The A-Z of Everything

by Debbie Johnson

  He feels like crying, and gives himself a stern talking to. There will be time for self-pity later – right now needs to be all about her.

  ‘Maybe you should, Lewis,’ she says, rooting around in the make-up bag that sits on her lap. ‘And I can’t say that I’d mind. I’d much rather say my farewells to this cruel world with a handsome man in my bed …’

  ‘Well,’ he replies, fussing around with the camera, ‘I’ll pop out later and see if I can find you one, then. What do you fancy, Daniel Craig? Or something a bit more old-school with a lot of chest hair, like Burt Reynolds?’

  She’s not listening now, he can tell. She has her little compact mirror out, and is inspecting her reflection. The grimace on her face implies she’s not entirely delighted with what she sees. With a shaking hand, she tries to grip a brush, dip it in powder, touch herself up for her final scene. It is pitiful to watch, and he can’t bear it.

  He puts the camera down, lumbers towards her, and sits at her side. There is, sadly, plenty of room for both of them. He takes the brush and the powder, and goes to work. He adds some blush, and a touch of colour to her lips. They are cracked and thin, dehydrated. Like her body is rejecting anything that will sustain it.

  Patiently, she endures his fussing without a single word of abuse. She must be feeling bad, he knows, to miss an opportunity to mock him for his make-up skills. All those years in the village amateur dramatics have not been wasted.

  ‘Are you done, Max Factor?’ she says, her head lolling back on to the pillow, as though holding it up has drained her of all energy. ‘How do I look?’

  He reaches out, and smooths down her hair. It is a dazzling shade of silver-grey, closely cropped to her skull in one of those boyish styles that only the very beautiful can carry off. And Andrea is beautiful – or at least she had been. Now, the once-stylish cheekbones – the type his mother always said ‘aged well’ – are poking out like wires, and her skin is stretched taut, like the world’s worst facelift.

  Her eyes are clouded by pain – she’s refused to take any medication this morning, saying she needs her wits about her – but are still the same striking shade he will always remember. Such a deep blue they are almost violet. Elizabeth Taylor eyes.

  He’s seen Andrea in many of her TV roles, from back in her heyday, and she was what they would have called a ‘stunner’ back then. She was never a star, and hasn’t appeared on screen in anything new since 2005, but she still occasionally gets fan mail, or an invitation to appear at a convention. A lot of people would recognise her – those eyes. That face. All the roles she played in the 1970s and 1980s, usually as someone’s love interest, or a feisty barmaid, or what she called Posh Totty.

  Never quite the leading lady – but then again, interesting roles for women were sadly lacking then, and she had two kids to look after as well. These days, she’d have smashed it, he thinks – been a Keeley Hawes or a Rachel Weisz or a Kate Winslet. Still, even when she was playing the Tart with a Heart on The Sweeney or a Sexy Alien Sidekick in Doctor Who, she was always good. Always stupendously glamorous. Always unforgettable.

  In fact, the only people who seemed to have been able to forget Andrea are the two people she loves the most. The two people she’s about to record her final message for, after weeks of preparation. Of field trips for him. Of rooting through photo albums, making cassette tapes, emptying out bin bags, setting up video-sharing accounts, drawing on maps with red pen, pilfering from scrapbooks. Pillaging their past, in the determined hope that she can change their future.

  He has no idea if it will work. He has no idea if he even cares – they’re not real to him, Rosehip and Popcorn. He’s never met them, and has no real desire to. She banned him from contacting them to explain that she really is ill this time (from that, he deduces that Andrea may have tried to scam them with dramatic hospital visits before now, just to get their attention), and that suits him just fine. He’s been friends with Andrea for more than ten years and never been introduced to them, which says it all.

  Partly, he thinks, looking on as she sucks in breath, eyes closed, fingers weakly clinging on to the blanket with her coral-painted nails, she didn’t want them to see her like this. Reduced to skin and bones held together with sheer force of will. Partly, she is so focused on this crazy plan of hers that it has now become more real to her than anything else, clinging to it and pinning all her hopes on it.

  She is convinced that this is her legacy. That this will work. That she will be able to achieve in her death the one thing she was never able to achieve in life – bringing her daughters back together again.

  As far as Lewis is concerned, those two deserve less of a second chance, and more of a good whipping – so caught up in the past, in their own petty bitterness, that neither of them could see what it was doing to their mother. It had been destroying her, from the inside out, just as surely as the cancer, and neither of them seemed to notice or care.

  She’s seen them, of course – there have been weekends away, trips to their homes, nights out at shows in London. But never at the cottage. Never in the same room. Never together – and that’s what did the damage. That’s what caused the internal injuries that all the MRI scans in the world wouldn’t show up.

  He still has no idea what the two of them were even feuding about – Andrea has always cast a dramatic glance skyward, and uttered something vague. But surely it wasn’t serious enough to cause this – to leave their own mother spending her last weeks on this earth coming up with some crazy plan to reunite them?

  Maybe, he thinks, she is right not to have told them. She wants to be remembered as she was, not as she is. And perhaps, deep down, she doubts that even a call to her deathbed will bring them together, and that would be more than she could bear.

  His motives, his reasons for being grateful for their absence, are less pure. Lewis thinks they simply don’t deserve her. But what does he know? He’s never had children. It would be possible now, in this day and age – he’d find a nice lesbian couple and come to some arrangement, or even do an Elton John and David Furnish and maybe adopt. But back in his era … well, confirmed bachelors didn’t become fathers, simple as that. And from what he’s seen of Andrea’s life, he’s quite glad about it.

  He reaches out and takes one of her hands in his. He has huge hands – he is built like a grizzly bear – and hers are tiny. Her skin is fragile, like the dusty paper in an antique book, and he holds it gently, scared it might disintegrate and fly away with the slightest touch. He feels her fingers twine into his, and is grateful to be there. She might not have her daughters, but she is not alone.

  ‘Is it all sorted, do you think, Lewis?’ she whispers, startling him from his thoughts. He’d assumed she was on the verge of another fitful bout of sleep.

  ‘Do you think I’ve done enough?’ she says, her fingers clinging to his, looking for reassurance.

  ‘Darling, it is all beyond sorted. I have never seen you display such organisational skills as I have in the last few weeks. It will be enough, I promise. So don’t worry about a thing – I know what to do. Everything is ready, and I’ll play my part to perfection.’

  ‘Ha! That’ll be a first, then …’ she murmurs, sarcastically. Ever the critic. Just because once – once – he dropped the bloody skull during his am-dram Hamlet.

  She tries to sit up, and he sees she is struggling. He helps her move forward, and adjusts the bed so she is propped upright. He casts one last glance over her – the hair as neat as it can be, the make-up done, the dreaded earrings gone. She’s insisted on wearing ‘proper clothes’, even though her cream-silk blouse is now hanging off her shoulders, and has doused herself in Chanel Coco, as though the girls will have some kind of sniff-o-vision when they watch this.

  ‘Okay,’ she says, drawing in a big breath. ‘I think I’m ready. I can practically see a man with a scythe lurking in the corridor by the vending machine, my love, so we’d better get on with it. The show must go on. All set?’

&nbs
p; He nods, and switches the camera on. He’s never been much of a one for technology, and he’s had to learn fast. Now, if he ever tires of playing the Solid Rural Lawyer, he can become an internet whizz-kid instead.

  ‘Testing, testing, uno-dos-tres …’ Andrea says, her voice high and firm; stronger than he’s heard it for days. What a trouper.

  He adjust his angles, knowing that she will insist on reshooting this if it doesn’t meet her high standards, and gives her the thumbs-up.

  She turns those brilliant eyes towards him, and smiles into the lens. It’s a perfect close-up, and she plays it exactly right.

  ‘My darlings. Rosehip, Popcorn, my only true loves. Not to be too Hollywood about this, but if you’re watching this tape, that can mean only one thing: I have shuffled off this mortal coil … and you two are going to need each other more than ever. You need to set aside your differences, and look out for each other – just like you always used to.’

  Chapter 3

  Beacon C of E Primary School, 1986

  ‘I’m going to rub your nose in that dog poo, you stuck-up cow,’ says Jackie Wells, holding Rose’s face down on the grass by the scruff of her neck.

  It’s Rose’s last year at little school, and she has committed the cardinal sin of being clever. She’s won all the prizes; she’s pretty and popular and even good at netball. Of course Jackie Wells hates her.

  ‘You don’t even have a dad, and if you did, my dad would beat him up,’ adds Jackie, sitting on Rose’s back. Rose has no doubt about that; Jackie’s dad looks like a Tonka truck.

  She struggles, trying to throw her 11-year-old nemesis off her back, but only succeeding in wriggling ineffectually on the school playing field. She glances ahead, sees flat green grass and, not very far away, a lovely pile of dog mess is buzzing with flies.

  If she was on her feet, she might stand a chance against Jackie – but unfortunately for her (and for Jackie), the child takes after her father and already weighs as much as that baby hippo they saw on the school trip to Chester Zoo.

  Naturally enough, there are no teachers in sight, and the small circle of kids gathered around the spectacle seem to be enjoying it. The ones that aren’t – Rose’s friends – look twitchy and embarrassed and worried, but too scared of Jackie to intervene.

  Rose tries to remind herself of her mother’s oft-repeated words, the ones about jealousy being the mother of all aggression.

  That might be true, Rose thinks, but it’s not much of a consolation right now. Not when her uniform is covered in grass stains and her face is smeared with soil and she’ll be eating poo for lunch.

  She flails around, trying to kick Jackie with her Clark’s shoes, but can’t manage it. All that happens is that Jackie presses her face even harder into the ground, and for a terrifying few moments, she can’t breathe at all. She can hear jeers and shouts and the brave, solitary cry of her best friend, Tasmin: ‘Leave her alone, or I’ll fetch Miss Cunningham!’

  That is followed by a small, sad yelp, so Rose has to assume that Tasmin has paid the price for her courage.

  Jackie pulls her head up, using Rose’s long, curly ponytail like a handle, and slams her face back down into the damp ground. She feels soil smash between her teeth and into her mouth, and again panics as the world goes dark.

  Just as she is about to give up and accept her early death, there is an ear-splitting screech, and Jackie’s hefty weight is suddenly gone.

  Rose takes a brief moment to suck in air, then rolls around so she can see what is going on. Poppy has arrived, in a blur of violence and fury, and is holding Jackie down while she punches her in the head. Rose has no idea how she is doing that, as she is not only two years younger than Jackie, but most of a baby hippo lighter.

  ‘Don’t!’ she yells, punctuating each word with a blow from her screwed-up fists, ‘Ever! Touch! My! Sister!’

  Obviously, it’s at that point that Miss Cunningham arrives, and the group of spectators magically all disappear off to play football or collect ladybirds or talk about Zammo in last night’s episode of Grange Hill.

  Miss Cunningham physically drags Poppy away from Jackie, who is left cowering and crying and, yes, Rose notices with some satisfaction, covered in smears of the exact same dog poo she was threatening her with just moments ago.

  Poppy is trembling with anger, her long, scrawny body vibrating with emotion. She looks over at Rose, who is getting to her feet now, and is instantly calmed by her big sister’s smile. The smile that tells her that everything is okay, that it will all be fine, and that there is nothing to worry about.

  Rose knows that Poppy is going to get into trouble for this. But she also knows, deep down, that she wouldn’t have it any other way. Rose might be the one who seems to look after them both – but when push comes to shove, it’s always Poppy who is willing to rush right in and batter someone. She’s her avenging angel, and anyone who crosses her pays the price.

  Rose dusts herself down, and prepares the case for the defence. As soon as she is upright, Poppy flees from Miss Cunningham’s lecture, and throws herself into her arms. She’s so skinny, and she’s crying, and her hair is all messed up, and she looks a bit like a tramp.

  Rose hugs her, and smooths her hair down, and whispers into her ear: ‘Thank you, Popcorn. And don’t worry – it’s all going to be okay.’

  ‘Mum’s going to kill me …’ Poppy mutters, the reality of the situation starting to sink in as Miss Cunningham prowls towards them, hands on hips and scowl on face.

  ‘Mum,’ replies Rose, 100 per cent sure this is true, ‘will completely understand. And she’ll probably take us out for tea to celebrate.’

  Chapter 4

  The Present Day

  Lewis is sitting on a traffic bollard, a few feet outside the hospital foyer. It’s not very comfortable, despite his bulk, and he wishes there was somewhere more pleasant to sit. Maybe he’ll donate a bench, he thinks, in memory of Andrea.

  The Andrea Barnard Memorial Bench. It would welcome the arses of the cold, the lonely, the ill, the desperate. She’d absolutely hate it, he decides, and the thought of the look of contempt on her face makes him smile. If there’s a heaven, she’ll be shaking her fists and uttering dire threats. ‘Something with a bit more class, please, darling,’ she’d say. ‘A nice little tequila bar, perhaps? God knows these poor people need a drink!’

  It’s late now – somewhere after 10 p.m. on what has been a very long day. By now, he’d usually be tucked up in bed with an episode of Antiques Roadshow, or reading a good Barbara Cartland.

  It’s a Friday, so he’d have a nice lie-in the next morning, before taking a brisk constitutional in the valley. Maybe he’d persuade Andrea to come with him. Perhaps, if the weather was good, they’d go for a paddle in the lake with his ancient springer spaniel, Betty.

  For Lewis, and for poor old Betty, there will at least be another morning. Another sunrise. Another chance to wonder at the world – not that it looks very impressive when all you can see is a neon-drenched hospital car park and frazzled paramedics on a fag break.

  For Andrea, there will be nothing. No more sunrises. No more tequila. No more Antiques Roadshow, unless she’s been shown Downstairs, where she’ll be taunted by scary-looking dolls and ugly pottery for all of eternity.

  She’s gone, and he’s struggling to believe it can possibly be true – that somehow the world continues on as normal. There should be a black hole in the sky; a swarm of shooting stars to mark her passing, a murder of crows lined up on the bus stop cawing her name. Not just this … mundane reality.

  She made her film, and he had marvelled at her. At her strength and her resolve and her determination. He knew how ill she was, how much pain she was in – but you couldn’t tell from that video. She somehow managed to be loving and firm and even funny. Quite frankly, it had been the performance of a lifetime.

  He’d been the liability, not her, with his shaking hands and constant need to blink tears from his eyes. Pathetic. He was a mess �
� she was a powerhouse.

  Once she’d done it, though (one take, miraculously making it sound spontaneous even though he knew she’d rehearsed it), it seemed like whatever life and energy she had left drained out of her. It was her last hurrah, and within minutes of filming that one last close-up, her grey head dropped back into the lumps and bumps of the pillow as she fell into a long, staring silence.

  There’d been a few sniffles after that, a few quick, breathless questions asking how she’d done, but he knew – he knew that it was all she had left to give, and she’d given it to her daughters. After that, it was silence and morphine all the way to the end.

  It was a strange experience, seeing someone die. He wasn’t even sure she’d gone when it finally happened, after several false alarms.

  On one occasion, she went what felt like minutes without drawing in a breath, then when he went to check on her, she suddenly opened her eyes and made him scream like a big, fat girl. At least that provoked a laugh – albeit one that ended in a coughing fit.

  Almost an hour ago, though, it ended. It all ended. That glorious life, that wicked sense of humour, that vigorous bundle of vitality. Sixty-five years of love and laughter and experience – all gone. One papery hand fell away from the blanket to dangle loosely over the edge of the bed, coral nails vivid against the white sheets, and the other – clutched into his – became limp and lifeless.

  He waited, and waited, and waited some more. Part of him had been desperate for this moment – for her to be put out of her torment. But part of him felt like he had simply died with her, which wouldn’t have been the world’s biggest tragedy. He’d wanted to crawl into that bed, pull the sheets over them both, and just stop breathing. Stop existing.