Love in Every Season

by Charlie Cochrane

  When I towelled down and started to get dressed I found my phone was flashing. I made sure nobody could see the message.

  Put in a good one? I should be so lucky it could happen to me.

  Nick’s latest offering appeared on the screen. He seemed able to find every possible double entendre about training.

  U wait until ur asked.

  I couldn’t help grinning, even though I felt guilty. This distraction wasn’t helping me get either my brain or my body in gear. Nick was so firmly ensconced in my life that I’d even outed him to Mum, that first evening in camp. She’d been on Skype, gossiping away and saying how she’d seen Mrs. White and how she’d been full of Matty looking like he was about to get engaged to his Jenny. Then she’d asked mum if there was any news of me on the marriage front.

  When Mum had told her that I was still as free as a bird and scattering my wild oats or something, Mrs. White had casually slipped in how I seemed to be scattering them a long time. I didn’t ask Mum if she’d responded with a bunch of fives although I wouldn’t have put it past her.

  “I was that cross, Ben. I just said you were a bit young to be thinking of settling down, so that took the wind out of her sails for a while.”

  “I bet it did. All of three seconds?”

  “About that, before she started off again.” Mum had laughed, although I could tell she was still wound up. “Usual rubbish. ‘Wasn’t it funny our Matty and your Ben running across each other even though Matty’s Dad had tried to stop them’.”

  “Had he? First I’ve heard of it.”

  “Oh, I don’t think it’s true. Your Dad ran across Mr. White last month and said he wants us all to come over for dinner, once the games are done. Just another bee in her bonnet because Matty didn’t spend Christmas with her.” That sounded like typical Matty’s mum behaviour. “Then she said that you’d struck up a friendship with Jenny’s brother.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s Nick. He’s a nice bloke.”

  It had sneaked out before I’d even realised, and there must have been something soppy in my tone because Mum had just said, “Oh. Well, I’m really pleased,” and changed the subject. If she thought he was nothing more than a friend she’d have asked about him, the way that she always asked about the rest of the swimmers I’d been training with.

  I’d spent the rest of the evening after that call worrying about whether Mum had twigged of her own accord that Nick was more than just a friend or if there’d been something else Mrs. White had let slip that I wasn’t being told about. I didn’t mind Mum and Dad knowing but I didn’t want Ben’s got a boyfriend being chanted up and down the high street, not least because it was the sort of thing the media would have had a field day about and I wasn’t ready for that.

  Anyway, I knew there was no point in maintaining cover with my family; it had been completely blown. Nick became a daily topic of conversation and while I made sure Mum knew we weren’t actually “courting”, which is her word for hanging about and eating each other’s faces, I couldn’t hide the fact that I liked him a lot. Mothers have ways of knowing and what they don’t know they wheedle out of you. I don’t know why MI5 doesn’t employ an army of them—they’d be a damn sight better at getting information on secret bases or spy networks than a whole army of James Bond types.

  Even Dad asked about him, showing Nick seemed to be in Edwards family favour all round. I was surprised Gran hadn’t suggested knitting me a sweater with the name “Nick” emblazoned across the front of it, like she’d made me one with Thomas the Tank Engine on when I was five.

  I think my casual mention of the family flat up west and the holiday home in France was the piece de resistance. Because the webcam was on the blink, I couldn’t actually see what Mum did when I told her, so I’m making a big assumption, but I bet she danced a jig or something equally embarrassing.

  And given my general state of mental confusion, I’m not sure the whole “How’s Nick?” thing being a standard part of any communication didn’t make things worse. I got the distinct impression they’d made us a couple before we’d made ourselves one, smutty e-mails notwithstanding. If Mum, Dad and Nick met up while watching my races, my parents would probably start asking him about possible wedding venues and who should be organising the guest lists.

  The flashing message notification nudged me out of my thoughts.

  Ask me as soon as poss, then. GTG. Speak soon.

  I replied. Will mail you 2nite. Off for workover with George the physio. He makes Mike Tyson look small.

  I dried off, got dressed and headed for my date with a pummelling. I reckoned that a good thumping about would sort me out physically, after which I could put in another decent gym session in the afternoon. All well and good, but where could I go to get a good pummelling for the contents of my head?

  ***

  The next day saw a bit of improvement; better attitude, better times, less thinking about Nick. I’d had a particularly erotic dream where we’d been going the whole way, both of us like at it like a pair of rabbits. Then, when we’d woken up in the morning, he’d given me the elbow. Just like that.

  I’d never even dreamed of having sex with anyone, let alone doing the deed itself and the uncomfortable feeling of intimacy immediately followed by treachery left me feeling wound up. I was out of sorts towards Nick all day, poor bloke, especially as he’d done nothing to deserve it. I hadn’t even made time to respond to his usual morning, How’s the sexiest swimmer on the squad? text with anything more than, Bit mad this morning. Speak later.

  I put my anger into racing, which seemed to have a positive effect on my times and so an even more positive effect on Brian. He was all encouragement that morning, praising me to high heaven for my improved performance and saying he was sure I was back on the right track. I think I should have twigged then that something was up because he was still giving some of the others right stick about their lack of form and they were putting in just as much effort as I was.

  The bombshell dropped that evening, just as I was getting a bit of pre-dinner shut eye. My mobile phone went, although I was too slow in waking up, working out where I’d left it and getting around to answering the bloody thing. I was just finding out who’d made the missed call when the thing went again.

  “Ben?” Dad had never really got the hang of mobile phones and how—unlike on the landline when anybody might pick it up— the person who answered was almost certainly bound to be the person you wanted to get hold of.

  “Yep?” I resisted the temptation to say it wasn’t me and that he’d inadvertently got hold of Zara Phillips or Sir Chris Hoy.

  “Sorry to bother you, son. I didn’t want you to have anything to worry about, but your coach said he’d rather you knew.”

  My stomach went into freefall. That was the sort of message, delivered in the sort of voice, which could only mean bad news. Gran was dead, wasn’t she. Or worse still… “Where’s Mum?” Why wasn’t it her on the line? It was always her job to deliver the serious stuff, which meant the message had to be about her.

  “She’s in the hospital. She’s fine.”

  Clearly she wasn’t fine if she was in the hospital—she never gets ill—and if Dad sounded so upset but trying to hide it then things had to be bad. And how had coach come into it, anyway? If Brian had been informed before me, things had to be terminal. Didn’t they?

  “What’s going on?” I was so upset my left arm had started to lose muscle tone and I had to swap the phone to my right ear, which I hate.

  “Appendicitis. She had terrible stomach pains the night before last. Refused to have the doctor out or anything, of course. Said it was wind. Anyway, I could tell it was more serious, so I ran her down to Casualty. They whipped the little blighter out yesterday.”

  “Why didn’t you ring me straight away?” They’d never kept anything from me before—we’re not that sort of family.

  “Sorry, Ben. I didn’t get back from the hospital until the wee small hours of yesterday. I dec
ided it wasn’t serious enough to come to you then, because it seemed to have been routine.”

  I noted the seemed to have been but let it ride for the moment. I was too busy trying to work out how quickly I could get myself home.

  “I talked to Brian Weston about whether I should call you direct and he advised me to hang fire.” Dad sounded sheepish and quite right, too. I wasn’t going to let him forget this too soon; I’d give him stick about it for longer than I’d done for the great X-Box failure. “He said I should ring now.”

  My stomach plummeted down its intestinal lift shaft again. “So what’s changed? She didn’t come round from surgery, did she? She’s in a coma. Tell me.” I was shaking like a leaf, could hardly keep the phone to my ear, even with my right hand.

  “Don’t be so daft. If the news was as bad as that Brian would have had my guts for garters for telling you by phone. I’d have come up in person. Worse than that, your mum would never have forgiven me. She’s just picked up a bit of a chest infection, that’s all. They’ve got her straight onto antibiotics so she should be right as rain in a few days.” Dad rarely lied, so I guess that had to be at worst a slightly rosy picture of what was going on. I could eliminate death’s door from my worries.

  “So why the panic phone call now?” He didn’t need to answer my question as I’d sussed it as soon as the words were out. Mum had rung me every day since I’d been in Manchester, without fail up until the previous day. Then I had a text from her—although now I realised it had to have been from Dad—saying she’d had to go and see a sick friend and could she be excused tonight’s chat? The thought of all the subterfuge going on made me hopping mad. If she hadn’t rung this evening, to check I was wearing my vest or whatever else she had on her maternal agenda, I’d have been getting panicky; they couldn’t have kept me in the dark much longer. I could have shot the lot of them, Mum included as I bet she was part of the conspiracy of silence. “No, don’t bother to answer. I bet I know why. When can I come and see her?”

  “As soon as you want. Brian says they’re quite happy to give you a bit of compassionate leave. He’s sorted out your travel plans for you, too.”

  The fact that people were organising my life for me made me even wilder. Would they have handled it this way if I’d been Chris Hoy? Did they honestly think I wouldn’t have been able to cope with a bit of bad news and sorting out some transport? “Why am I being treated like a fu…bloody child? I don’t appreciate everyone going behind my back.”

  “I know you don’t. I didn’t know what else to do. Honest, Ben.” Dad sounded on the verge of tears so I tried not to be so prickly. I know he’d have tried to do his best for me, even if he’d got it wrong.

  “It’s alright Dad, it’s just the shock talking. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.” I took a deep breath. “Tell me what Brian’s organised.”

  “He’s got a flight down to London booked for tomorrow. He’ll drive you to the airport himself and I’ll pick you up this end and take you to the hospital.” He sniffed in that distinctive way he’s always had and I could imagine his eyes rolling. “I had to promise that you’d wash your hands and not go near anyone with MRSA or norovirus. He doesn’t want one of his best medal chances scuppered.”

  I didn’t enquire whether the best medal chances line had come from Brian himself or been put in by Dad to sweeten me.

  “You two have got my every moment planned, I suppose?” Now that I’d started to look at things more reasonably, I began to appreciate being organised; it would take away one layer of worry. “How did the budget stretch to extra flights? I thought our funds were short?” My heart sank again, just as it had regained a bit of buoyancy. “You’ve not paid, have you?”

  “I offered, but Brian said I wasn’t to be so daft. I think he wangled a deal with the airline or something. Mercy mission, good publicity, all that sort of stuff. Whatever it was, I’m grateful.” Dad’s stiff upper lip was starting to turn floppy. Mum’s always been the really tough one of the pair and has had to handle all the tricky stuff. He was probably out of his depth and treading water like mad.

  “It’ll be fine, Dad. She’s a tough old bird—she’s come through worse and she’ll come through this.” I hadn’t been given all the details about my birth, but it had been a damned close run thing for the both of us. Just take my advice and don’t try having a baby on a bank holiday, remember? We’d both survived by the skin of our teeth and ever since we’ve been fighters.

  “I know she will.” A noise came down the phone like Dad was blowing his nose. “You won’t be too upset if you’re only home the one night? That’s all the time Brian would let us have you for. but it’ll be enough to see your mother and put your mind at rest.”

  “That’s fine. It’s all fine.” I needed to blow my own nose. “I’ll ring you when I’m at Manchester airport and know if the flight’s going to be on time.”

  “Sounds good. See you tomorrow, Ben. Love you.”

  “Love you too, Dad.”

  I made sure my bit of a cry was all done and dusted and I’d got myself back into decent nick before I went to see Brian. He was great, as he usually is in any sort of a crisis. He’d got all the transport details, organised both ways and was just concerned that I got through the next few days without falling apart.

  “Right. So you can get your mind back where it should be—on racing.” He’d put a lot of time and effort into me and he wanted both of us to reap the rewards. “And if you needed any extra incentive to get yourself into the zone, this is it. Nothing’s going to be better at getting your mum well than a handful of medals.”

  He always knew how to hit the nail on the head. Too right this was going to get me into the zone—I couldn’t afford feeling sorry for myself any longer. Nor was there any space left for self-indulgent daydreams about Nick Prior. I had to win, if not for me, then for Mum and Dad. And if that sounds clichéd, I’m not going to apologise. I’m bloody lucky to have such bloody brilliant parents. “Will do, coach. Just let me put my mind at rest about Mum and I’ll be flying.”

  “Good lad.” He gave me a hug, then took me down to dinner, steering me towards a group of my best swimming mates, ones he’d clearly already tipped the wink to. They kept my spirits up, joking over the meal—enough but not too much, they were real troupers—and afterwards enticing me into some games of cards to take us up to lights out. They all wished my mum well—I was going to have to pass on loads of messages—and let me get an early night.

  The well-wishing stuff from the lads wasn’t just flannel; there’s a lot of family support for Paralympians and when we’re competing at the pool all the mums and dads and grannies and significant others hang out together. If you want to find them, just follow the noise. My parents had got sucked into the scene, willingly, and now Dad was one of the most active supporters, waving his flag and shouting, “Be-e-en, Be-e-en” or “Sascha, Sascha” louder than anyone else. So, they’d gotten to know the guys, the guys knew them and everyone genuinely wanted Mum to get better soon.

  I’m not sure if that didn’t make it worse; certainly, the feeling of wanting to have a good cry was getting stronger by the moment. We can’t help it, coming over all emotional—it’s because we’re sportsmen. Look at the England rugby team. Even though they’re hard as nails and built like the side of a barn, you can see them in floods tears before the game even starts, blubbering all through “God Save the Queen”.

  Time to head for my room and have a good cry there.

  ***

  I had an early night, although I didn’t sleep well, and not because I was dreaming about Nick, for once. I woke up groggy, with a stinking head and grateful that I didn’t have to hit the water for a couple of days. I hoped I hadn’t picked up the bug which was doing the rounds or else they wouldn’t let me in to see Mum. The last thing I needed was another complication. The first part of the next day passed in one of those sorts of hazes where you clean your teeth and blink your eyes and suddenly find your plane’s touc
hing down and you’re not really sure how you got there. Or where all the intervening hours went.

  Still, there was Dad waiting in the arrivals area and I couldn’t wait for him to be giving me a big hug. There was a press photographer there, too, as somehow the Daily Telegraph had got itself involved in making the mercy mission happen. He was okay, not too intrusive, taking a couple of pictures and making some notes and then leaving us alone.

  I was hoping that was the last camera I’d see for a while; I didn’t want to be worried about what the tabloids were up to as well as being worried about Mum and still having Nick buzzing in my brain. Why did fate, which had been doing a grand job so far the last few months, seem to have decided it was going to scupper my medal chances? Was the universe trying to find any way it could of getting between me and Olympic glory? I know, I sound really emo, but when you’ve worked so hard and done all the right things and suddenly everything’s conspiring against you, it’s hard to be totally objective.

  At least getting to the hospital and seeing Mum made me feel a lot better; she wasn’t quite so close to death’s door as I’d anticipated. She looked pretty chipper, to be honest, although I suspected a lot of it was being put on for my benefit. She kept playing down her infection, even when she got wheezy and had to have some whiffs of oxygen.

  “It’s not a lot more than a cold,” she lied, quite blatantly. “Now, stop asking about me, that’s boring. If I have to be stuck here flat on my back, I want to be entertained.”