Imprisoned by Love

by C. S. Brahams

  I sit at my desk and swivel round to the window sill; it’s covered in Christmas cards left over from the end of last term. I scoop them up and put the whole lot in a drawer. I don’t want to throw them away though I know that I eventu­ally I will. I wander off to the staff room. No one is around. There’s a surprising amount of post in my pigeonhole; it’s mostly literature magazines and freebies from marketing companies. There’s also a lovely thankyou card from Fran and Freddie. At least they’re happy. I wonder what this forth­coming year will bring.

  It’s amazing how much work I can get done when there are no students around. Or staff, for that matter. I prepare the induction day for Samantha. She will have a full tour of the school; a shared lesson with me initially; a meeting with the English department; lunch with Harry-the-Harrovian followed up by some real teaching. It’s a gentle start to a ferocious term. I also print out a week’s worth of lessons. I can print straight from my computer to the photocopier, as long as I don’t use colour. And I don’t. It costs a small fortune and isn’t worth it anyway. We have to be more scrupulous with our funds. Our charitable status may be withdrawn. Everything is in a state of flux, including my marriage.

  Before I leave work, I wonder whether I should contact a divorce lawyer. Michael may no longer be of sound mind. I phone my mother to see what she thinks. I tell her that there’s something called Judicial Separation. Should I go for this instead of a full-blown divorce? My mother is a retired lecturer in Linguistics. She doesn’t know anything about the law, let alone family law. The weather has eased though. The snow has melted in Hove.

  I text Michael. I say I will be home soon. Love Sophie xxx. I don’t love him anymore and I am not sure why I add the x’s. Habit, I suppose. He doesn’t reply. He has barely used his mobile since we were in Croatia. I wonder if he can. I cycle slowly. So much so, that people beep at me and rather elderly woman, with a wicker shopping basket at the front of her bicycle, overtakes me. This has never happened to me before. It’s obvious to me, even if it’s not obvious to everyone else, that I have no desire to go home. I don’t know what state the house will be in when I get there; Michael may be in a foul mood; it’s possible that he will try and take a swipe at me; the front door may be open; the place will definitely be in a mess; he may be dressed; he may be in a state of undress. I have no idea. And I don’t want to find out.

  Chapter 15

  January and the Spring Term

  Once again, I am at school bright and early. It is safer than being at home but I remain torn between the two. I keep reminding myself that it’s the dementia that makes Michael so unpleasant; it’s not him. And it is not his fault. I’m trying very hard to hang onto these thoughts. I have arranged for him to be collected by an Uber and taken onto his first activ­ity at the Day Centre in West Hampstead. He will be given lunch there. After that, another Uber (I have requested the same driver) will pick him up and take him onto the Royal Free Hospital for a follow up appointment with Mr R Patel, the consultant neurologist. This is at 5 pm I will meet him at the hospital. I have repeated these instructions three times and also written them down. I can live with the verbal abuse. I know that he hates being patronised, particularly by me.

  I am living in two parallel worlds. Neither of them is straightforward.

  My first proper day back is enjoyable! We have a long and lively whole school assembly; this is led by Principal Peter. It’s all centred on new resolutions. It is accompanied by PowerPoint slides including a list of his own: eat less choc­olate; give up vaping; swim more often and be kinder to pupils! The slides of him stuffing a large Cadbury’s bar into his mouth whilst sitting on the edge of the swimming pool (paunch on view) instantly increase his under-18 fan club. My resolutions are different from his. Kindness is at the top of my list.

  My parallel teaching lesson with Samantha (the new teacher of English) goes rather well. We moved around the Year 11 classroom like compasses: one of us always north and the other always south. I think the pupils benefited from our double act because they asked if we could do it again. Aside from my own teaching schedule, I also have to moni­tor my students, particularly those considered “vulnerable”. I want to speak to Jake but I definitely need a second person with me as the subject of his gender fluidity is such a delicate one. I decide to invite his Form Teacher and the Head of Year 9 to join me. Not everything can be resolved by emails.

  Abbas comes to see me. He asks me about my Christmas; it seems like years ago. I focus on the twins’ return and my parents’ good health. He presses me to talk about Michael. I turn the conversation back to his wife, Leila. Various pupils walk past us, smirking and gesturing as they do so. They probably think we’re having an affair.

  Whilst back in my office, I take the opportunity of con­tacting the counsellor (Lara) who helped me after 7/7. She told me straight from the start that she couldn’t eradicate the memory of being on the bombed tube carriage but she could help me come to terms with it. Even when Michael was my “lovely husband”, he was always a bit scathing about my ses­sions; he thought they were pure indulgence. Plaster casts and physiotherapy were one thing but counselling was quite another. He used to be stoic; ironically it was one of the traits I admired him for. Until recently, and particularly when we argued (as all normal couples do) he would suggest that I wasted my money as I’m still not back on the tube. He knows it is my Achilles’ heel. I used to tease him about not being able to ride a bicycle; that’s his. But I can’t unsay anything now. I just hope he forgets our arguments and remembers our love for each other. Somehow, I don’t think his memory is selective in that way.

  At four o’clock, most people head off home. I uncharacter­istically need to go too. I switch everything off in my office and shut the door. I make no pretence of pretending to work late. I am too old for that charade. I head off to our house first so that I can leave my bicycle there before making the short walk to the Royal Free. I dump my backpack and put my water bottle back into the fridge. The house is just as I left it this morning. I assume that Michael has had a good day and been to the Day Centre. He hasn’t left his usual trail of untidiness.

  When I arrive at the hospital, I ask the receptionist to point me in the direction of the Neurology Department. She literally points her finger at the signage: 6 South. I assume this means it’s on the sixth floor. Miraculously, Michael is already there. He looks reasonably smart except that he is wearing two right shoes. I make a mental note to myself to label all his shoes with L’s and R’s. He proudly tells me that he got here all by himself. I am genuinely impressed. He has a better sense of direction now than many others. I wonder how long this will last. Michael has obviously been taking his pills. He isn’t at all nervous; on the contrary, he is quite cheerful. I am apprehensive. We are like the weather people on a weather vane: one in and one out.

  We sit on the plastic grey chairs (there are two) outside Mr Patel’s door; this is also grey but not a fashionable grey. Just grey. He’s running late. Michael asks me about my day and whether I have any anecdotes. We actually talk. I think I have done him a terrible disservice and want to help him get some sort of work. But he’s despondent when I mention this. He has lost his confidence and his self-esteem. I wonder if this is my fault. I suggest voluntary work at the bookshop or our local charity shop. He agrees to give this a go if they give him a go. I feel as though we are making progress.

  The grey door opens. Mr Patel steps out of his office and immediately fills up the corridor. He’s not at all what I am expecting. The ebullient consultant is both high and wide. And he’s as bald as a coot. He is dressed head to toe in various shades of grey. He has a broad face and moustache. Mr Patel looks like a marauding but affable walrus. We sit down in his office; it’s the size of a galley kitchen and the same shape. There’s a narrow consulting bed on the right-hand side; a desk in the middle with a computer on it and two chairs opposite his one. All the chairs are the same plastic grey. There are no plants. No photographs. No mementoes. Th
e walls are stark white. Clinical. He notices me undressing the room. He shares it with at least three other colleagues, hence the lack of personalisation. He is aware of it.

  As we make small talk, he clicks on the mouse and a pic­ture of Michael’s MRI brain scan appears. There are two clear images of brains: the one on the left is a “normal” one and the one on the right is Michael’s. The most obvious dif­ference is that Michael’s brain is significantly smaller than the one on the left. The consultant talks, almost too enthu­siastically, about its shrinkage. He is particularly inter­ested in the frontal lobe; he explains that although we may all desire to tell someone he or she is ugly or irritating, we learn self-restraint. The frontal lobe suppresses unaccept­able social behaviour. He goes on to explain that people with damage to their frontal lobe, such as Michael, lose their inhibitions and their behaviour changes. The proteins built up in the brain (not a good thing) harm the brain cells. I am really trying to concentrate on what the consultant is saying. I know that Michael won’t remember much of it. I would like to “phone a friend” or “ask the audience” at this point. Michael calmly and clearly asks how long he has to live. The consultant jumps to his feet (he is full of energy and enthusi­asm), strokes his ludicrous moustache, and pats my husband on the back. He says he has no idea. Michael won’t take no for an answer. He badgers the walrus until he submits.

  On the way back to our house, we think of all the things someone can do in eight years. But I know that Michael won’t enjoy eight healthy years; the last few will be excruci­atingly painful. I am overwhelmed with feelings of guilt and sorrow. Instead of going straight home, I take Michael into the bakery on Haverstock Hill. He has always been rather partial to his cake. I see that scones are available so I order two of those; one with raisins and one plain. I can’t remem­ber which one he liked more when we enjoyed tea at the Grand Hotel in Brighton. We sit down and I slice the scone open with the sharp knife provided. Michael drops a large blob of cream onto the scone followed by a large dollop of jam. He shoves the whole thing into his mouth and tries to speak at the same time. He helps himself to my scone too. The woman at the counter smirks at me and I smirk back. I realise that there is no spite in it.

  When we get home, Michael asks me when he’s going to the Day Centre and whether he will have lunch when he gets there. I think he has probably eaten enough for now but I pla­cate him with a cup of tea and two of his favourite biscuits. I also give him a large apple to munch so that he doesn’t inter­rupt me when I phone my parents and the twins. I need to tell them the truth.

  As I press the buttons, I look at my husband; he’s not really there anymore. I miss him. He has put on weight but it suits him. He remains a good-looking man.

  I wanted to grow old with Michael but I don’t want to grow old with this version of him. How can I love someone who has changed beyond recognition?

  Chapter 16

  The Twins (Fran and Freddie’s)

  We’re only into the third day of the third week of term and Fran is going to return to school as a full-time pupil the following Monday. She will be just in time for the official mocks. I have persuaded her to visit Year 11 and the Sixth Form with her twins, Sophie and Peter. I can’t wait to see them again. I make an announcement in the Sixth Form common room. Freddie has given me his consent to do this but all the same, he looks two shades pinker afterwards. I also visit the two Year 11 form rooms and tell them the good news. All the girls are very excited. Most of the boys aren’t. Freddie has been a model student since the arrival of the baby. I find his transformation remarkable. He has even changed the way he dresses. The Goth phase has been replaced by a rather preppie appearance: jeans; a stripy but­toned-down shirt and hoodie with an American university emblazoned on the back. He is a good-looking young man. I decide to check on his progress. The spreadsheets recording this are updated on a two-week cycle. Freddie is keeping up. His grades for effort are much higher than those for achieve­ment but at least he is trying. I think he will be all right.

  Fran comes into school wearing a purple and pink outfit. She’s all flowers and soft edges. There’s no trace of the Goth there either. I had half expected the babies to be dressed in black baby-grows. I wonder if they’re still avid churchgo­ers. Everyone in the reception descends into treacle when they see the twins in their matching pink and blue outfits. They look so comfortable and cuddly in their smart new double-buggy. I ask if I can pick them up. I promise not to drop them! Fran looks amazed that the Deputy Head uses the “can” word. They’re lovely babies. Beautiful, in fact. And they smell of Johnson’s baby oil, a smell that takes me back to my own twins. As I put baby Sophie onto my shoulder, she burps. I’m asked how I managed to do that so quickly. Practice. But I have forgotten about the milky residue that babies leave and there is a little deposit on my jacket shoul­der. I hand baby Sophie back to Fran and take little Peter out, along with a white muslin. He feels about the same weight as his sister. A whole cluster of female teachers have found their way to the reception. Everyone wants a turn with the twins.

  Once the excitement has died down, I talk to Liam about the GCSE and A Level mocks; these are imminent. He has everything under control. I express my concern that if we use last year’s actual GCSE and A Level papers, the vast majority of our students will download the answers off the AQA website. He suggests we conflate two papers but I am worried that this will cause all manner of confusion amongst the staff. Most of them have already set and printed their exams; they’re lounging about in their in-trays. We reach an impasse on this and I wonder what he will say in the staff meeting. We are supposed to be discussing invigi­lation and the provision of extra time for those that need it. It’s all very boring.

  We congregate in the panelled Randolph Room at 1 pm Liam proposes the “hybrid examination”. It is very unpopu­lar. We should do it next year instead. I suspect there would have been more protesting if it were not for the huge tray of sandwiches laid on especially for the occasion. I feel guilty for raising the subject. I suggest that we organise things dif­ferently next year. It’s too late now. Common sense must prevail. Peter Principal agrees with me. We don’t even talk about the other agenda items. The staff can’t leave quickly enough.

  Liam is furious. He demands an immediate meeting with me in his office. It’s a masculine place and is unusually clut­tered. There are piles of papers on every surface. At best it is organised chaos. His office is his territory. We are very different: he’s the “LEAVE” and I am the “REMAIN” in this school. We are both a bit stubborn. Neither of us sits down. We are equally important or unimportant in the scheme of things. We are not each other’s bosses. He has no authority over me and I have no authority over him. Liam straightens his stripy black and blue tie and pulls it right up to his top shirt button. He looks as though he is going to throttle him­self. I have never seen him so angry. His suited arms start to flay around like fuming flames in a fire. One of them comes very close to my face. I immediately withdraw in a defensive position and cower in the corner of the room. I know that this is totally irrational. Liam is not Michael.

  I apologise outright. But I stay cowering in the corner of the room like a tiny little mouse, begging its tormentor for its life. I keep saying that I am sorry. As I turn around, I can see the shocked expression on his face. He apologises too. We are both at fault. He instigates the discussion that I don’t have time for today. He wants to cross-examine me about Michael’s illness. I have too many lessons to teach and too much to do. Today was going to be a good day; it started so positively with the baby twins’ visit. He tells me that he’s not an Academic Deputy for nothing, and immediately puts Benedict (the smug eejit, as he calls him) on “emergency cover”. The poor man has been assigned my Year 9 class.

  In a softer and gentler tone, Liam mentions the Michael and the “condition” word again. We are both sitting down now. A small Year 7 boy appears at the door. He obviously needs to talk to Liam. He’s sent away in a horribly aggres­siv
e manner. I can’t even look at him. I know it’s all my fault. I explain that until now, I have managed to compartmen­talise my life. I don’t want any favours. I can manage. Liam disagrees. He’s noticed that my mocks haven’t been printed out yet; that I was late for a meeting last week and that I have been making and taking too many random telephone calls in my office. Every time he walks past, the phone is glued to my ear. I didn’t realise he was spying on me. He says he wants to help. He is much more agreeable than I had given him credit. Sleet slants sideways, slashing the window panes in its path. Nature’s protest, I say.

  Chapter 17

  Friends Reunited

  I am quite relieved that it is the weekend. I can’t quite work out whether I would rather be at school or at home these days; everything has become tainted with the strain of trying to keep my head above water. I am neither waving nor drown­ing. I am neither ship nor shore. I am becoming adrift, just like Michael. I miss Olivia and Eddie. I ask Michael if he fancies a trip to Hove. We could catch a train from Victoria and be there by lunch time. He doesn’t want to go. He says he hates Sussex in the rain and he hates my parents. Besides, he has to complete a risk assessment for a client; it’s urgent, apparently.

  Michael hasn’t worked for months. There is no client. I am not sure whether to correct him or not. Is there any harm in him thinking that he is still gainfully employed? We still haven’t had a response from our local charity shop, or the bookshop. No one wants to employ my husband, not even on a voluntary basis. Michael starts opening up all the kitchen drawers and rummages around my old exam papers; I tend to keep these for private tutoring. Not that I have done any lately. He can’t find the “pension document” or the “spread­sheet”. He sounds confused. I suggest we go for a walk to our local café; read the newspapers and meet up with friends. We haven’t seen anyone for ages. Most of them have no idea what’s going on. I must see them. I am resolved to confide in my local friends; we used to be such a tight-knit circle. I start composing a text message to Emma and Rosie; they live locally and their children are a similar age to ours. I have left it too long. Michael refuses to budge from the kitchen draw­ers. He is a man on a mission. I suggest we do our own thing. I am not his keeper and he is not mine.