by Hatch, Ben
‘What did you do?’
‘I stole a pink teddy bear from him. His parents were away. It was Sunday morning and I woke up in this attic room. It was the summer after the course had finished. It was full of teddy bears, this room. I needed a present for Julie. I was driving down to see her in Newhaven. I was already late.’
‘You gave her his pink teddy?’
‘There were hundreds in the room. I thought he’d laugh. He went mad. Julie had to post it back. I can remember him very calmly telling me with this real suppressed fury in his voice: “You will post that teddy bear back to me that you stole, first class, and if you do that I will consider not pressing charges.”’
‘He threatened the police?’
‘It cost about twenty quid to post it back. The thing was three-feet high. I told Julie I’d won it at a fairground and it wasn’t kite-marked properly, was some form of hazard. I can’t remember what I said.’
‘She was fairly gullible, then?’
‘She was. And Karl never spoke to me again. I really liked him too.’
‘What did Julie say when you asked for it back?’
‘She was surprised. In fact, it was kind of the beginning of the end.’
‘And after that you met me.’
‘Yeah.’
‘So if it wasn’t for that pink bear maybe you’d still be with her.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Wow. And do you think it was the theft of that pink teddy that catapulted Karl into the macho, unforgiving world of war reporting?’
‘I think it did.’
‘What else can we attribute to the pink bear?’
‘I believe he shaved his hair off the day I took it too. It was an act of contrition at the trust he’d shown in me, that I’d abused.’
‘It’s got a lot to answer for that pink bear.’
‘It has.’
‘And does he keep that shaved hair in a special box, the lid of which is engraved with one word, scratched out in his own blood, that word being “betrayal”.’
‘He does.’
‘And does he very occasionally, whenever he feels dangerously close to trusting someone again, open that box, take out that hair, put it on his bald head, and stare at himself in the mirror and think of that bear and the day you took it?’
‘He’s probably doing it right now. Look,’ I show her the page dedicated to Karl Penhaul on the CNN main website.
She reads it out: ‘Karl Penhaul is a video correspondent for CNN based out of Bogotá, Colombia. Before this he was embedded with the 11th Attack Helicopter Regiment during the recent war in
Iraq. When the regiment was disbanded, he became an embedded journalist with the 82nd Airborne Division, reporting on Iraqi civilian casualties, US POWs and the push toward Baghdad. In the ongoing aftermath of the Iraq war, he has reported on the surges of violence and attacks on coalition troops as well as the newly instated government. Penhaul has reported on the war in Afghanistan, and covered the drug trade, kidnappings and guerrilla tactics in Colombia. He has also covered the Chilean miners’ crisis, the Haiti earthquake and is currently working undercover.’
Dinah raises her eyebrows.
‘Think of what he must have seen. The people he’s met. He’s lived through earthquakes, tsunamis, wars. He’s seen it all first hand.’
‘Are you jealous?’
‘A bit.’
Dinah touches her head five times then drums her fingers on the headboard. ‘Lots of urges today,’ she says, craning her head to look into the bathroom, pulling it back a fraction then doing the same motion again.
I click on a YouTube video of Karl talking about his exploits on a special CNN programme called Karl Penhaul Remembers Big Stories. He’s perched on a stool next to an anchorman in a suit. We watch it together. Karl tells the anchor that his reporting zeal was born out of a wanderlust he developed backpacking around South America.
‘I bet he’s not got kids though,’ says Dinah.
‘That’s true.’
‘And he’s probably never survived a four-millimetre kidney stone, either.’
‘Of course, he hasn’t.’
‘Let him keep his embittered box of hair,’ says Dinah.
‘And his shitty pink bear.’ ‘Come on loser, sleep now,’ says Dinah.
She turns the light out and, in the dark, she says shuffling up to me: ‘I’m glad you’re not a war reporter.’ ‘Although I would have been a brilliant one.’ ‘Of course you would, love.’
CHAPTER 24
Draft Copy for Guidebook:
Bishy, barney-bee
When will your weddin’ be?
If it be ’amara day,
Tairk your wings an’ floi away
It isn’t always easy to understand what a person from Norfolk is trying to say. If this happens the important thing is not to panic. If you panic he will panic and if he panics he will dig for peat. Over the centuries locals here have created 200 kilometres of navigable waterways (the Norfolk Broads) simply through panicking and digging for peat. If they dig for any more peat there’ll be nothing left of Norfolk and the North Sea will wash in and flatten all in its path, so don’t panic them, OK? Norfolk, home to the villages of Little Snoring, Great Snoring and Really Fucking Annoying Snoring, is often seen as a sleepy backwater where not much has happened since they invented mustard, although that’s not the whole story. Great Yarmouth is hard to beat for belt and braces good times, while for more sophistication the North Norfolk villages -
including Burnham Thorpe, the home of Lord Nelson – are worth a visit. We had fun in Norfolk and to ensure you do too here’s a helpful glossary of translated phrases:
‘I’ll do it presently.’ – I’ll do it when I have finished digging this peat.
‘My booty.’ – You’re very pretty.
‘Hooooooooooge!’ – Quite large.
‘Tha’s a rum ol’ doo, innit?’ – Well I never, we have made another massive hole digging for peat again.
We’re in the hotel pool at Norwich Sprowston Manor Marriott.
‘OK, guys, now before we go we need to do something funny. Do you want to do something funny?’
‘’K,’ says Charlie, his dimples sucking in as he smiles.
‘What is it?’ asks Phoebe, bobbing up and down in the water.
‘Well, we’re in a place called Norwich, where a TV series Mummy and Daddy both like is set. It is called I’m Alan Partridge and Alan Partridge used to live in a Travel Tavern in this city and he had a catchphrase. His catchphrase, which is like something you say over and over again so that it becomes synonymous with…’
Dinah makes a wind up motion.
‘OK, what I want you to do, when I count down from ten, is shout ahhhhh-haaaaaa.’
‘’K,’ says Charlie, gleefully.
‘Can you do that?’
‘’K,’ says Charlie.
‘Just shout ahhhh-haaa. That’s it?’ says Phoebe.
‘Yep.’
‘That’s not much fun, Daddy.’
‘It will be. Trust me. Because we’re going to do it very loudly. That’s all of us together – even Mummy – who thinks she can get out of it by pretending to dislodge water from her ears. Mummy?’
Dinah takes her finger out of her ear, gives me a wary look and pushes off to swim another width.
‘All of us are going ahhhh-hhaaaa,’ says Phoebe. ‘And you, Mummy. Mummy, and you!’
‘Do we have to?’ says Dinah, the other side of the pool.
‘Daddy says so.’
‘Even though everyone probably does it when they stay in a Norwich hotel, love?’ says Dinah.
‘Guys, if you do it really loudly you’ll get extra rides later, OK? Are you ready guys?’
‘’K,’ says Charlie.
‘So there’ll be no telling off for shouting. Only for not shouting loudly enough. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one…’
I point at Charlie.
Our collective AHHHHHHH-
HAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! echoes round the pool, bringing the adult swimming lane to a standstill.
‘Brilliant, guys.’
‘’Gain,’ says Charlie. ‘’Gain.’
‘No, that’s it,’ says Dinah.
‘One more,’ says Phoebe, holding up a finger. ‘Please, Dad.’
‘’Gain,’ says Charlie. ‘’Gain.’
‘We’ll get thrown out, Ben.’
‘Let me see, there’s a picture of a man diving in with a red line through it on the sign there by the foot splash. And there’s a picture of someone running with a line through it. But hang on,’ I look at Dinah. ‘There’s no picture of Alan Partridge with a red line through it, which means we CAN do it again.’
‘Ya-ay!’ shouts Charlie.
‘Oh, please!’ says Dinah.
‘Just one more time. Right, kids. A really big one. Especially you, Charlie.’
‘’K,’ says Charlie.
‘And I don’t think Mummy was very loud that time. Was she?’
‘Mummy, loudly,’ says Phoebe.
‘And then we get out?’ says Dinah.
‘And then we get out and do the big plate thing at breakfast,’ I tell her.
She laughs.
‘OK, a massive one, guys. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one…’
And as we all shout ‘AHHHHHHHHHH-HAAAAAA!’ the pool guy slowly walks round. He bends to his haunches and looks at us questioningly.
‘Alan Partridge,’ I tell him.
‘Right,’ he says, and wanders back to his store cupboard. ‘Alan Partridge,’ I hear him wearily telling his colleague.
We’ve been scouting around East Anglia this last week or so. Norwich Castle couldn’t have been more child friendly if it had been a bouncy one. In the horse town of Newmarket, the kids saw former Grand National winners licking mineral blocks at The National Stud on a guided tour, which Dinah was hilariously convinced was going to culminate in an inappropriate horse orgy. We’ve punted in Cambridge, visited Linton Zoological Gardens and, at the Air Space Area of the Imperial War Museum in Duxford, there were hands-on gizmos for kids to learn about lift, thrust and drag, all of which I was ironically forced to employ removing Charlie from the Morse code section at the end. We dipped down into Suffolk and, after this, spent a few days in the Essex countryside doing activities as diverse as walking around a disused nuclear bunker in Kelvedon Hatch and going on a John Constable walk in East Bergholt, before we looped back into Norfolk, where we are now.
We check out of the Marriott after breakfast, follow the A47 and hit our most easterly point of the entire trip entering Great Yarmouth. We park in a pay and display off the promenade and are given a netted sock of tokens for the pleasure beach by the stand-in manager. What usually happens at funfairs is you’re bedazzled by the jingles and flashing lights, the revolving and zigzagging rides and don’t know what to go on first. The first ride Phoebe can’t go on is the Gallopers.
‘She’s eating ice cream. No food, I’m afraid.’
At the Fun House, open-toed sandals are forbidden.
‘But they’re Doodles.’
‘Don’t care what you call ’em.’
At the Caterpillar Rollercoaster neither of them meet the height requirement (1 metre) while at the Haunted House, although there’s no height or age requirement, the man warns us it’s too scary for Phoebe.
‘Right, I see, and how do you know?’
‘She’s sucking her thumb,’ he says.
‘She always sucks her thumb. That doesn’t mean she’s scared.’
‘Is it scary?’ asks Phoebe, pulling a frightened face.
‘Undermining me slightly there, pops?’
The man smiles.
‘What are we going to do now?’ I ask Dinah. ‘We can’t spend ten pounds’ worth of tokens on the grab-a-bear machine, can we?’
Back at the Gallopers the lady lets Phoebe on a painted horse but asks Charlie’s age.
‘You only mentioned food last time.’
‘He needs to be three.’
‘He is three,’ I lie.
‘Can you prove it?’ she asks.
‘Can we prove it?’
I look at Dinah.
‘I’m sorry we don’t carry our three-year-old’s birth certificate around with us, or his driving licence,’ says Dinah.
‘We haven’t got a utility bill in his name either,’ I say.
The lady shrugs, and takes tokens from someone else. We try to explain how hard it is to find a ride. She asks if Charlie can walk.
‘He’s only sitting in the pushchair because we’ve been walking around for an hour looking for a ride he can go on. Charlie, show the lady.’
But I forget the handlebars of the buggy are loaded down with our sandwiches. As I let go, the buggy topples over, shooting Charlie backwards.
‘’Gain,’ he says, jumping back into the buggy.
‘Charlie, this is not one of the rides.’
‘Although it is the best one he’s been on,’ says Dinah. ‘Come on Charlie, show the lady.’
But when Charlie finally gets up, he runs into the back of the leg of a man in front of him, falls over and cries. Our ticket about to expire at the pay and display, at the entrance gate we give away our remaining tokens to a couple walking in with two toddlers of their own.
‘Thus perpetuating the agony,’ says Dinah.
And we’re nearly at the car when my mobile rings.
It’s Buster.
‘He’s not having it,’ he says.
‘What?’
‘He’s not having the chemo.’
‘What?’
‘The chemo’s off.’
‘Why?’
‘Gorhard says he can’t have it. We’re at the unit. Mary’s here. There’s a blockage. Something’s wrong with his kidneys. He’s having a scan later then we’ll know more. We’re wheeling him back to the Shelburne now.’
‘How’s he taking it?’
‘He’s shaking his head. He’s gutted.’
‘Will he be able to have it later?’
‘We don’t know. I’ll call you later.’
‘How’s Mary?’
‘Crying.’
‘I’ll ring Gorhard and call you back.’
Buster hangs up. Dinah straps the kids into the car. I call Gorhard. He’s no longer at the Shelburne. I try Buster again, but he’s now engaged, probably telling Pen. Mary’s not answering and I don’t really know what to do now so we stick to the plan and drive along the promenade to the Merrivale Model Village, our next attraction. It’s a 1 to 20 scale replica of some generic olde worlde idyllic English village complete with a pint-sized cricket pitch, a miniature railway line and some tiny quite trendy looking antique shops that if Dinah was 2 inches high she tells me she’d quite probably like to browse in. We have a surreal half hour here wandering around trying to work out what I should do. There are buttons for the kids to press to activate model knights on the castle. I keep trying Dad but he’s not answering the phone in his room at the unit and Mary’s mobile’s still switched off as she’s still there and Buster’s unavailable. I can’t work out whether to go straight to the station, or wait for more news. In the meantime I check train times, keep calling Gorhard, and eventually manage to leave a message for his secretary. In the end we decide to abandon the Time and Tide Museum and drive on to our next hotel and make a decision there. We’re staying at Fritton House, a few miles south of Great Yarmouth on the banks of Fritton Lake. We check in and I’m lying on the bed, Dinah having taken the kids down to dinner, when Gorhard calls me back. I explain I’m visiting Dad in a couple of weeks’ time but that I’m worried after what happened today.
Gorhard pauses for a second before he says, ‘Your father has deteriorated significantly.’ He explains that he couldn’t give Dad chemotherapy in his condition. Instead he’ll have a chest X-ray and a scan. It could be a swollen lymph node, though this is unlikely. More probable is it’s ‘part of your father’s de
teriorating health’. Gorhard says if this is the case and it’s renal failure, ‘And your father continues to decline at the same rate, well, he isn’t going to die in the next couple of days. I haven’t had the end-of-life conversation with your father yet. But I would hate for you to miss something important.’
I book my train ticket and call Dad as I stare out across Fritton Lake from the back of the hotel. Mary answers.
‘I think I always knew,’ she says.
Dad comes on. His voice is dissipated, like an echo.
‘It’s a kick in the teeth, Dad,’ I say.
‘Hey ho,’ he says.
‘It’s a kick in the teeth,’ I say again because I can’t think of anything else to say.
‘My son,’ he says, ‘I’ve got Mary here, Pen and Buster, and I hear you’re coming home tomorrow.’ His voice croaks. ‘What could be better? Hugs and kisses.’
‘I love you, Dad.’
‘Love you, my son.’
And to stop myself crying I have to whisper the word ‘bye’.
Gorhard calls later that night with the scan result. ‘I’m afraid there was no obstruction. Your father asked if he had months to live. I had to tell him weeks. I’m telling you days. I’m very sorry to be the bearer of such bad news.’
CHAPTER 25
There’s a dark blue Mercedes blocking the drive. A dark-haired man stands at the passenger door in a blue uniform and blue cap. It’s John Cleese’s driver. I knock on the door. Cleese, as my dad calls him, is in the living room, talking to Mary. Pen comes towards me and gives me a hug. I drop my bag and squeeze her. Mary’s niece Katie is making lunch. Dad’s asleep in the downstairs guestroom.
‘Go in and see him,’ says Pen.
I open the bedroom door. Buster’s warned me that Dad’s face has changed (‘Become longer, you know.’) But it’s still a shock. He’s asleep, his mouth open, the sides turned down. There are blotches on his face, a red patch of congealed blood in the crook of his right arm from the blood tests. His hands and legs are creamy, dough-like. I don’t kiss him. I leave him asleep and back in the living room Cleese grips my hand and his eyes well up.
