Hope Nicely's Lessons for Life

by Caroline Day

  It’s a two-dots and a four-dots and that’s no good.

  ‘… which was very kind and she even sent an email to Danny Flynn to ask if I was feeling OK, and to say that if I want to go for a …’

  Shake, shake, shake. Tap, tap, tap. One-dot and one-two-three-four-five-dots, and that’s no good.

  ‘… T and that’s like a G and T but with no G in it which is gin, then we could do a girls’ night out and she could come and get me. But I don’t like pubs, not even the White Hart, and I don’t even like the T very much.’

  It’s not really a conversation, because of my mum not replying. Because of the coma. So it’s just me talking, talking, talking. But very quietly, because it is best to be calm and quiet when you are in the hospital. So that’s what I’m being.

  Shake, shake, shake. Tap, tap, tap. Three-dots and two-dots, and that’s no good.

  ‘But still, it’s very nice. To want to do the girls’ night with me, and she says it doesn’t even have to be a pub and maybe we could go for a pizza instead, or whatever I want to do. And she’s writing a very good book. It’s about horses and also about the community, you know the one, for the women and for the men and, you know, and everyone …’

  Shake, shake, shake. Tap, tap, tap. One-dot and another one-dot. No good.

  ‘LGBT. And sometimes Q. But it doesn’t really matter because it means the same thing. And she puts all her thoughts on her phone, which is called her special notebook, by recording them. And sometimes she records other things too, like people talking, in the class, or just in her life. She even sent a bit in her email and it was like an arrow in a box, but you could press it, like for real – on Danny Flynn’s laptop, you could – and guess what, it was me, going, my name is Hope Nicely. Hope as in hope. And Nicely like nicely.’

  It was from when I’d said it to her. Because of her recording me without me even knowing it.

  ‘And, guess what else, Marnie Shale brought me some more chocolates. Well, sort of they were for you, because of her visiting you at the hospital, but maybe more for me, really, because of you being still with no conscience. And I saved some for you, but then I forgot and I ate those ones too, so now there aren’t any left. But when you’re right as rain again, we can buy some more. Because they were from Marks and Spencer’s and I know which ones they are.

  ‘And Karen has sent you a card and it’s really nice, with a picture of a basset hound with his ears in the air, and it’s a really good one because of most of them just having flowers on them. And …’

  Shake, shake, shake. Tap, tap, tap. And it’s a six-dots. And I’m really excited. Because that is right. And the other one is still turning. And I’m telling it, be another six-dot, please be another six-dot. But then it stops, and, flip a pancake, it’s only a three-dot. And that’s no good.

  There’s a knocking. ‘Hello, Hope, OK if I …?’ It’s Julie Clarke and she’s opening the door and doing a sort of wave with her fingers all taking turns. ‘Ooh, you’re playing dice. What a nice idea. I thought maybe you’d like a sandwich …’

  There’s a nurse coming in too, and she needs to look at my mum’s temperature and her pressure thing, and to empty the wee bag, and Julie says we’ll get out of your way, and no, really, no problem, we were just thinking about a spot of lunch anyway.

  The other one is back now, from her wedding holiday, the one who isn’t Julie Clarke but is the social worker after her, the one whose name I can’t remember. But Julie’s still coming to the hospital, and I think that’s best. Because of the other one talking to me a bit like I’m stupid, and because of her calling my mum Jen.

  ‘So what’s the game you’re playing? Yahtzee? Or craps?’

  I stop myself laughing because of craps being not a game at all but another word for poo.

  ‘It’s not a game.’ This is me.

  It was Connor Flynn who told me about it, and he knows because of being very clever. It’s a thing called probably-ty and that is how probably it is that something is going to happen. That’s what it’s called. It’s a bit like statistics. And he told me about it because of talking about all the numbers, which are percents and chances of if my mum will be right as rain. But when he told me about it being a ten percent or maybe it was twelve or seven, or whatever number it was, that my mum would be alive still and then there’s another one, another percent number, of her brain being all right and not damaged too, I think maybe he knew that I didn’t understand it. Because of my brain being a jumble that doesn’t like numbers. And he said, look, and he said, imagine that the chances of your mum surviving the out-of-hospital arrest, which means her not being dead – he said, think of that as being the same probably-ty as throwing a die and the number is a six-spot. So that’s a one in six chance. And then the probably-ty of her not having the brain damage is like throwing another die and it’s at the same time, and it’s another six-spot. So it’s like throwing two six-spots both at the same time. And that is how probably-ty works.

  But I don’t tell Julie about this now, because of it being difficult for me to explain it, even though I do understand it now, mostly. And I think maybe she’s going to ask me more about it but she doesn’t because something happens now. We are in the corridor, with the smell like hospital, and not so much like ice cream anymore, with the signs in the boxes saying Radiology and Outpatients and Orthopaedics and all the people walking, and some with their arm in plaster or in a nightie with no back. But then I see Simon Taylor from the writing group. Or maybe he’s Stephen. And I shout both the names, just in case. And I’m running to him, and I’m nearly falling into an old man in a wheelchair, and the old man says watch where I’m effing going, but I don’t have time to say sorry, because of hurrying.

  And it’s funny because Simon Taylor has turned round and he’s looked right towards me, and I think he’s seen me and I’m waving my arms, but then he’s turned and he’s walking away. And I’m running and I’m shouting, Simon, and then Stephen, and then Simon again. But he hasn’t stopped. Except then there is a girl and she’s in a wheelchair too, and being pushed by maybe her mum, and they’re right in front of him. And Simon Taylor, I think maybe it is Simon, stops to wait for them to go past, and I’m running my fastest until I’ve reached him and I say, hello, and I say I was shouting at you, didn’t you hear me. And now he’s looking at me and saying, oh, hello, Hope, fancy seeing you here, and no, didn’t hear you at all. And it’s funny, because of how loud I was shouting. And he’s looking around him, but not really at me. And he’s playing with his collar.

  ‘I knew it was you.’ This is me. And it’s a little bit loud again. ‘Because of you working here. I knew it was you, straight away.’

  ‘Well, yes. I don’t work here every day but …’

  There are a lot of people around us. But not Julie. She’s still behind me. Because of me running when she was still walking.

  ‘I knew it was you. And I think you can tell me all about my mum. I think you know if …?’

  ‘Sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about …’ He’s got his eyebrows pushing together and his mouth is pressed in. I’m trying to tell what his face means, by thinking about the pictures in the magazines and the sides of buses. And it’s a bit like the man who is saying to his wife, what biscuits, but behind his back, he’s holding the packet of biscuits.

  And then Julie is there, asking why did I run off, and then saying hello to Simon and putting out her hand to shake his, and saying haven’t they met somewhere – so I’m even more sure that he does know something about my mum – but at the same time Simon is saying he’d better shoot, actually, because he’s late for seeing someone. When he says shoot he doesn’t mean shoot with a gun. He means he has to go quickly. My mum, Jenny, has a friend called Brenda Pollard, who sometimes comes round for tea and a natter and she always says it. Goodness me. Is that the time? I really must shoot. So I know what Simon means. Or maybe it’s Stephen. But then he’s gone and I don’t understand why he doesn’t want to te
ll me about my mum if he works here, even if it’s not every day.

  My sandwich is tuna and sweetcorn, which is nice, except that it’s in brown bread and that’s not my favourite. My favourite is white bread, or especially a white roll, but not the hard ones, the nice soft ones, and it doesn’t matter if they’re long or if they’re round. But they didn’t have any tuna in rolls, only cheese and pickle, or chicken, and they didn’t have it in white bread either. Tuna. Only brown bread. And it’s not even cut very thick so it’s a bit bendy and some of the sweetcorns have fallen out.

  I’m telling Julie Clarke about all the dogs, and especially about Barry, but also about Tinie Tempah, and about which ones like to play and which ones don’t really want to, and which ones can only be on the lead, and which ones growl at the others when they’re in a bad mood. And Julie isn’t saying very much, just a little bit of nodding and, oh I see, and oh, really, but mostly she’s just drinking her coffee and eating her sandwich, which is a long roll, and a soft one, but it’s chicken, which I don’t like so much.

  And Julie’s asking me about who that man in the corridor was, and I’m telling her about him being Simon – or maybe Stephen but I’m thinking now it really is Simon. And I’m telling her about him being in my writing group, and about how he’s writing a book which is non-fiction and an autobiography, just like me. And I’m telling her that although he looks quite old, and like a person in a nurse’s uniform who probably wouldn’t go to any parties, in his book he talks about being at a party and sitting in a room with a woman, even though it’s dark and he doesn’t even know her, and that maybe it was also about falling in love. And there’s a thing, about the woman, a what’s-it-called. The word. Which is like being in a coach with your cousin, even though you don’t know that’s what they are. But I can’t remember what it is.

  And Julie is doing a thing with her head, which is shaking it, and saying that she’s really quite sure that she’s seen him before, somewhere, but she can’t quite place him and, darn it, it must be her age. I think she’s probably right, because Julie Clarke is really quite old.

  And then there’s music, and it’s ‘Yellow Submarine’, which is a song I know, because it’s very famous. But I don’t know where the music is coming from until Julie has opened her bag and taken out her telephone and is answering it, saying, hello, and yes, yes, she’s with her here now, and oh, right, yes, she sees, of course, we’ll be right there. She puts her phone back in her bag and she looks at me.

  ‘It’s Jenny. She’s opened her eyes.’

  24

  ‘But still, it does have to be a good thing, doesn’t it?’ This is Bridget, with a big pile of mashed potato on her fork, but not eating it, just looking at me. ‘I mean, if she’s opening her eyes, then hopefully soon your mum will …’

  ‘Actually, strictly speaking, no, there’s no objective reason to call this good news as the move from the state of coma to the vegetative state does not necessarily imply further improvement. And even if the patient moves on from a vegetative to a minimally conscious state, if damage to the brain stem has been—’

  ‘Connor. Please.’ The potato is still there on her fork.

  ‘But, medically, if the damage has—’

  ‘Connor. Enough. Hope, love, can I pass you more vegetables? Another lamb chop maybe?’

  ‘… but even from the perspective of mortality rates, the high risk of infection or pneumonia or of a recurrence of—’

  ‘Connor, enough!’

  Connor Flynn looks down at his plate and, at last, Bridget puts the potato into her mouth.

  It’s quiet tonight. Danny Flynn isn’t here because of a date in the diary which has been there already for weeks. Bridget says it’s because he’s having dinner with his friend. I say which friend, and she says, oh just his friend. She has her mouth a bit open like she’s going to say something else, but she doesn’t say anything else. Also, it’s quiet because I don’t have my chatty head on. Maybe because of all the talking, and all the having to ask my mum why she wasn’t looking at me, even with her eyes open now, or why she still wasn’t speaking to me.

  I’m not as hungry as usual, even though the tea is really nice. And I don’t have another lamb chop or any more vegetables, and only one bowl of apple crumble, even when Bridget tells me, go on, Hope, she’s sure I can squeeze in a little bit more, and even though it’s with ice cream, which isn’t just vanilla but has bits of chocolate and nuts in it. And when Bridget is taking all the dishes through to the kitchen, I say I think I’m going to go to bed. And she says, oh Hope, really, it’s still early, don’t I want to stay up a bit with her, because it’s one of her favourite films on telly and it’s the one about Harry meeting Sally. I say I’ve seen it already and Bridget says so has she, lots of times, and Connor Flynn does a groan and says, oh not that again, it’s so-o boring, and Bridget says just because there aren’t any aliens wanting to blow up the earth or zombies or evil robots shooting people. She says it’s a lovely film and so romantic.

  When Bridget says film, it’s like she’s saying fill-em. At first that’s what I think she’s saying. One of her favourite fill-ems. And I don’t know what she means, except for maybe it’s the same as ‘fill them’, but I don’t know what would be the ‘them’ that would be filled. But when she says what its name is, that’s when I realise. It’s not a fill-em, it’s a film. And it’s only Bridget’s accent that makes it sound different.

  It is quite a good film, even with me having seen it before, because of all the bits I’ve forgotten, like the bit where Sally is pretending to be a fanny wanker in the café, and there’s an old woman who wants one of what she’s having. That’s very funny. And when it’s that point, Bridget says, oh, Hope, that’s a bit naughty, isn’t it, and she does a giggle. And Connor Flynn doesn’t say anything because he’s reading Peptides and Proteins again, in the armchair, not on the sofa with us, but Bridget says we’re honoured because normally he wouldn’t even stay in the same room when she’s watching one of her movies, and it must be my presence.

  When it’s nearly the end of the film, with the man called Harry running and running to be in the right place, and then with the people being older and talking about just knowing, I hear a noise, and I think maybe it’s Barry because it’s a bit like snuffling. But it’s not Barry because he’s not even in this room, he’s gone to my room and he’s already on my bed. The noise is Bridget and, when I look at her, I see she’s crying.

  ‘Don’t mind me.’ She’s doing a smile, and crying at the same time. ‘It’s just it’s so …’ She makes her face all squeezed up. ‘And I don’t know why I … It’s not as if my Fergus had a romantic bone in his whole body. But still …’

  I don’t say anything, because the film hasn’t finished yet and I’m still watching it until the end, and when it finishes, I say, righty-ho, off to bed now.

  Bridget says, OK, love, and thanks for watching with her. She says it’s nice to have a bit of female company round here for once.

  ‘… interesting question, though not an area in which I’m especially well read.’ Connor Flynn gets a wrinkle above his nose and I think maybe it’s because of concentrating.

  I’m looking at him, but I’m also looking at Scrappy, the bearded collie, who is having a sniff on the grass, because of it being important to always watch the dogs when you’re a dog walker. So I’m looking at Connor Flynn, then at Scrappy, then at Connor Flynn again, with my head going one way then the other.

  ‘Of course, there have been studies analysing how the methods employed differ between the categories broadly defined as attempters and completers, and in terms of effectiveness then, yes, one would certainly conclude, as I suppose you would expect, that jumping in front of a train is far more effective as a method than pharmaceutical means or asphyxiation. But I’m not sure that any could be described as best. First, really, you would have to define that notion of best.

  ‘I did read an article about the relatively high rates amongst doctors,
compared to the general population, though the actual percentages elude me, and the method of choice for them was self-poisoning. But then of course, you would have to take into account the fact that—’

  ‘Turn around and hold your nose.’ And I’m reaching into my pocket for the poo bag.

  ‘And it’s like every single day, he wakes up and it’s not tomorrow, it’s just like yesterday again. Like every day is the same yesterday, because of it being the same song on the radio, which is …’ I’m trying really hard to remember the song, and I almost can, like in my head there’s one note or maybe two notes, but the rest of it isn’t coming. But still I can see his face, with his hair all messy, and he’s looking out from under his duvet, and at the alarm clock which is also a radio, and a bit like my one in Danny Flynn’s house, in my own bedroom, with the sweet toilet. And he’s throwing the alarm clock at the wall, because of it never being tomorrow.

  Shake, shake, shake. Tap, tap, tap. A five-spot and a four-spot.

  ‘And he learns to speak Italian and to play the piano and even to teach it to other people because he’s so good, even though he couldn’t play it at all before. And also how to make a beautiful picture in the ice, which is a statue. And it’s a statue of her. And they go dancing. And they make angels in the snow. And even though she doesn’t like him in the beginning …’

  Shake, shake, shake. Tap, tap, tap. A two-spot and another two-spot.

  She doesn’t have her eyes open today. Just closed and like sleeping. Like yesterday and the other day, the ones before. But not with the elephant nose. That has gone away and now it’s just a tube that goes underneath her nostrils. And the nurse was in here, just a little bit, putting things in her ears to see about the temperature, because of being a bit hot, and being a bit worried about an infection.