There's Something I've Been Dying to Tell You

by Lynda Bellingham

  ‘I’m not crying about the bloody cancer,’ I blubbed. ‘I’m crying because I can’t do my Christmas lunch. The cancer is something I can do nothing about but I was so sure that I would be home for Christmas lunch that I am disappointed in myself. Sorry, girls, I appreciate your sympathy but I am heartbroken.’

  What a silly cow I am really!

  At least all of the Christmas preparations had taken my mind off the medical side of things, although I did seem to be making some progress. I finally came off my bags of fish and chips. This was the nickname given to the bags, big plastic ones full of liquid food, that arrived every twenty-four hours to be given intravenously.

  Now I could order something to eat, but what? Everything tasted of nothing until I discovered the hospital kitchen’s shepherd’s pie. For some bizarre reason it tasted delicious and became my staple food, apart from yoghurt and honey or porridge for breakfast. Then it was Furby’s turn to start to work. Oh what joy, listening to my bag fill up. Apologies if you are reading this anytime near a meal. But spare a thought for us poor folk with a Furby!

  The young waiters who brought the food would make me smile (I could raise a smile but laughing was still a painful process, don’t forget). They would breeze in and pull your bed table across and dump your food just out of reach, and then they were gone before you could ask them to just adjust the table closer. Every mealtime was spent trying to angle myself in such a way as to be able to pull my food closer to me. Or if that failed, to hold a spoon steady, while it made its precarious journey from the tray to my mouth. Surely someone could offer a quick lesson in the logistics of patient/food administration?

  My walking was coming along slowly, although clinging to a walking frame is not very good for the spirit. I really did feel as though I had skipped ten years of my life and was now in my seventies. I had asked Michael to keep the boys away. They had all expressed a wish to come and visit, but I was not ready to see them. I knew that if they saw me now, not having seen me for a couple of weeks, I would look very frail to their eyes. I did not want the illness to get to them. It is one thing to deal with a situation that they could forget about from time to time, when I was able to go about life with some degree of normality, and quite another to be faced with the reality of facing a sick old lady hobbling down a corridor.

  I was proved correct about this when one day after Christmas Robert came to visit. I was trying to get back to my bed before he arrived, as sitting up in bed I could pretend I was more sparkly than I actually felt, but as I was shuffling towards my room Robert came round the corner and literally bumped into me. The look of dismay and horror that crossed his face was heartbreaking. He recovered himself very quickly and took my arm, but I knew he was shocked. I guess I wanted to make sure that my sons would always retain an image of me, not as an actress – they had so many of those in photos and videos – but the one in their mind’s eye that should automatically spring up when they think about ‘mother’. Every mother wants to be perfect for their children, don’t they? Of course so often we think of how old our parents are. It’s like looking at photos of teachers from school. They seemed so much older than when one looks at them now from a distance, and most of them were only in their early twenties.

  I have such clear memories of both my boys as young children looking at me very seriously. Taking in every line on my face. It felt like they were reaching for my very soul. I have thought about this illness that has taken me over and I can already see what it is doing to my skin and my muscle tone, and although I am no Sophia Loren I have a certain pride about myself. I was quite fit, and certainly when the boys were younger I prided myself on being able to keep up with them on all levels. Now I was beginning to feel vulnerable. Michael, my husband, was kind and generous enough to throw an imaginary veil over the body that was no longer the one he might remember from better days, but children are much less forgiving. It felt like the moment when they withdraw from you and lock the bathroom door, I now wanted to shut my door and hide my new/old body. I was invincible once, in their eyes, and I was determined to remain so to the end.

  In between the usual everyday chores of life on the ward I would be hauled off for the odd X-ray or scan. Every manoeuvre was a major battle and sometimes I wanted to scream in frustration. Trying to get onto an X-ray table that was too high, with my tubes in the way and my scar pulling in agony; lying still while a nurse searched for yet another vein into which to plunge a needle. Please don’t think me ungrateful, I am fully aware of how lucky I was to have all this care and attention, but there are times when it is all just too much to bear. I hardly thought about the end result either. OK I knew I had to recover from my operation and get back onto the chemotherapy, but all that business of having cancer seemed to belong to a different person!

  There were days when I did feel as though I was making headway, and as Christmas Day approached I concentrated all my efforts on my arrangements. As far as the hospital and all the nurses were concerned, it would be business as usual, but I had got Jean to bring me copious supplies of chocolates and mince pies and nuts and tins of biscuits, and was handing these out to whoever came to visit. Of course the nurses would have a little party and the party hats were worn and we all managed to capture a little of the festive spirit. I had written an essay of instructions for Michael for his Christmas dinner and he was being very cavalier about the whole thing.

  ‘You watch me,’ he bragged. ‘It will be a doddle!’

  We arranged that the boys and my stepdaughter and her two boys, and my sister and my nieces, would all come and visit Christmas morning, before they went off to have lunch. I took extra care to brush my hair and put on a new nightie, and was sitting in my chair when they all arrived. They could hardly all fit in my room, but it was so good to see them all. Looking at the photos we took on the day, I look pretty grim to be honest, but they were all pleased to see me, bless their hearts. After they had all gone Michael stayed for a while longer and we had a little tear. I felt like a child being left out of the party. He was being so brave but I knew he was very near to tears all the time too. But I chivvied him up and sent him packing to do his worst. Or best.

  I was alone. For the first time in my life I was not with my family in front of a big glittering Christmas tree surrounded by love and laughter. I had had two Christmases in the last two years where it had been just me and Michael, when I was in pantomime, but I had never been completely alone. Would there be a Christmas for me next year, I wondered? I suddenly felt very vulnerable and aware that my life had changed irrevocably, and I was not too sure which way I was heading.

  My thoughts were interrupted by my mobile phone ringing and my husband asking me about potatoes.

  ‘How long do I boil them?’ said the masterchef.

  ‘Ten minutes or so and then drain them and give them a good shake and stick them in very hot oil. How long has the turkey been in now?’ I added.

  ‘Three-and-a-half hours and it is bloody done, so now I am all behind,’ said a very flustered husband.

  ‘Surely it can’t be done yet,’ I replied unhelpfully. ‘Check again with the thermometer thingy they gave you.’

  ‘I have done all that, so now please let me just get on. Speak to you later.’ The phone went dead. I decided to ring Stacey, my stepdaughter, and check out the state of play.

  ‘Everything is fine, don’t worry, Lynda. Dad is just getting his knickers in a twist because everyone is starving and the timings are a bit off,’ she laughed, and I could hear whoops and shouts in the background.

  ‘Oh dear, well unfortunately there is nothing I can do to help, Stacey, but keep me posted.’

  After several more increasingly panicked phone calls from hubbie, everything went quiet, and over the next hour I received several text messages with pictures of potatoes and sprouts and the turkey’s bum and finally lots of happy faces. When Michael rang late in the afternoon I could tell he was as pissed as a cricket but I could hardly blame him. He had done it, e
ven if the potatoes did take forever and they lost the Christmas pudding!

  On Boxing Day I had a visit from Peter Delaney and his partner Paul de Ridder. Peter has not only been a dear and close friend for many years, but is also the man who married me to my previous husband and to Michael, and has christened my two sons. He suggested I might like to take communion with him. I am not a very good Christian and do not go to church often enough, but I enjoy the services immensely when I do go. I think this has a great deal to do with Peter’s talent as a vicar and orator, as much as anything, but I was very touched by his offer and accepted. To my utter surprise I was in tears by the time he had finished, and so moved. Why I should have been so surprised I really do not know, but I was, and also ashamed that I could be so casual about my beliefs, because at that moment I gained such comfort from the simple service and prayers that Peter performed especially for me.

  My faith has struggled considerably since, I am afraid to say, and many times I have tried to pray but given up in despair. It is almost impossible to understand why bad things happen to us, and especially when at this point in my life I was prepared to accept my lot as long as he looked after my husband and my boys. But who knows if the great man will oblige?

  I always think that the days between Christmas and New Year are completely lost; something and nothing. A time to recover from the excesses of Christmas Day and regroup, I suppose, or to rush out and spend yet more money in the sales. For me they were more hours spent learning to change my Furby bag, oh joy, and walk upright. My scar was healing very nicely, and I was finally down to just one intravenous drip. I remember one morning staring down at my stomach and thinking how on earth I had got here, and so quickly it seemed. One minute I had been navel gazing in a bikini, aged twenty, pulling my stomach muscles in so I had that slightly concave stomach between my hip bones, and now I was faced with a mound of flesh covered in white train tracks and adorned with a plastic bag like a large Elastoplast. My legs were like two sticks poking out from my nightie and suddenly overnight I had flabby arms and liver spots on the backs of my hands.

  I refused to linger on these awful reminders of my impending doom. I made a promise to myself that when I got out of hospital I would make sure I always dressed smartly and took care of what was left. Before Christmas I had discovered the wonderful world of the catalogue, something I had appeared in with Isme, naturally, but never really investigated. Oh, the magic of pointing at an object of desire and writing down the code then hearing the doorbell a week later and a nice man handing over a parcel. Fatal if you let it take you over, I know, but fabulous if you needed a boost of confidence, and I reckoned I deserved a bit of a boost now and then.

  I had regular visits from the wonderboys Justin and Richard, and the discussion had begun as to how soon I could start the chemo again. The problem being that one of the drugs given to me as part of the chemo, called Avastin, thins the blood and makes the healing process very much slower. Naturally, Richard Cohen was very protective of his handiwork and wanted the wound to be completely healed. Finally it was agreed I was to be dismissed from hospital on New Year’s Eve, in time for the celebrations, whatever they might be.

  I was terrified of leaving. Can you believe it? I actually asked if I could stay a bit longer. ‘This is quite a normal reaction,’ the sister on duty told me. ‘You will feel very lost and out of your comfort zone but believe me, it will only be for a short while, and you will soon be back in the swing of things.’

  Well, like it or not, I was discharged. I pulled on some jeans and realised they would squash Furby so I left them undone and covered up with a big jumper, making a note to myself to work out new fashion accessories to accommodate my new appendage. I made my goodbyes to all the fantastic nurses and health workers and felt very tearful. I stepped out into the chilly winter morning and, like everyone else when they leave hospital after a long stay, I marvelled at how nothing had changed and the world was carrying on as usual. We drove home and I held a cushion over my tummy as we hit the road bumps. I could not wear my seat belt as it fell right across the new scar and Furby. Everything seemed strange and alien to me, including my own body.

  Walking into my flat after three weeks away was like being the mole in Wind in the Willows when he is called by his home to return. It was such a comfort to feel and see all the familiar smells and sights and sounds. The Christmas tree was still there for me to enjoy, and my presents were all piled underneath waiting for me. I had a mountain of cards and I was just so touched by all the comments and good wishes. Now that I was home again, I didn’t quite know what to do with myself, but I went and got into bed on Michael’s instructions. What bliss it was to be in a proper bed with crisp white sheets and the smell of lavender. I lit some candles and revelled in the feeling of my head on a pillow that was not rubber. I looked round my bedroom at the photos and all the familiar nick-nacks that make up one’s life, and I seemed to see it all through new eyes. I was so pleased to be alive. Alive but for how long? Actually at that moment it didn’t really matter because each minute was a lifetime to me and yet each imagined lifetime only lasted a minute. It is so hard to explain about time throughout this whole process. It is a cliché to say I have savoured every moment, but I have and it was quite thrilling.

  It was the eve of a new year and I could hardly begin to imagine what lay in store for us all. We opened a bottle of champagne and toasted each other, and the year to come, and Michael and I both tried hard to be upbeat and optimistic. Things would work out. I was feeling scared and nervous and excited. Yes excited, for some reason, because I wanted to prove to myself that I could beat everything that was thrown at me. I had survived a life-threatening operation and now I had to get on with my life and make things happen. Good things for me, and my family, especially my dear darling husband, who was the light of my life and my rock. ‘I can do this’ was my mantra as I fell asleep to the sounds of fireworks and Furby chirping under the duvet.

  15

  JUSTICE FOR THE LITTLE MAN

  I have mentioned that we had been dealing with a court case. The story begins way back in 2007 when Michael was still working in Spain. He could see the way things were going in property sales and the only direction they were headed was down, so he decided that the way to approach the whole estate agency business was to cut costs, and maybe the way to do this was to save on offices with expensive shop fronts. People were becoming more and more used to using the internet, and certainly people looking for a house in Spain would often come into the office having already been online and seen what they wanted. An estate agent could soon become obsolete and it seemed more sensible to offer a more slimmed-down service and therefore operate with less expensive costs.

  So Michael decided to create a back office for an online estate agency. This is a technical thing, folks, means absolutely nothing to me, but actually what they achieved has never been done even to this day. The nub of the idea being an automated system that did all the paperwork, so for example they wouldn’t need a secretary to write a letter, or an email, it would all be done by the computer. When it was all up and running, the plan was to franchise the business. It was a fantastic creation and is still sitting on my husband’s server to this day.

  Together with his director, Andrew Jepson, and his web master, Ki Hume, the three of them started to work night and day. Basically for no money, except Ki who was paid by Michael. Every now and then Michael might sell a house and there would be funds for a while and this is where my role in the business came in. I was lucky enough to be working and wanted to help, so we used my money to keep everything going. Slowly the concept grew and we had our business plan: we’d offer cut price house deals for a flat fee of £995 which was to be paid on completion so there was no money up front. A very unique selling point. So everything was in place and going swimmingly. I was going to star in a new play, Calendar Girls, which was destined for the West End and possibly Broadway, eventually, and Michael spent six months working the north L
ondon area with the £995 concept and ironing out any problems that arose re the ‘back office’.

  Now we were ready to franchise the business. This concept bizarrely had come up in a meeting that I had with PRIME, Prince Charles’s charity to help people over fifty to create their own businesses. I had been invited to St James’s Palace, recently, to have a brainstorming session about this very subject, and was able to contribute one particular piece of advice to potential franchisees:

  ‘I would like to point out here that anyone who thinks you pay for a franchise and then sit back and expect the company to do all the work is seriously deluded, and it is not the job for you. It is incredibly hard work to get it up and running, so it is not for the fainthearted.’

  Riding high on the crest of a wave (big mistake), Michael and I decided to get married in 2008. Raising one’s head above the parapet brought the spotlight on us and the press returned to the old cuttings regarding Michael’s past, which is a little colourful. I have written about this in detail in Lost and Found but just to fill you in if you haven’t read it (how could you not!), my husband served eleven months in prison for ‘furnishing false or misleading information’. It had absolutely nothing, I repeat nothing, to do with property.

  You’d think that he served time and that should be the end of it, but his guilty plea was to be used against him all those years later when he set up his online estate agency, Virtual Property World. A man who owned a similar online estate agency in Worcester decided to wipe out Michael and his business. Mr Darren Richards started to write about Michael and our business on a blog, using Michael’s previous trial as background, and sent links to the blog to the body that regulates franchises. Please believe me I am not trying to defend what Michael did back then, and neither has he ever not accepted his plight, but the point is it was seventeen years ago, and he has never been in trouble again, and more importantly he was never, never charged with property fraud which is what Mr Richards was trying to claim in his sensationalist blog, posted anonymously online: ‘CONVICTED FRAUDSTER MICHAEL PATTEMORE RUNNING VIRTUAL PROPERTY WORLD FRANCHISE.’