by Alison Clink
After a while he asks what the girls are up to. I tell him about their friend, Daisy, who has run away from home, but although he makes all the right noises, I can tell he’s not really interested and doesn’t remember Daisy anyway. In fact I am worried about Daisy. Maybe that sums up our different personalities. I’m more interested in people and he’s more interested in…well, horses, historical buildings, Ancient Egyptian Mummies – and people too, I guess.
I’ve brought a pack of cards with me. Playing cards was one of our favourite pastimes when we were little. We spent hours during our holidays in Christchurch playing various card games. Throughout my childhood and into adolescence our family travelled the one hundred and twenty mile journey twice a year to the coast. London to Bournemouth, via the Hogs Back, before the M3 was even a twinkle in the eye of the A3. My grandparents lived in a bungalow in Christchurch, which used to be in Hampshire, but has now mysteriously relocated to Dorset. Grandma always greeted us with the offer of a bowl of Puffed Wheat which was served up with milk from the extra pint she’d ordered in honour of our arrival. We tucked into this delicious meal. Breakfast, not only at the wrong time of day, but served in pink floral soup bowls decorated with pictures of Chatsworth Castle. I have the one remaining bowl from Grandma’s set on display in my kitchen dresser.
At Grandma’s I slept in the spare bedroom with my parents. From my bed I could see a monstrous wardrobe in the hall. Brown rigid suitcases containing dolls’ limbs, heads and torsos balanced on top of this wardrobe. Before his retirement, Grandpa (an ex Lieutenant Colonel in the British Army) had owned a toy shop and dolls’ hospital in Bournemouth. As a grandparent he was the best. He loved children and always made us laugh. When we introduced him to any of our friends he’d insist on calling them George.
My grandparents downsized from a four bedroom detached house in Radlett to this small bungalow near the coast. What it seems they didn’t do was to get shot of any of the furniture from the Radlett house. The Walcott Avenue bungalow was rammed with tables, chairs and wardrobes. The living room was dominated by a dark mahogany dining table with six chairs. Given the room was about fifteen foot square, negotiating your way around meant squeezing between chairs and tables or clambering over sofas. To the side of the table was an upright piano. Behind and around the table, a brown leather three-piece suite was squashed against the walls. An ornate sideboard containing boxes of black and white photographs was jammed against the wall between one of these sofas. It was impossible to open the drawers of the sideboard without moving the sofa. And you couldn’t walk around the table without climbing over the two-seater, or squeezing past the piano.
Grandma was a bulky, rather intimidating matriarch who walked with a stick. She always sat at the head of the table in a carver (which was the easiest chair to get to) and chain-smoked Consulate cigarettes, the tips of which she’d pierce with a needle that she kept pinned to the collar of her dress. This puncturing of the tips, she believed, would stop her getting cancer.
The television was straight ahead of her but hard to get to given the physical obstacles of the sideboard, the sofas and the other dining chairs. This was in the days before TV remotes. There were only two channels and Grandma preferred to stick to the imported cops and robbers series on ITV rather than soaking up the more sober offerings of the Beeb. However, televisions in those days often went wrong and if Grandma wanted to adjust the set she had a green comb she’d throw at the screen, which somehow seemed to do the trick.
Framed photographs hung from the picture rails showing my mother at the age of ten riding an elephant and other scenes from their years in Karachi. All their possessions had been shipped back to the UK at the end of the war. The most mesmerising for me being the black upright Steinway Grandpa played most evenings. He kept piles of old books of sheet music inside the piano stool. Every year when we got home I’d beg my parents for a piano and piano lessons. Eventually they relented, thus beginning my lifelong love affair with pianos.
One year when we were on holiday I took the sheet music of “We’re a Couple of Swells” to bed with me. Instead of going to sleep I learnt all the words with the aid of a torch under the bedclothes. I can still recite the whole song:
We’re a couple of sports. The pride of the tennis courts
In June, July and August we look cute when we’re dressed in shorts…
Well, some of it.
Adrian always slept on a camp bed in our grandparents’ bedroom until we got older when he insisted it wasn’t fair because I always got to share with Mum and Dad. I therefore had to swap from time to time. Minus teeth and glasses, and in elaborate night attire, my grandparents seemed different, somewhat scary beings. They snored loudly, and kept a china pot under the bed – although the bathroom was less than a few steps away. Grandma made use of this pot in the middle of the night. It took me a while to work out what the tinkling sound was. Definitely not Grandpa practising his scales…
Apart from housing the family snapshots, the sideboard drawers were also home to games, two of which stick in my mind. One was a card game called Contraband which was based on smuggling spirits and luxury items such as jewellery, cameras and silk stockings.
The other was called Buccaneer, a board game also based on smuggling. The board represented the sea with home ports that you had to move your tiny plastic ships towards by throwing a dice. A tray placed in the middle of the board was the treasure island and contained tiny replicas of diamonds, rubies, pearls, bars of gold and barrels of rum – all the little pieces of pirates’ goodies which had to be loaded onto the ships and moved around the board. Opponents’ ships could be attacked and treasure or crew captured. I loved those little gems, but wonder in retrospect why my grandparents were so into games based on smuggling and alcohol.
Those childhood years now seem idyllic and yet at the time it felt as if we were still waiting for our lives to begin. They had begun, of course, and probably those were always going to be the best years of our lives. Strange, because if anyone had told me such a thing at the time I’d have been horrified.
I think maybe there’s a moment when you slide your miniature plastic boat overflowing with illicit jewels, cameras and contraband booze, your innocent, still pure fingers moving your booty across a cardboard sea towards an invented desert island, that could be a perfect moment. Maybe the one moment we all strive to get back to for the rest of our lives. A moment so unworldly, when all we have to worry about is who will end up with the most boats on a fake island or whether Grandma will serve up stewed gooseberries for tea, and if so, how we might escape having to eat them.
In later years we moved on to more classic card games like Whist and Rummy, and a game called Oh Hell, although there was a period in between when Adrian wouldn’t play with me when he thought he was cool and I wasn’t.
To play games together now would be like coming full circle – back together – back to being children. Thrown together on a wet summer’s afternoon, finding something amusing to pass the time.
*
I leave the cards on the shelf above the radiator without opening them, and when the racing is over I tell him about my recent contact with Benenden, who have put me in touch with a private consultancy. They will provide a full report on all the nursing homes in Bournemouth, Dorset, and near Frome. Adrian seems pleased with this.
He decides to go outside when I’m leaving as the rain has stopped. A couple of rays of sunshine manage to penetrate into the room and so he gets off the bed, standing precariously with the help of his walking stick, which was the other thing he brought with him, courtesy of St George’s in Tooting.
He walks one step, then stops in pain. I help him carry out his carrier bag with all his paperwork about the flat and his finances, his jug of iced water, the Daily Mirror and his Panama hat. We call in the kitchen on the way to ask for his wine which they keep in the fridge for him.
He settles in his usual spot at the right hand end of the bench in the garden and I si
t next to him. One of the nurses comes out.
‘How are you today, Adrian? Recovered from being locked out?’
Adrian laughs. ‘Ha, I thought I’d be spending the night under the stars.’
‘No chance. One of us would have found you sooner or later!’
‘I was dozing on my bench,’ he tells me. ‘I didn’t hear the nurse locking the side door.’
It’s wonderful to hear him joshing with one of the staff. I wonder if she will look at Adrian’s corner of the bench and remember him when he’s gone. Or do staff in places like this harden themselves to their charges dying? I suspect some of them will think about him. I hope so. We sit for a while, Adrian drinking his wine, me sipping a cup of tea the nurse brought me. As the afternoon draws on I think about all the things I should be doing at home.
‘I’d better be getting off. I’ve got a pile of ironing and the dinner to cook,’ I say. I pop to the loo and when I come back he’s writing in the back of the notebook I got him.
‘I’m glad you’re making use of the notebook,’ I say.
‘Yes. I’m making a list of the bequests to all my friends. And…I’m making some notes. For my funeral. I’ve chosen some music…’
I stop preparing to go and sit down again. The music for his funeral. This is something I had wondered about but shied away from mentioning. I’d thought of “Fix You” by Coldplay and how the tears had streamed down my face that first night on my way back from Westbury in the car when it came on the CD player. But this song has more relevance to me than to Adrian. I doubt he even likes Coldplay.
He hands me a piece of paper and, although I’m curious to know what music he’s chosen, I don’t want to look at his notes and hand it back. There’s a barrier between us preventing us from talking about what is really going on in his head. No doubt I’ll find out sooner or later what pieces of music he’s chosen.
‘I’ve made a list of all the people I want at my funeral,’ he goes on. Is he being brave or just realistic? The latter, I decide. Or maybe he has a lot of time to think. ‘I’ll add all the addresses when I get a chance,’ he says, meaning he will do all he can to help me contact them when the time comes. I make a face – eyes closed, exasperated. What my expression really means is ‘Oh, no. I can’t cope with this…’
‘It’s alright, Ali. You don’t have to do any of this if you don’t want to…’ He speaks the words so tolerantly, so like the old Adrian, but I fear he’s misinterpreted my expression and has read it as ‘Oh, no. Not more work for me.’
*
By the evening I feel sick and headachy – not exactly dizzy, but not right. Maybe I have caught C.diff bug after all? When I go to bed I fear I might collapse mentally and physically. I try to work out how long this has been going on. I envisage a scenario where I don’t go tomorrow to the meeting with Dr Graham, because I simply can’t take any more – a scenario where I leave Adrian to get on with things on his own. Some people might. Anyway, no one is indispensable. I decide not to go.
Friday 3rd August 2007
The meeting consists of Dr Graham, a student doctor whom the GP introduces and asks whether we mind him observing (we don’t), Adrian, me and one of the St Vincent’s nurses, (a scary one with a dark red dress and big hair.)
Dr Graham is quietly spoken. She doesn’t acknowledge me, but then I don’t put myself forward. The first topic of conversation is the C.diff. Dr Graham says clean swabs are no longer needed in order to give the all clear. In the parlance of the average Radio One presenter, I am gobsmacked. Haven’t we been waiting for days – nay weeks – in order to get two or three clean swabs so Adrian can declare himself free of infection and get the hell out of here? I close my mouth and carry on listening.
Contrary to the information we’ve received from Matron, Dr Graham says the all clear is now dependent on symptoms and she is therefore officially giving Adrian the all clear. He’s no longer a threat to mankind. Hooray. I can’t believe it.
‘So I can go out now? I’ve been like a prisoner here…’ Adrian begins.
‘This is not a prison!’ Scary Red Nurse interjects.
‘Well, it’s pretty much like a prison from where I’m sitting,’ Adrian replies.
All the infection paranoia is over. The GP’s opinion is written in stone as far as the staff at St Vincent’s are concerned. If she says he’s cured of the C.diff then he is.
We go on to discuss possible treatments for cancer in the light of his improved general health. Dr Graham says Adrian will see an oncologist as an outpatient. He’s chosen Salisbury Hospital rather than Bath for this. As I already know, he has a love of Salisbury – partly because it has a cathedral. He seems to dislike Bath, although I don’t know why. I mention in passing a news item I heard yesterday about the RUH in Bath. Apparently they have a significant number of C.diff cases.
‘Yes,’ Dr Graham says, ‘but Adrian only caught C.diff because he was on antibiotics for pneumonia.’
I remember reading this online. Patients usually contract C.diff when they are being treated with antibiotics for something else.
*
It’s hot so Adrian and I sit out on the bench after they’ve gone. Nurse Janice comes out – she of the indelible pen fame – and I bravely ask for a cup of tea even though I know she won’t bring one. Janice seems to have good banter going with Adrian, though. They are still laughing about him being locked out in the garden.
Before I leave, Adrian brings up the subject of his Life Insurance Policies again.
‘I want everything sorted before I go. Have you paid off my credit card?’
‘Yes.’ I realise how worried about money he must have been before all this happened. He had virtually no income. I have paid the credit card but the rest of his paperwork is too exhausting to contemplate. Instead I promise to take him to look at the other nursing homes next week, though in my heart I don’t feel I’ve got the energy. I say we’ll view the one in Bournemouth and Sobel House. For now I just want to go back home and lie in my garden – which is what I do.
But first, I go online where an email is waiting for me to say three of my stories have been rejected by a woman’s magazine, and I also have a letter turning me down from a new writing venture I’d applied for.
Blast. My writing career’s well and truly in shreds.
Saturday 4th August 2007
This evening we’re taking Adrian out for a meal to celebrate his new status as a non-contagious person. We’re going to The George, a pub opposite the garage where I’ve been buying his newspapers and wine. The garage that sells everything: wine (choice of red, white or rosé); stamps; envelopes – in fact anything you’d get from a Post Office; lottery tickets; newspapers; magazines; sandwiches that come with a free cup of coffee. I am a fan of this garage. It even has big pumpy things outside in case anyone might want to put petrol in their car. I pop over to buy Adrian a lottery ticket (lucky dip) before we go into the pub.
We’ve all come. Myself, Peter, Emily and Fran, Ed, Jack and Willow. We eat masses of food. Even Adrian eats most of his fish and chips. This is amazing, since I haven’t seen him eat anything for weeks. He talks a lot too but his voice feels the strain and when he’s not talking and we’re all chatting, exchanging anecdotes, I look across the table at him and feel immensely sad. Over the years we’ve been for many family meals, but this is the first time I’ve dined out with Adrian as a ‘very sick person’.
People take on a new identity when they’re sick. A disabled person or anyone who has changed in any way, and will not change back, takes on a new persona, whereas a pregnant woman or someone with a broken leg is not a ‘sick person’. They are temporarily different. Adrian is remarkably unselfconscious about his new appearance, but after the meal I stand with him waiting for Peter to bring the car to the door. A man sitting outside is staring at Adrian. I won’t have people treating my brother like a freak. I stare this man out until he gets the message and looks away.
In the car Adrian and I sit in
the back with Em.
‘I’ve really enjoyed tonight, guys,’ he says. ‘It’s been great to escape the prison.’
Once we reach St Vincent’s he kisses me on the cheek. He’s allowed to kiss now. He gets out of the car unaided.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask. ‘Do you want a hand up the steps?’
‘No. I’m fine,’ he says. ‘I can manage.’
We wait in the car as he climbs the few steps up to the big glass doors. I feel anxious watching him trying to get into the lobby. He’s never had to do this alone before. He doesn’t know the procedure for getting in – in fact he’s a lot more interested in the procedure for getting out. He doesn’t realise you have to ring the bell. Em jumps out of the car, runs up the stairs and rings it. Eventually one of the night staff comes.
As we drive home in the dark Em’s CD plays “I’ll Stand by You,” by Girls Aloud. Nobody’s talking on the journey home. I shed a few silent tears in the darkness of the back of the car. We all go to bed full of food, and I toss and turn for what seems like hours with the Girls Aloud song going round and round in my head.
I’ll stand by you
Won’t let nobody hurt you, I’ll stand by you
Take me in, into your darkest hour
And I’ll never desert you, I’ll stand by you
Sunday 5th August 2007
I awake in the early hours and lie in bed wondering yet again how I’m going to keep all this up. Stan from The Gardener’s and John Commerford (who is another of the old Bromley gang) are coming to visit Adrian today. I think about Adrian’s funeral list. I am by nature a party thrower, my brother has never organised and hosted a party in his life. Yet now he is organising this gathering of friends – and he won’t be here to enjoy it.