Christmas by the Lighthouse

by Rebecca Boxall

  ‘Please. Can I give you a list of things to get me from home? I’m going to be in for a couple of days. There’s a spare key with Mrs De Freitas on the first floor. Let me tell you what I need . . .’ He listed the items. ‘Could you ring work for me, too? Say I’ve got a sick bug. Explain I should be back in on Monday.’

  ‘Will do, mate.’

  Jude closed his eyes, wishing more than anything that he could wake up from this nightmare and find himself back in his boring job, answering telephone calls and trying to avoid Helena. How could he have taken even a moment of his life for granted before now? He felt as though what was happening to him was like some sort of parable – look at what happens when you fail to make the most of the gift of life. It was a bitter pill to try to swallow.

  An hour after Jude’s MRI scan, as he was waiting anxiously for the results, Cat burst into his hospital room lugging a large rucksack, presumably filled with Jude’s belongings.

  ‘Bloody hell, Jude, this is the shittiest thing!’ She paused – they’d always been friendly, but never affectionate – then she clearly decided new rules applied and she bounded over to the bed and gave him an enormous hug. Strong and unemotional until that moment, Jude began to cry. Cat just carried on hugging, cushioning his sobs.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Jude managed eventually. ‘It’s just . . . you being nice. I’ve held it together until now.’

  ‘Jude, you really don’t need to effing apologise,’ Cat told him, her voice husky from too much smoking and talking. She was always swearing – all that time working in a reporters’ office for the local news channel – but a crisis really upped the ante. ‘What a completely crappy thing to happen. Let me pour you some water, then you can tell me all about it. Here you go. Now budge over.’ Cat hopped up on to the bed and listened as Jude told her what he’d learnt so far.

  ‘It definitely looks like a malignant tumour – the consultant can tell from the CT scan. It’s awkwardly placed, which is why he isn’t sure if the surgeon in Southampton will be able to get rid of it. The question is, what kind of tumour and whether there’s any possibility of cutting it out, which should be clear from the MRI. It’s a waiting game for now. I’m just so scared, Cat. What if there’s nothing they can do?’

  ‘That’s the total worst-case scenario – you’ll be fine,’ Cat reassured him, though Jude thought she looked almost as terrified as he felt. ‘Let’s try not to worry until we know what we’re dealing with.’ Then she rummaged around in her handbag, searching for something. Finally, she whipped out a pack of cards. ‘Now, come on,’ she said, clearly determined to provide a distraction. ‘Let’s have a game of rummy.’

  When Jude received the results of the MRI, Cat was still with him. He supposed Eddie must have been looking after the kids all the while she’d been there. He was unspeakably grateful to have her by his side.

  ‘How’d it go?’ Jude asked Mr Vibert.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s bad news, Jude,’ he said, taking a direct yet kindly approach again. ‘The tumour is a grade 4 glioblastoma. One of the most malignant tumours there is. It’s on the right side, touching three sides of your brain – the temporal, parietal and occipital lobes. Operating to remove the tumour is not an option. It’s far too risky.’

  ‘But don’t you need to do one of those operations to check whether it’s malignant or not?’

  ‘A biopsy? We certainly can, if you’d like. It’s not absolutely necessary, as the scanner we have is very accurate, but it’s up to you. You’d need to have the operation in Southampton. Shall I make arrangements?’

  Jude paused, then shook his head. ‘No. No, I don’t see the point in going through all that just to confirm what’s clear from the scan. How about chemo? Radiotherapy?’

  ‘I’m afraid there is no cure. At best, chemo would prolong your life slightly – but at some cost. It’ll make you feel grotty. Jude, to be totally honest, if I were you I’d just concentrate on enjoying the time you have left.’

  Cat squeezed Jude’s hand. He looked at her and saw her face was wet with tears. His mouth felt dry and he longed suddenly for a nice hot drink. Images flashed through his mind, as if he were about to die imminently. His parents – how could he be expected to tell them this news? His sister. The lovely house in St Brelade he’d grown up in. The school he’d taught at, which he’d loved so much until the horrendous stabbing episode. His grandmother, who’d lived through the Nazi occupation of Jersey and whose history he suddenly realised he knew so little about . . . He saw that Mr Vibert was watching him anxiously. ‘How . . . how long have I got?’ he asked, dreading the answer.

  ‘A year, at best. I’m so very sorry. I know it’s a lot to take in, but do you have any other questions?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jude, licking his lips. He had a million questions but he decided to start with the easiest. ‘Could I have a cup of tea?’

  Chapter Eight

  ENGLAND, MONDAY

  SUMMER

  ‘When do you leave?’ asked Tilly as she whipped cream in the Perspex bowl in front of her.

  ‘On Sunday. My final penance is to host dinner on Friday night for Paula,’ Summer said, grimacing at the thought of her mother-in-law. ‘But I just keep imagining how amazing it’ll be to have six months without her to worry about. It’s so ironic that someone who comes up with as many clichés as Seth does should have delivered the ultimate one – the battleaxe mother-in-law.’

  ‘I still can’t believe you’re leaving so soon.’

  ‘It seems to have come round so quickly. What shall I cook on Friday, do you think?’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ said Tilly. ‘Think of it as my parting gift.’ Summer smiled. More than anything, she realised, she’d miss her friend.

  On Friday evening, Tilly came up trumps with the meal, but even a gourmet three-course feast wasn’t enough to placate Paula. Fortunately, however, it was Seth who was in her bad books – being the instigator of the marital break.

  ‘This wouldn’t have happened in my day,’ Paula told him sternly as she sipped her soup. She dabbed at her mouth delicately with a napkin. Summer was always amused by how genteel she tried to come across. She’d witnessed her mother-in-law’s true colours during several rows between Paula and Seth, when she’d sworn at him like a trooper and even thrown crockery (clearly a family trait, as Seth wasn’t averse to the odd plate-throwing episode either). ‘Once you’ve made your bed, you jolly well lie in it,’ she continued.

  Seth just gave her a dark look, leaving Summer to field her stream of acerbic observations.

  ‘It’s just a break,’ Summer tried to explain. Having had such a good relationship with her own mother, she’d always pitied Seth the one he had with Paula, and she found herself sticking up for him now out of habit, even though a part of her still felt rejected.

  ‘A break from what? A marriage isn’t some kind of office job that comes with twenty days’ holiday a year. In which part of your vows did you promise each other a marital break, should you start to feel a bit bored with one another? Your father and I were sick of each other by the time we were forty, but we carried on. That’s what you do.’

  Summer had to stifle a bubble of laughter at her archaic attitude. She realised that, though the evening was turning out to be an endurance test, it was actually quite helpful. She found herself feeling progressively more supportive of Seth’s ‘break’ idea as the evening went on.

  By pudding, Summer’s neck was tense and Seth had begun to grind his teeth. She’d never been so pleased to deal with all the clearing up, leaving Seth and Paula to glower at each other. She started stacking the dishwasher as slowly as possible, then, with that job done, she flicked the kettle on and made coffee. Eventually she rejoined the others and was relieved to see they’d called some sort of truce and were on to more benign topics of conversation. As soon as Summer appeared, though, Paula turned her attention to her daughter-in-law – this time with the more pleasant, breezy tone Summer recognised as the one she adopted when s
he was about to start prying.

  ‘And what are you going to do, then, dear, while you’re in Jersey?’

  ‘Same job, different place. One of the benefits of journalism.’

  ‘Ah yes, your little job. Maud from the WI used to live in Jersey. Says it’s frightfully expensive. Will you manage okay – you know, with rent and so on?’

  ‘My aunt’s lending me her cottage – she’s not charging.’

  ‘Oooh, fancy! Always thought it strange how la-di-da your mother and her sister are, considering they’re supposed to be hippies. Is it all an affectation, the hippy nonsense, I wonder . . . ?’ Then, realising she’d become sidetracked, she asked, ‘Is it somewhere nice – the cottage?’

  ‘By the beach, actually,’ Summer replied.

  ‘Sounds like a holiday to me. Well, I hope you won’t be terribly lonely. Or, for that matter, too un-lonely,’ she tittered.

  Enough was enough. ‘Actually, I’ve got a bit of a headache coming on. I’m so sorry, but I think I’m going to have to head to bed. Paula, thanks so much for coming round. Look after Seth for me,’ she said, kissing her on each cheek. She smelt of out-of-date face powder and lavender talc.

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ sighed Paula. ‘Though a mother is no substitute for a wife.’

  Certainly not one as vile as you, Summer thought to herself as she made her exit. She stubbed her toe on her suitcase as she climbed into bed, but it didn’t make her yelp. Instead, it made her smile. It was a reminder that an escape was just around the corner.

  Chapter Nine

  JERSEY, THURSDAY

  JUDE

  On Thursday, Jude was still in hospital, but he felt much better – physically, at least.

  A brusque nurse with grey curls had told him earlier that day that he was bound to suffer a lot of symptoms from now on – not just the headaches and lethargy he’d encountered so far. Most of the staff he’d come across had been lovely, but this particular nurse was clearly in the wrong job. She’d run through his potential symptoms in a tone that could only be described as enthusiastic. She might just as well have cackled in a villainous manner when she reached the end of the list.

  ‘Visual disturbances, nausea, dizzy spells, your movement may be affected . . .’ she’d forewarned, with an exaggerated frown.

  Jude had interrupted. ‘Thank you,’ he’d said dryly. ‘You’ve been incredibly reassuring.’

  ‘Just warning you!’ she’d replied, immediately riled and defensive. ‘You wouldn’t thank me if you thought it was going to be an easy ride and then you’re struck down out of the blue!’

  Jude had decided not to explain that he’d have slightly preferred to remain in the dark about her doom-mongering list.

  And anyway, for now, at least, he felt fine. He was a bit impatient, to be honest, which was odd considering his whole world had just turned upside down. It had all started as a result of a conversation with an old man he’d come across in the corridor the evening before. The chap, wearing stripy pyjamas and with wispy white hair that looked like it was trying to grow back after chemo, had taken one look at Jude and stopped him with a gnarled old hand.

  ‘You’ve had bad news,’ he said. His hand felt dry and comforting. ‘I can see it written all over your face.’

  Jude had been slightly taken aback. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I’ve got a brain tumour. It’s terminal.’ He could barely believe those words were coming out of his mouth.

  The man had shaken his head. ‘You’re too young to die. You’ve barely lived. Mind you, I’ve got to the ripe old age of eighty and I’ve not left any sort of positive mark on the world. I was a terrible husband, a useless father, a mediocre employee . . . I haven’t been a bad man but I haven’t been good either. When I die, which will be soon, no one will miss me or remember me as someone who achieved anything . . . as someone who cast any sort of light on the world. You take my advice,’ he said, gripping Jude’s hand harder. ‘If you’ve got any time left, then use it well. Don’t die alone, like I will.’

  Jude had returned to his room feeling desperately sad but, since that chat, he’d felt a little like he’d had some kind of energising shot in the arm. He wanted to get out of hospital, to start living his life. What was left of it. His phone bleeped.

  A text from Daisy: Can’t wait to see you tomorrow! Your room is all ready! Xoxoxo

  Jude had forgotten about his trip to London. Did he need to cancel it? But then, why couldn’t he go? In fact, it was perfect timing. He could explain everything to Daisy face-to-face, rather than over the phone. And what harm could it do? He was dying anyway, after all.

  ‘Am I okay to travel?’ Jude asked his consultant later the same day.

  ‘When were you thinking?’ Mr Vibert looked hesitant.

  ‘Tomorrow? Just to London. I know I haven’t even been discharged yet, but I really want to see my sister. I haven’t told her . . .’ He looked at the man beseechingly. ‘She’s a doctor!’ he added, suddenly inspired. ‘She’ll be able to look after me.’

  ‘Hmmm. Well, ordinarily I’d be telling you to take it extremely easy – just pottering about at home, no work for a few more days, no gadding about. I’ll tell you what. I’ll discharge you today, but please give your sister my number and let her know that I’m happy to discuss your care with her if she wishes,’ Mr Vibert said, jotting down his number on a slip of paper and handing it to Jude. ‘You’ll just need to sign a patient confidentiality waiver so I can discuss everything with her. And no running about! Just gentle plodding . . . Promise?’

  ‘Promise,’ Jude agreed.

  He arrived at Daisy’s flat in Notting Hill just in time for lunch and found his sister fussing about, laying the table for three. She looked nervous.

  He started to sing a Stevie Wonder number, a tradition he and his sister had embraced from a young age whenever it was either of their birthdays. ‘Ha-ppy biiirthday to ya! Ha-ppy biiirthday to ya! Ha-ppy birthdayyy!’

  ‘Oh Jude! It’s so fab to see you!’ she said, giving him a big hug. ‘I’ve got so much planned for us. There’s this new restaurant opening in town and masses of friends are going to meet us there, including this gorgeous girl called Giselle you haven’t met before . . .’

  Jude felt panic setting in as she listed all her plans. ‘Wait,’ he said, stopping her mid-flow. ‘Dais, there’s something I need to tell you . . . I’d better explain,’ he said, and he began.

  When he got to the bit about the tumour being inoperable, Daisy interrupted and began to gabble, not letting Jude finish – as if she couldn’t bear to hear the end of the story. ‘Is chemo an option? Or radiation?’ she said, her mouth smiling though her eyes looked wild. ‘You’ll be fine, Jude, I’m sure of it!’

  Jude shook his head. ‘No . . . Daisy, it’s terminal.’

  Daisy burst into tears, her whole body shaking. ‘But this is the very worst thing I’ve ever heard,’ she sobbed. ‘Have you told Mum and Dad?’

  ‘No, and I’m not going to just yet. I need time to digest it all. Promise you won’t tell them?’

  ‘Okay,’ she agreed, sniffing and shuddering. Jude handed her some tissues and they hugged again. At that moment, an attractive woman with peroxide-blonde hair and lots of piercings entered the kitchen.

  ‘Oh, sorry!’ she said. ‘Have I interrupted something? Are you okay, Daisy?’

  ‘This is Sam,’ Daisy explained to Jude, desperately wiping away her tears. ‘You know, Sam.’ Jude didn’t understand the emphasis. Who the hell was Sam? He looked confused.

  ‘Huh! My lover, you utter dope! My girlfriend, partner, whatever . . .’ Daisy blushed.

  ‘Oh, I see!’ Jude exclaimed, the penny finally dropping. So this explained why his sister hadn’t had any luck in love before now. She’d been barking up the wrong tree. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said to Sam, and they shook hands. Sam had a soft Canadian accent and – despite her outwardly confident appearance – seemed sweet and shy.

  Daisy pulled herself together and, after she�
��d called Jude’s consultant, they all had lunch, at which explanations were made about the two great revelations of the day. A bottle of wine broke the ice between Jude and Sam, and Daisy was clearly extremely happy about this, though intermittently Jude caught her staring at him sadly, her eyes frequently threatening tears.

  By the early evening, though, Daisy’s default positive approach had come to the fore. ‘Right,’ she said as she sat next to him on the sofa. ‘I’ve been on the phone to a friend who’s a trainee neuro-oncologist and he’s given me the contact details of an amazing neurosurgeon in London, so I suggest we start by getting a second opinion. Then I’ve got another pal who’s a nutritionist and I’ve spoken to her and she’s going to create a health plan for you so you can take an alternative approach as well. Her boyfriend’s an acupuncturist and works wonders, so we’ll get you booked in with him . . .’

  ‘Dais, stop,’ Jude said gently. ‘You don’t understand. I don’t want to fight this. I don’t want to waste time chasing second opinions and drinking disgusting juices in the months I’ve got left. I want to embrace life. It’s crazy, but the diagnosis has been like a massive kick up the bum. I just want to enjoy myself.’

  Daisy sank back on the sofa, deflated. ‘I don’t understand . . . If it was me, I just couldn’t accept it.’

  ‘Look, it’s not that I’ve accepted it as such. In fact, I don’t want to think about it all. I just don’t want to waste precious time doing stuff I feel is futile. I’m too cynical for all that. It might work for someone like you, because you’d believe it. But for a jaded old git like me, it’s just not going to.’

  Daisy sighed. ‘I see your point . . . But Jude, how do you intend to enjoy the time you’ve got left? You don’t exactly lead a riveting life in Jersey. Do you want to move in with us?’ she asked, excited at the thought.

  ‘I’ll come and stay more, but no – kind though your offer is, I’m going to head back home after this weekend. I’ll hand my notice in at work, see if I can find a new place to rent by the sea. I might even join an online dating agency, like you’ve suggested before. I may be dying, Dais, but I’ll tell you now – I’m finally going to start living.’