Fragmin? Stupidly I ring off without asking these questions, because, suddenly, there are just too many. Everything seems such a mess. So difficult to get my head around. But I have to remind myself to count my blessings. I have a house I love, a family I love, a job I love. And tomorrow I collect my tickets for our holiday in Portugal at the end of July…

  Thursday 5th July 2007

  I ring St George’s yet again to find out when Adrian will be discharged. Charlotte says they don’t know because he’s still on antibiotics.

  ‘I’m thinking about having him transferred to the Benenden Hospital. It’s a private hospital in Kent and is part of the Civil Service insurance scheme Adrian told me about,’ I tell her. ‘I’m sure they will take him there.’

  Even if it is in Kent I feel he’ll be better off in a private hospital than in St George’s, but when I ring Benenden they say part of their hospital has been shut down. Currently they only offer diagnostic and surgical wards. So they can’t help us after all.

  I eventually speak to Adrian at eight-thirty at night. It’s getting harder to understand him. When I tell him about the Benenden set-up he sounds angry.

  ‘Look, I’ve been paying twenty-five pounds per month for twenty years into this scheme. That’s six thousand pounds.’

  When he first mentioned Benenden he said he was paying a pound per month now it’s increased twenty-five-fold. The conversation is disheartening. He finishes the call without saying goodbye, which is hurtful and so unlike him. He seems a bit more lucid now, but is very tired. Will he get better before he gets worse? Another thing he slips in before he ends the call – the doctors are doing tests to check whether the cancer has spread to his bones. How can he take any more of this? Although, he also said ‘they think I’ve got cancer’ – which is pretty much what this whole nightmare is all about. It’s fair to conclude he’s not sure what’s happening because of the drugs he’s on. Given the circumstances, is this really such a bad thing?

  I ring Charlotte back to tell her Benenden is not an option after all. Instead I’ll go ahead with finding a convalescent home near Frome.

  Crysse, my writing buddy, rings me. We talk about the ‘Lying Competition’ on Sunday which is part of the Frome Festival. I’ve put my name down for it without knowing what it is. I realise as I talk to Crysse that the other literary bods presume I won’t be taking part in anything in the festival because they’ve heard about my brother. But what can I do? Sit at home and think? Surely I will be there and I resolve to get to Body Basics tomorrow for a workout. In the afternoon I have a radio interview on FromeFM.

  Friday 6th July 2007

  Day one of this year’s Frome Festival.

  I ring Adrian whilst walking Billy to touch base before I go into town for the radio interview. Christine, one of the presenters, wants to talk to me about the short story competition. Afterwards she’s going to read one of my stories on air. It’s only small-time, small-town stuff, but my life seems so full and, in contrast, Adrian’s so horribly bleak.

  His voice is still very hoarse and I have to strain to catch what he’s saying. Actually, he’s repeating what he said yesterday, that they are testing him for bone cancer. But he has walked to the hospital shop with the aid of a stick, which is good news.

  ‘I’ve found a convalescent home in Wells. Peter and I will come up to London to collect you as soon as they discharge you from St George’s,’ I tell him.

  ‘I’m not sure what to bring with me…’ he says and I realise this is a massive step for him. A native Londoner fleeing to the country. He’s lived in his flat for over twenty-two years. It’s full of stuff. Adrian is not a man who has ever de-cluttered. What should he bring with?

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I reassure him. ‘It’s not as if we can’t go back again if you need anything.’

  After we’ve rung off I carry on over the stile, along the path by the river that leads towards the duck pond. Today the river is high and swirling fast. Mushrooms of white foam nudge the banks. Over the last few weeks the rain has turned the water in cascading liquid mud.

  I think a lot when I’m out with Billy. At this moment I’m thinking: How have we got to this awful situation in such a seemingly short space of time? My thoughts echo the words my mother spoke a few weeks before she died when I was driving her to Bath hospital after she’d broken her arm. I stopped the car outside the crematorium to adjust her seat belt as she seemed to be slipping towards the floor. She was little and frail, confused and in pain.

  ‘Why have you stopped here?’ she said looking out of the window at the big black sign for Bath Cemetery. ‘How did I come to this?’

  The entrance to the crematorium was the only space without yellow lines on the long narrow road leading to Bath. As I drew up I realised this was a ghastly place to stop.

  She was taken to the same place in a different car eight weeks later. I didn’t have an answer at the time for my mother and had long given up trying to answer her questions. Now I have no answer to my brother’s plight. How has he come to this? The answer is, I don’t know.

  At the pond Billy paddles in the water and barks half-heartedly at a duck. I’m wondering to myself what would this be like if things were revers
ed. Would Adrian help me if I was sick? Except I wouldn’t be dependent on him as I have a husband and children. But I’m sure he would do what he could.

  And what will it be like for us, having him here in the West Country, so close to my family? I think back to his relationship with my four children. With Jack and Ed he’s been happy to play the role of the somewhat intellectual uncle. Imaginative Christmas and birthday presents have always been his forte. A card game based around the Seven Wonders of the World, an Egyptian version of Snap, a board game with ghouls and ghosts. But when I had the girls I felt, for Adrian, I’d somehow gone a step too far. As a mother of four children – and the new arrivals were premature twins – I’d moved too far outside his orbit. Although as the girls grew older he became more engaged with them. As soon as he could talk to them and have a joke, everything improved.

  I took them to stay in his flat for a weekend when they were eight and he made a huge effort, showing us the London sights he thought would capture their imaginations. I had no idea until then how fascinated he was with the British Museum. He told me he’d devoted hours during his lunch breaks exploring every room in the building.

  We posed for photos by Mummies and Egyptian relics and then travelled back, giggling in a bicycle rickshaw. The following day he lugged our suitcases around so we could visit the London Dungeon unencumbered. Although, he did carry them to one of his favourite pubs and waited for us there…

  *

  My radio interview goes well, even though they get the order of the story and interview mixed up. Jill Miller (who founded the charity, Positive Action on Cancer) is there and asks me how I am. I say ‘fine’. What I don’t say is ‘I’m bloody awful, my brother is dying of cancer and has been given a year to live. I’m in a state of shock and going through the worst few months of my life. You’re probably one of the only people I know who’d be able to help me…’ But I can’t say this. Jill would be too sympathetic, too kind. I would lose my composure and start sobbing in the FromeFM makeshift recording studio. Instead I tell her I’ll be at her charity ‘Pamper Day’ at Orchardleigh House on the Tuesday.

  Back home the men say they listened to my interview on FromeFM while they were at work and it sounded good. I settle down to write the last of the critiques.

  The weather continues to mirror this nightmare of a summer. But curiously, despite the sadness engulfing my heart, I feel strangely content deep inside. Maybe the bleakness of Adrian’s situation has made me more aware of the good things in my own. And I’m never better than when there’s lots going on. I now have to focus on the festival events I’m involved in. I need a microphone for the prize-giving lunch at Orchardleigh Golf Club on Saturday week. On the first Sunday I’m going to help at the library at an event called the Just Write Day and Wendy and Ellie from the library have offered to share their lunch with me.

  Saturday 7th July 2007

  Today is turning out to be my worst day. It’s the beginning of the festival and in the morning I walk round town with Crysse, enjoying meeting and talking to the writers who are taking part in the Writer in Residence competition where they sit in shops and write. Over lunch one of my other writer friends mentions her novel has just been accepted by a publisher. Suddenly feel left behind, old, and annoyed with myself for not spending more time on my writing. Then I remember my parking ticket is running out and rush to my car just in time to avoid a fine from a man in a high viz jacket and peaked cap.

  Before going out in the evening I speak to Adrian. He has Carol with him but obviously wants to talk. His voice sounds worse – it’s almost impossible to hear what he’s saying and I’ve started to feel my own voice going in sympathy.

  Adrian wants me to take him back to the flat to get some belongings once he’s discharged. I have to keep reminding myself he can do whatever he wants. He can leave the hospital, he can go home, he can move out of London, or stay put. He’s neither a criminal nor a prisoner. He’s just reliant on other people more than usual.

  I’m happy with his plan for me to help him pack his belongings but I worry I’d have to drive up to London if I’m to bring him home. I don’t mention this though.

  ‘And there’s something else which seems very odd,’ he says. ‘I can’t spell any more.’

  ‘Maybe it’s something to do with the infection in your lungs,’ I randomly suggest, though I’m struggling to find an explanation for such a bizarre development.

  ‘I think it’s to do with the drugs,’ he says.

  So basically, his end, there’s nothing going on except various things getting worse. In the evening Peter and I go to the Food Fest in Frome market place where rows of marquees offer dishes from around the world. An Indie band are playing in the car park. We can’t agree on which country’s food to try. Peter has been playing golf all day and is tired. I spot a few people I know but for some reason I don’t want to talk to anyone. We end up in the Indian restaurant we often go to at weekends.

  When we get home Margaret rings. She’s been researching the local nursing homes for me, which is so kind but I just haven’t got the heart for it all. I tell her I’ll talk to her another time.

  By bedtime I feel empty. Empty with envy for my friend whose book is to be published. Empty because we didn’t join in the festivities of the Food Fest. Empty because I couldn’t be bothered to speak to anyone tonight.

  I resolve to make more of an effort in future. The Third Frome Lying Championship is tomorrow (it’s the first one, but therein lies the joke). I’ve said I’ll take part, but I haven’t prepared anything, so I’ll have to use an old short story called Stainspotting which is a comedy about a woman who’s obsessed with cleaning. But I feel as if I’ve lost faith in my writing. I haven’t done anything new for so long.

  Sunday 8th July 2007

  I arrive at the library, fired up and full of enthusiasm for the Just Write Day. Most people are in a writing workshop so only a few hopeful authors are hanging around, clutching manuscripts to their chests, waiting to meet literary agent Jane Judd.

  After lunch I attend a talk by publishing guru Julia McCutchen. I’m fidgety and can’t seem to relax, but this turns out to be one of the most interesting talks I’ve been to for a while. Julia is professional, unexpectedly spiritual and incredibly focused. In the evening I send her an email to ask for coaching to help me sell my novel, Two Blackberry Lane – when I’ve finished it. I phone Adrian to tell him I’m coming to London tomorrow and will get some of his belongings from the flat. He wants his black leather jacket and keeps telling me where to find it – but I know where it is. ‘I put it away in the cupboard in your bedroom,’ I tell him. He continues suggesting other places to look for it. ‘We cleaned up. I put everything away,’ I repeat, but he persists in suggesting places where I might find it.

  ‘It might be on a hook in my bedroom.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I’ll look for it there.’

  His voice is stronger today. He says he wants to get out of St George’s but they won’t let him out because of ‘litigation’. That doesn’t make sense. I think he’s got the wrong word. I resolve to talk to Charlotte.

  He also tells me the ward he was in has moved due to refurbishment, and he’s now in Trevor Howell Ward. ‘We’ve moved,’ Adrian says, which I find unnerving since it makes him sound as if he’s part of the hospital set-up. It’s amazing how quickly we can become institutionalised.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ I tell him.

  As soon as I walk into the pub where the Lying Competition is taking place, I regret going. Clearly all the other contestants will be speaking their lies whereas I’ve just printed off an old story to read.

  After it’s over, the judges call out the results. Cringe. I’ve won a bar of chocolate as I am in third place out of only four entries, even beaten by the organiser, who strangely seems to be a competitor too.

  I get into conversation with a young man called Sam, who is recording the event for a radio station in Warminster. He makes a point of
asking me lots of questions but later I feel oddly aware of him watching me, and feel unsure of what to say to him again. He’s quite attractive. Perfect nose, dark, almost black hair, bright blue, lively eyes.

  As I get up to leave Sam leans over towards me. ‘I’m going to the Cheese and Grain after this. There’s a good band on. We can get in free if you’d like to come with me.’

  ‘Yes, okay,’ I say.

  Outside a few of us gather in a huddle on the pavement. Sam looks at me. ‘We can go in my car,’ he says.

  I consider what this implies. Could he be asking me out? I’m old enough to be his mother. Possibly even grandmother. I’m wearing a wedding ring. Surely he couldn’t see me as a pick up. Suddenly I feel uncomfortable about going to the Cheese and Grain with him, not least because someone might see us.

  ‘I’ll drive myself. I have to go down to the centre of town anyway to get some money from the cash point.’ The more I think about going to the Cheeser with this man, the more worrying it becomes. I have to make a quick decision.

  I catch his eye. ‘To be honest, I don’t think I should come – thanks for asking me, though. I think I should go home,’ I say rather more firmly than I’d intended. He looks taken aback and a little hurt. At least I think he does. The whole episode is a shock and reminds me of the ‘me’ many years ago – before marriage and children. What would I have done then? Gone, of course. Maybe ended up in bed with him. But I’m not that person any more. Anyway, why is he single? If he is single, of course. And if he is single, then why is he interested in me? There’s a much younger girl who was sitting at my table. He could easily have come on to her.