by Wade, Calvin
“You know you have! Asking for kisses after hugs, gazing really intently at me, smiling at me all the time. You’re acting differently around me. Why?”
“Because I feel differently.”
“How?”
“Everything that’s happened to me has taught me how important you are to me.”
“Do you reckon?”
“Definitely.”
“Can I tell you how it feels to me?”
“Go on.”
“It feels like you’re grabbing hold of me, not because you love me, but because I’m all you’ve got left. I’m like your oasis in the desert right now, but it feels like you’re trying really hard to do it, rather than it coming naturally. To me, it feels like you’ll get off your camel in the desert, fly back to England where water flows out of every tap and soon enough forget that you were ever thirsty!”
“Roddy, that’s not true! It’s not fair of you to say that!”
I was sticking to my guns on this one.
“Of course it’s bloody fair of me to say! Try listening to yourself sometimes, Kelly! I may not read many books, but I know what a narcissistic bitch is and you are in danger of becoming one! You go on and on about Richie! You’ve just said your sister only married him to get back at you and only shagged him when you were teenagers to get at you and only went through childbirth TWICE to get back at you in Outer Mongolia or wherever you were! How conceited are you, Kelly? For fuck’s sake Kelly, their relationship is not about you and if you ever want to think about having a relationship with me, don’t make it about them!”
A nurse came over and told me to mind my language and keep my voice down. I continued in a whisper.
“I’m not here to be your crumbs of comfort. If you want to be just friends with me, that’s fine, I can handle that, let’s just be friends, but don’t even bother entertaining the idea of a romance between us if you can’t go into it wholeheartedly. I ain’t putting up with you talking crap about Richie all day!”
I barely had chance to finish my sentence when Kelly reached forward in her bed, placed her hands either side of my mouth and gave me a big smacker! I was too shocked to kiss back!
“What did you do that for?”
“I was being wholehearted! You’re right Roddy, sub-consciously I’ve been playing games and life’s too short for that. I think I love you Roddy Baker and I want us to give this a go.”
“So you’ll drop this whole boring Richie thing now?”
“Consider it dropped.”
“And you’re going to make up with your sister?”
“One step at a time, Roddy!”
“No! You’ve just said yourself, life is short, why waste any more time playing games. We need to find out where your sister lives and when you’re better, before we go home, we need to get everything sorted out.”
Richie
My relationship with Jemma took several giant strides back in the right direction after the crash. I made more effort to understand what Jemma wanted from the relationship, I helped more with the household chores such as dishwashing, ironing, washing and drying of clothes and joined in with difficult side of parenting such as disciplining and bearing bad news, such as breaking the catastrophic news to Melissa that she cannot have an ice cream from the second ice cream van when she has already had one from the first. I had always been the type of Dad that allowed Jemma to do the majority of the trickier elements and just did the fun stuff, but after the crash we worked as a team. For her part, Jemma understood my physical needs more, but despite her best efforts there were still problems on that score.
When I reminisce about this period of time now, I refer to it as our “Morrissey” period. This is because our sex life went through various levels of activity that linked to songs. When we first got it together, I called this our Bill Medley & Jennifer Warnes period, because sex was exciting and frequent which links to their song, “I Had The Time of My Life”. Then, following the wedding and when Jemma was first pregnant with Melissa, daily sex became weekly sex, which normally happened on a Sunday night, so this was our “Blondie” period because of their song “Sunday girl”. Once Melissa arrived and then Jamie, sex became less and less frequent so this became known as our “Sandy Denny” period after her song “Solo” and finally, the “Morrisey” period was after the crash when sexual regularity was not just every Sunday night, but was at least attempted every day, so the brilliant Morrisey song, “Every Day Is Like Sunday” defined this period!
Everything should have been perfect as for the first time in a long time I was getting what I wanted, but it still wasn’t. The obstacle to good, wholesome, enjoyable sex in your thirties, when you have two children, is that the desire to avoid pregnancy returns to peak levels only previously endured in late teenage years. Sex becomes a threesome, but not a threesome involving two females and a male or two males and a female for that matter, a threesome between a man, a woman and a condom. At least when condoms were used in teenage years, I had a body to be proud of, so almost all sexual activity took place in daylight or at least with the lights on. In our thirties, Jemma was wanting to hide her stretch marks, her “Spaniel’s ears” breasts and a vagina that had been torn, stitched and battered from a double helping of childbirth and I was equally happy to hide man breasts that felt chunky enough to lactate and a belly that resembled Demi Moore’s on the cover of Vanity Fair. Thus, the act of condom placement in late teens is simple, as the procedure is carried out in full visibility and with an instrument that stiffens to diamond quality hardness at the mere mention of the word “knickers”. In your thirties, however, condom placement becomes like an adult version of ‘It’s A Knockout’! Each time I tried it, I was sure I could hear Eddie Waring saying, “He’s a poor lad!” or “Aye..Aye…! It’s an awkward one, the boy’s got to deal with it!”
After horseplay that lasted no longer than a five furlong sprint, one or other of us would jump off the saddle then fumble around in the darkness in the forlorn hope of finding an elusive silver wrapper before its intended recipient shrank from a recorder shaped instrument to the size and girth of a tin whistle that could no longer play a tune. Pretty often, by the time all safety equipment was in place, everything was small or dry and the very outcome you were trying to avoid, would, by default, become physically impossible.
I clearly remember the last night I gave up all hope of retaining one fully functional testicle. Jemma and I had bribed the sixteen year old girl who lived opposite us to snog her boyfriend’s face off in front of our television rather than her own, so we had nipped down to ‘A Passage To India’ in Ormskirk, to enjoy a quality curry and a bottle of wine or three. On our return home, we drunkenly paid our teenage guests more money than they deserved, politely escorted them off the premises and raced up the stairs excitedly in anticipation of blind passion.
We took turns to brush our teeth and empty our bladders in the en-suite, a ritual that led to foreplay involving kissing but not oral sex. Jemma switched off the lights then we each stripped our own clothes off in the darkness before the games began. I followed a well rehearsed routine, kisses without tongues, kisses with tongues then a finger dip to check whether spit on a fingertip would suffice to grease the playing surface or whether a proper lubricant would be necessary. On this occasion, the wine had acted as a successful aphrodisiac and the landing area was as damp as a field of mushrooms so no artificial juices were required. Feeling sufficiently enlarged, I clambered on top of Jemma, prodding around under her bellybutton, trying to find the pearly gates and the entrance to heaven. In my inebriated state, I was failing miserably so twisted over with my back to the mattress, pulling Jemma on top of me and leaving her to position herself correctly. She did so with ease and then gyrated her pelvis around in circles, making noises that I knew were borne out of sympathy rather than fulfilment.
Within a minute, my thoughts moved from passion to fear, as I knew all the mini-Richies were gathering in their millions for their pre-match warm-up, like a mass of min
iature triathletes.
“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” I called out like a bus conductor who’s spotted a passenger riding without a ticket, “Hang on! Hang on! You’re going to have to get off!”
Jemma had obviously genuinely begun to enjoy it, as she sounded frustrated.
“Already?”
“Jemma, if you fizz the cola up in the can and there’s a hole in the top, it can quite easily spray out a little….if you’re happy to have another little Jamie running around in nine months time, you stay right where you are!”
Jemma lifted herself off muttering something about not running around in nine months time, but I didn’t quite catch it as I had begun my search for the child catchers. I opened my top drawer next to my bed and immediately found a couple of empty condom packets. My first instinct was paranoia, ‘who’s been using them?’ Then reality kicked in and I realised I was a lazy bastard and amongst my crimes was failing to dispense of discarded condom wrappers. After much fumbling around in the dark, I realised I was making no progress and my sunflower which had been proud and tall only seconds earlier, was now starting to droop as it faced away from the item it worshipped.
“Can I switch the light on?” I pleaded.
Jemma groaned and sighed,
“Go on, but hurry up, I’m tired!”
Female disclosure of tiredness mid-sex is a danger sign. It is warning you, that although you have managed to get your plane on the runway, you still might not get it up, up and away. I switched my bedside light on and as Jemma turned away from the light, I hurriedly pulled my middle drawer open and sitting there is a whole new packet of condoms that I had bought from the supermarket the week before. Supermarket condom buying is a careful process, as you always have to select the check out aisle that will cause the least embarrassment and the most respect. Generally, I select the lad in his mid-twenties or the very ugly older lady who’s opinion does not bother me. If I buy Jemma’s sanitary towels, I would avoid the mid-twenties guy and go for the mid-twenties woman, as I want her to appreciate that I am a chilled out, modern man. Anyway, the problem the new condoms present, is that not only are the condoms wrapped up, but so is the box, so I have to unwrap twice and then wrap once before I am ready for action. After a painfully drawn out process, I managed this, but it had to unwrap twice and then wrap twice too, as once I had my thumb and forefinger in place and started to roll, I only got through one rotation and things came to a standstill. Inside out! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Why does this always happen to me?
“Are you wanting sex tonight?” Jemma asked, “as Mr.Sandman seems to be putting out the fires that were burning earlier.” Hastily, I put the condom on, but by now there’s not much left to wrap up and the condom looks like it has performed the penises version of a facelift reversal, as its skin has gone from taut and stretched to wrinkly and tired looking. I was giving up hope.
“Are you still awake?” I enquired.
“Just about,” was the reply, “but you won’t be needing that condom soon as I’ll have been through the change!”
I grabbed my willy at the pubic hair end and gave it a few hopeful shakes. Nothing stirred. In frustration, I peeled the condom off and carried it to the en-suite knowing at least I would have the small consolation of making it into a water bomb.
“Goodnight Richie!” Jemma murmured with her face buried in a pillow.
Goodnight babe!” I replied.
“Vasectomy it is then?” Jemma stated rhetorically.
“Vasectomy it is,” I agreed, “vasectomy it is.”
Kelly
Once I was out of hospital, there was no reason to hang around in Ormskirk. Whilst I had been on the critical list in intensive care, Roddy had booked himself a few emergency days holiday, but once I was on the mend and moved to a standard ward, he reluctantly headed back down to London. Once Roddy left, the hospital seemed a lonely place and the seven days I stayed there after his departure passed like months. We spoke each day on the phone, but I was anxious to get back to Ealing and back into work, to see whether this had been the relationship I had been searching for. Harping back to Richie’s ‘Black Jack Theory’, I may have had ‘Black Jack’ for some time, but had forgotten to turn my cards over.
The one thing I knew I needed to do before I left for London, was to meet up with my sister. Whilst he was in the hospital with me, Roddy had consistently stressed that I had been in the wrong to react the way I did with Jemma. His opinion was I had no right to complain about Jemma marrying Richie given that I had effectively ended my relationship with him, the moment I had fled to Amsterdam. I could see his point, but it still seemed odd to me that Jemma would marry the man she claimed that she hated most in the world. I did not, however, want to be perceived by Roddy as petty and narcissistic and felt that if I could show him that I had offered to make peace, he would view me in a better light.
Meeting Jemma for an apologetic chat was not entirely straightforward though as I had no idea where she lived. This puzzle was solved by a friendly male nurse, called Matthew, who worked nights on the ward. Late one night, when I was struggling to sleep, I had recounted to him, parts of my story about my estrangement from Jemma, conveniently forgetting to mention that the moment that triggered my disappearance was when I killed my mother. I told Matthew that I was anxious to see Jemma again, as I had said some unkind things to her, when she had visited intensive care and I had been remorseful since. Matthew was a sucker for a sob story from a pretty girl, so took Jemma’s full name and date of birth from me then re-appeared the following night clutching a piece of paper with a printed copy of the electoral roll register for Richard & Jemma Billingham. Two days later, I was released from hospital and just needed to decide whether I was going to visit Jemma to kiss and make up or to scratch her eyes out!
Jemma
It was not a re-union straight out of a Hollywood movie. That morning, I had dropped Melissa off at school, then taken Jamie up to nursery and watched as all the other children scattered like rainwater on a puddle, as he approached. Having warned Jamie to ‘be nice’ which was a bit like warning John Inman to play it straight. Free from children, I drove up to the chemists.
Over the previous few days, I had noticed that I had been passing a bit of blood and on inspection, could feel the offending pile, another battle scar from childbirth, so wanted to nip up to the chemists to buy some cream. I would not consider myself to be overly prudish, but cream for piles ranks up there with tablets for threadworms in the cringe factor stakes. You just feel as though you might as well be wearing a T-shirt that announces,
“My poo is not looking how it should.”
As I left the chemists, with a face the same crimson colour as my toilet bowl, Kelly was stood outside, waiting for me. Given I had left Ormskirk hospital, a week earlier, with her insisting that if she never saw me again it would be too soon, this was one hell of a surprise.
“Kelly! What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to see you, Jemma.”
“At the chemists?”
I have read before about sisters having a sixth sense, but for Kelly to know that I had gone to get cream for my sore bum, seemed too inspired.
“I didn’t know you were going to the chemists! I found out where you lived, so was just heading there from the train station and bizarrely, on my way, I saw you get out your car and head into the chemists, are you OK?”
Kelly gestured at the bag I was holding, with the cream inside. “This? Oh, it’s just vitamins for the kids. Need to keep the coughs and colds at bay.”
“Right,” said Kelly, sounding even with that one word like a childless woman, before adding,
“Jemma, we need to talk. I said things at the hospital that I had no right to say. Can we go somewhere to talk it through? I want to put things right.”
“Come back to mine.”
“Is it just number thirty one, down that second road on the right?”
“It is, but just get in the car, save your legs.”
<
br /> Kelly hesitated,
“I’d rather walk, Jemma, if you don’t mind. I’ve got a thing about cars at the moment.”
Given the car in question was a courtesy car to replace the one that Kelly had nearly lost her life in, I can’t say I blamed her.
“OK. See you up there in a few minutes. I’ll put the kettle on.”
Richie
I was naïve. I thought when you made an appointment to see your GP about having the snip, they just booked you in and that was that, I had no idea that they had a moral duty to emotionally torture you first. Dr. Whiteside eyeballed me like this was ‘Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?’ and I had just provided a very uncertain answer.
“So, you are absolutely 100% sure about this, Richie? I do not do vasectomies myself, but if I do refer you over to Dr. Allison, in Leyland, I know that he makes a larger cut into the vas deferens than most other Doctors, specifically to ensure the procedure is not reversible. So even in later life, if you decided that you wanted to change your mind, it would be virtually impossible, there would be no turning back.”
To me, this seemed like an unnecessary warning. Women are tough, so they may have unwanted pregnancies and subsequently endure a painful labour, but men, on the whole, are weak and have a lower pain threshold, so there is no such thing as an unwanted vasectomy. If a man is prepared to have his privates tampered with, by a Doctor wielding a scalpel, a lot of thought has already gone into the decision making process.”
I levelled with Dr. Whiteside.
“Dr. Whiteside, I have two perfectly healthy children, Melissa and Jamie, who are now coming up to six and four. They are fantastic children, but at the same they are a handful, more than enough for any parents. Both Jemma and I are one million percent sure that we do not want any more children.”
Dr. Whiteside fidgeted. He did not have his customary dickie bow on, if he had, I am sure that would have been twiddled.
