‘If you have any other questions, let me know. Again, I am very sorry,’ he said, closing the laptop, lifting himself off the table and heading for the door.
‘I want to stay with him now. Just me and him, is that all right?’ Mary asked, speaking to the doctor’s back.
He spun around and smiled at her. ‘Certainly it is. We can make a bed up for you,’ he said.
‘No, no, that’s not necessary. I just want to stay with him, be next to him, close to him,’ she repeated.
He nodded and walked out of the relatives’ room.
We followed and wandered back over to Clifford’s bed, not saying a word to each other. What was there to say?
I thought about what the consultant had suggested, that I say my goodbyes, but my mind was blank, unable to conjure up a poignant message to relay to Clifford.
Spontaneously, I leant in toward him.
‘I am leaving now,’ I said. ‘You mean the world to me, you know that,’ I added, as he nodded slightly.
As I stood up, Mary turned and kissed my cheek and we embraced. She whispered her thanks for me coming up so often, for going through the past few minutes with her in the relatives’ room, and then made a revelation to me that made my words to Clifford seem inadequate.
‘Clifford thinks of you as a son, Eddie,’ she said gently.
And with her words, Clifford reached up, squeezed my hand over Mary’s shoulder and winked a watery, tired eye at me.
Still processing her statement, I watched as she took her place beside her husband and fed one of the earphones into Clifford’s left ear, then plugged the other into her right. She gently laid her cheek on his shoulder, making sure it wasn’t causing him discomfort, and stroked the side of his face with the back of her left hand, and all the while their eyes were transfixed on the screen of escape, fantasy and make-believe positioned in front of them. They remained in that position, a lifetime of love, devotion and memories captured in the image.
Clifford murmured something through his mask.
‘That’s right, that’s the answer – Manuel’s “hamster” was called Basil,’ repeated Mary, laughing, lifting her head slightly to find her husband’s eyes with hers.
I walked away, a slight smile of understanding upon my lips; aware I had witnessed two different examples of love tonight, knowing I had been privileged to absorb both. One in the present shined pure with positivity and would do so until the inevitable end. The other burned with the unforgiving fuel of ‘what if’s and ‘if only’s. Unlike Gus, whose decisions I believed were misguided and shaped by his grief, I now understood completely that my own foolish, spontaneous lurch into happiness was not sustainable – how could it ever last? Humbled by this constant husband and wife in front of me, I finally had the sign; I finally realised I really needed to conform, to make what I had, what I shared, work. Just as Mary looked at Clifford, so I needed to really see Sally; it was the change I had to make.
Chapter 14
The Twenty-Second Rule
Unfortunately, Sally didn’t see me. I arrived back to the now-customary empty house and called her to tell her about Clifford’s deterioration and cursed as the line switched to voicemail. Sally replied by text an hour later, stating flatly that she was sorry to hear the news, and that she would see him Friday night and would be back within the hour. I wanted to tell her about Clifford’s decision to allow no more visits, but knew I had to do this face-to-face. I needed her to listen, to empathise with my experience of my last moments with Clifford. I felt as lost and as helpless as Jennifer did following her involvement with Elliot Wallace and the dog-fighting ring. I had felt this emotion for one terrible moment before, but this time I needed to reach out to Sally, needed her to rub my back in the same soothing manner she had willingly done for Jennifer.
On Wednesday, the night before my last visit to Clifford, she was actually in the house when I arrived. She asked if I wanted some pasta – she had made enough, she explained; it just needed to be heated through again. Three months ago, Sally would have contacted me in my van as I travelled back from my last performance and asked what time I would be arriving back to begin the preparation of the meals that we ate together. She invariably would ask what I fancied; though sometimes she’d request I pick up something specific from the convenience store on the main road, ten minutes from the house, but it was always consulted, always together.
In ninety days it had deteriorated into this: us rarely being in the house together, rarely speaking, never eating meals together and me grateful to have been shown a level of consideration by being offered a portion of dried-out pasta, where Sally had made too much, I presume, for herself. The once-gleaming, in fact overly clean kitchen, along with the rest of the house, is now rapidly giving way to dirt, grime and grubbiness. I try to keep on top of it, but to be truthful, I only really seem to notice when the dishwasher is full and the cutlery drawer holds no more butter knives, or my reflection in the bathroom mirror is hidden beneath a dull sheen of splash-marks.
We do not even endure the weekly food shop together any more; instead, Sally has opened an online grocery account. At the time of booking she must have instructed for the delivery to be stacked in the wood store along the side of the house, I guess because she is out so often these days.
I have also ceased speaking about her bees with her. I have no idea how long business and contract negotiations take to conclude, but it should have been handshakes and champagne toasts by now, I reasoned to myself many times. I counteracted this by suggesting that ensuring a deal was in your favour would take time, and this is the point Sally must surely be at. There must be a stumbling block, yet Sally seems to be managing this on her own.
If she isn’t tending her bees, speaking with the supermarket, or with her brother working on the plan to conquer the solar panels market with ‘Eco-Lites’, she is at Ignatius McKenzie’s house having spiritual sessions. From her initial weekly visits, Sally now attends two or three times a week. Last week she changed her Saturday evening sessions to Saturday afternoon instead. This was, she said, because Ignatius had a double session in the afternoon, which meant they had a greater length of time to connect. I wanted to ask how much these regular visits are costing, but held my thoughts, knowing it would not be received well; through the shouting, I would inevitably be reminded categorically that it is her money. I also wondered what effect this has on her mental health, but this was another subject I could not discuss with her. Her Saturday evenings are once again spent at home, but with Jennifer not recommencing her visits she spent her Saturday night last week soaking in the bath before retiring alone for an early night. I am sure she will do the very same this week too.
I admit that, from time to time, I have found the physical side of our relationship difficult, and Sally is fully aware of the reasons for this. With Clifford and Mary’s long-standing love for each other as my benchmark, combined with Sally providing some food, albeit not to share, that night I contemplated initiating the affection she has craved on many occasions.
Sally sat reading a newspaper after I came into the living room from the kitchen; the dishwasher, full to capacity, had begun its pre-wash cycle. Henry followed on behind me and wandered over to Sally. She tickled his ears without looking at him, but soon tired of his licking and panting and instructed him to lie down, which, Henry being Henry, he dutifully ignored. He soon reacted to her stern, irritable ‘Go away’ though, and settled himself beside my chair.
‘The pasta was great, thanks for that,’ I offered into the still room.
‘Are you working on Saturday?’ she asked, ignoring my compliment.
‘I’ve got two bouncy castles to set up before two, then a magic show at four, all ready and loaded up.’
Sally didn’t answer. Instead, she put down the newspaper and stood up.
‘I am going to bed,’ she uttered, crossing the
room, and left without another word.
‘I’ll be up in a minute,’ I called after her.
And so I was.
Sally lay propped up on a couple of pillows, concentrating on a book.
‘I didn’t know you liked Dickens,’ I said, looking at the cover of Little Dorrit in her hands.
‘Always liked it,’ she replied.
‘Well, I never knew that,’ I said.
Sally ignored me, pulled her pillows into a reclining position, reached to turn her bedside light out and turned her back to me. I counted the seconds in my head as I waited in the darkness for my eyes to adjust to the rapid change in light. I slipped into the bed, my weight displaced on my forearm, and moved toward her. I reached around her waist as my lips gently brushed the top of her shoulder and travelled up her neck to her jawline.
‘Eddie, no! I need to be up early tomorrow,’ she stated firmly, moving her head away from my advances.
With the words halting my plans before they had begun, I removed my hand from around her waist. The crushing pain of rejection taunted my self-worth and my confidence retreated back with my body to my side of the bed.
Sally again patted her pillows flat and shuffled further away from me to the very edge of the bed. One of us should retire to the guest room, I thought, but I didn’t want to move, I didn’t want to draw any more attention to myself than I already had with my actions. I turned over onto my back and stared up at the ceiling, my eyes now fully adjusted to the darkness.
Lying next to someone that doesn’t want you to be there is not healthy.
‘Goodnight, Sally,’ I said into the darkness.
I could now see the entire outline of the ceiling of the bedroom, and knew sleep would evade me for some considerable time yet. Should I try again with Sally? Should I try to coax my confidence back for one final push? Then the sound of Sally lightly breathing in her sleep, pretend or otherwise, made the decision for me.
In an instant I was again that very young and clumsy man in a bar, struggling to sit down in the cramped space provided by the tightly packed tables. It was the fourth bar of the evening, a long evening of pre-Christmas drinks, an evening of games, high spirits and pranks.
As I swung to manoeuvre my trailing leg into position to join my friends, it jolted the next table and forced the girl nearest to me, with her back to our table, to spill her drink over her top. She gave out a little yelp, followed by those around her table laughing at her wet shirt and my blundering approach to sitting down. I apologised profusely, but she said it was not a problem. She was extremely beautiful, her hair dark and face concealed by a perfectly applied cover of make-up. I offered to buy her a drink to make up for the one I had spilt, but she was adamant in her reply of no and gave the impression that no further conversation should take place.
Later, when it was my round, I returned from the crowded bar carrying three pints through a wall of drunk and unreceptive people. Nearing the table, she got up suddenly and swung around, jarring one of the pints out of my hand and spilling half the contents of the glass over the left side of her white top. I tried hard to resist but the combination of young hormones and drunken, weary eyes found my gaze transfixed on her small, pert left breast. Though the shirt was now horribly discoloured by a dirty wet stain, my slightly blurred vision only saw the rise of her nipple underneath, reacting to the cold liquid.
‘I am so sorry,’ I mumbled at her, still looking at her breast, though in my mind I was convinced I was being subtle.
‘That’s okay,’ she replied. ‘Although, my face is up here!’
I took the hint and looked into her face, and saw a big, warm smile upon her lips.
‘Should I buy you that drink now?’ I asked sheepishly.
‘Yes, you should!’ she answered as I looked beyond her and noticed that most of her table was now empty.
‘You best come with me in case I spill it,’ I replied, looking directly at her with confidence, while she laughed out loud.
I really had no idea where any of this was coming from. I was usually rubbish around girls. I became tongue-tied or glowed bright red with embarrassment if one spoke to me, and on many occasions, both actions occurred simultaneously. My friends, on the other hand, seemed to have no such problems and bigged themselves up with outlandish boasts and tall stories of epic proportions. I was, as far as I could be sure, the only one not to have ‘scored’ with a girl yet, although I kept this information to myself.
Pushing our way back to the bar, this time with this girl, seemed right.
I remember it took an age to get served – every time I caught a bartender’s eye for more than a fleeting second, they decided to serve the person next to me, always a girl. Eventually the drinks came and I tipped hers toward her as if I was going to spill it, before handing it to her. She told me her name was Sally, and that she thought it was a strange chat-up technique to throw drinks over a girl, but I was very likeable, she said. I wasn’t sure then, and I still am not sure what that actually meant. I almost made some outlandish boasts but held back, though I did tell one tall story of mild proportions before the ‘time’ bell rang, signalling the end of the evening.
We kissed tentatively outside, the cold December night air shaking the alcohol from our systems. When asked, she agreed to meet me at the cinema on the following Wednesday.
I lay in our darkened bedroom, trying for the life of me to remember the name of the movie we saw on our first ‘proper’ date, but try as I might, the title evaded me.
That daunting first introduction to the family followed swiftly on. On entry, the house was like a furnace! Sally’s father insisted the central heating should be on in all areas of the house. I found out afterwards from Sally that he only did this to make a good impression on me; normally he was reluctant to open up the warmth to all areas of the house in order to save money, preferring instead for himself, Sally’s mother and her brother to wear sweaters to compensate. Contrary to what I was led to believe, we were expected to eat a hearty meal prepared for us – this was near impossible, due to the meal we had already eaten in a cafe beforehand and the subtropical conditions we found ourselves in. I persevered, knowing that good first impression would be crucial, and even tackled the substantial pile of soft carrots, a vegetable I hate, overcooked or otherwise, that covered a quarter of the surface of my plate.
As our relationship grew, it naturally steered toward engagement, then marriage. Sally loved the idea of her ‘big day’, as she called it. I chose the engagement ring with her and handed over a month’s salary to pay for it. She selected her wedding dress with her mother. Her father insisted on paying most of the expenses – he wasn’t, in his words, going to let his only princess down, and seemed to believe that providing the lion’s share of the finances enabled him and his wife to dictate how and on what the money was spent.
In those spontaneous quiet times partners have when they share and map out their dreams and future together, both Sally and I constructed a small wedding, a relaxed gathering in a village hall with a select number of friends and family in autumn, our favourite time of year, when the warmth from the previous season still radiates from the ground, the sun sits low in the sky and the world is bathed in red, brown and orange, as nature prepares to sleep. This was far removed from the actual day that was pummelled by midsummer storms, whose persistent thunderclaps made the greeting of, in my case, strangers; in Sally’s case, little-known uncles, aunts and cousins difficult as they filed past, en masse, into the two hundred-seat marquee, and with each crash of thunder, Sally jumped nervously.
We purposely did not provide a wedding list; instead we asked that if people were kind enough to think of us could they please provide cash as an alternative? This was to enable us to choose the items we wanted as we started our married life together. The communication went unheeded, and the numerous wedding gifts we insisted we d
id not want all still had to be acknowledged with thank-you cards. Initially Sally intended to write individual cards for each gift, bearing a special message for each guest. However, after completion of the first, she succumbed to my idea of a generic approach for each replicated gift that surrounded us. When we had finished writing and were ready to envelope and stamp up, we had twelve cards of thanks for the toaster, seven enthusing about the kettle, eighteen for the mantelpiece clock and twenty-five plus expressing our gratitude for the towel set. Seven people received individual notes in recognition of the generous cash gift they provided.
My mind then turned to that day, that special day three years into our marriage, when Sally insisted we met for a pub lunch because she had news to share. She refused to divulge, until I was seated next to her, what this was – and I was glad she had been insistent as I felt my knees shake under the table when she finally spoke. Again, we had offers of financial support and advice from her family, but we knew what we wanted to do, and our dreams and future would now develop and change over the forthcoming months. We had tried to grow up over the past three years, to make our own decisions, to make our own path. We did take one piece of advice though, and decided to paint the spare bedroom walls ‘buttercup yellow’.
And at this point, the memories became blocked as I willed sleep to find me, to take me away from further change and regrettable broken dreams behind my now-closed eyes.
My mind began to drift, to extract random thoughts and flashes; two bears on roller skates led me through a shaded alley to a sun-drenched courtyard. And as they wheeled away, leaving me alone, the title of the movie from our first date came back to me at last: It’s a Wonderful Life, I remembered. Yes, of course that was the name, I thought, as sleep came to me.
Yesterday morning, I took Gus to the airport as arranged, my lack of communication easily explained as my response to Clifford’s prognosis. I did not relay the actual timescale involved as per the consultant’s opinion, only that Clifford would not be going home, would not be able to leave hospital. I knew if I told Gus, he would simply worry while he was away, and what could he do? What could any of us do now? I also omitted to mention Clifford’s personal decision regarding no more visits. Gus genuinely seemed a little hurt that Mary had chosen to share the prognosis only with me. Or maybe he was merely regretting exposing himself so openly and leaving prematurely yesterday. Whatever the truth, we hardly spoke on the drive.
Chasing the Sun with Henry Page 21
