He ran his tongue over the canyons and craters of his sore inner cheek, now too painful to chew. A large amount of the damage had been done that afternoon whilst his father was there. Terry had enquired as to whether Sarah could see some of her friends, a bit of a change from watching cartoons and playing scrabble with her family. Simon had seen no reason why not.
“Trust me, I’ve tried.” Melissa had cradled her tea-mug and rolled her eyes.
“What do you mean?” Simon had looked puzzled.
Melissa sighed. “All of Sarah’s friends suddenly have astonishingly busy social lives. Despite the fact that Izzy Hartwell has been coming here every Wednesday afternoon for months, she apparently now does gymnastics. Francesca does ballet. Harriet has a maths tutorial. Sundays are apparently out too.”
“Are you saying you think they’re lying, eh?” Terry, Simon’s father had bristled, color rising from his neck.
“I don’t think it’s the kids, Terry. I don’t think the parents want to be … I don’t think they like being so close to illness. It scares them.” Melissa leaned back in her chair. “I don’t blame them really. They know their children will ask them questions, make them explain things they don’t want to explain yet. They don’t want their children to realize how vulnerable they are.”
“Load of ruddy wimps!” Terry banged the table, making Porridge look up sleepily from his basket, where he was taking a rare break from guarding Sarah. “How would they like it if she were their child? Don’t they think about that?”
“It’s exactly that, Dad.” Simon had bitten the inside of his cheek hard. “They think ‘What if she were our child?’. They don’t want to be made to think it. They don’t want to see it. They don’t want their children close to it. Bad luck.”
The remembered conversation superimposed itself over the television program. Simon knocked back a large swig of whisky. It was cheap and the burn as it went down and the sting against his sore inner cheek satisfied Simon’s slight tendency to masochism. Bastards. All those patronizing smiles at the school gates, the promises of ‘anything we can do’, the endless, incessant apologies ‘I’m so sorry, Simon. If there’s anything we can do…’ Actually, there is. You can let your daughter come over and play for a couple of hours. What’s that? Oh, I see. You don’t want your precious little brat to see my daughter’s weird tufty hair. You don’t think she should see the drip stand next to Sarah’s bed. Yes, I see. I see alright.
Simon poured another inch of whisky into his glass. The three men bickering over cars on the television were merely background noise to his thoughts. Unable to concentrate, he began flicking through his CD collection which was now, he thought sadly, becoming redundant, like the much-loved LPs that sat gathering dust in the loft. Where was the joy in an MP3 download, he wondered, draining his glass. What about the tactile feel of a record? The cover art, the disc art? As much of his memories were sunk into the snarling tusked and winged skull on the front of a Motorhead album as in the lyrics or (Melissa would say shouts) of Lemmy.
He turned the television off and fumbled with the CD player drawer, eventually managing to slip a disk into the correct place. The opening chords of Eric Clapton’s album ‘Unplugged’ blared out and Simon sent a pile of rejected CDs skittering across the floor as he lunged to turn the volume down. The door opened.
“Simon. For God’s sake, turn it down. Look at you. You’re a disgrace.” Melissa’s head in the door. Bit blurry.
“Sorry. I didn’t realize it was that loud.”
“I’m off to bed.”
“You’ve finished already? That was quick.”
“It’s half twelve, Simon. And yes, I worked quickly. Night.” Melissa disappeared.
“G’night.”
Simon leaned back against the leather footstool, holding the bottle up and surveying the damage. Whoops. Mostly gone. Might as well finish it.
A recognizable riff came over the speakers, Simon beginning to sing before he realized what the track was.
“Would you know my name
If I saw you in heaven?
Will it be the same
If I saw you in heaven?
I must be strong, and carry on
Cause I know I don't belong
Here in heaven…”
Simon sang on, his baritone loud and off key. He giggled a bit as he kicked over the stack of CDs again. Who was it that said, “You're not drunk if you can lie down without holding on”? Simon grinned to himself as the room tilted slightly.
He didn’t hear the door opening to the sitting room and jumped when he felt a little hand on his shoulder. His senses sharpening quickly, he leaped towards the stereo to turn it down. “Princess – what are you doing out of bed? Was it too loud? Sorry. I’ll turn it down.”
Sarah shook her head and settled herself on the edge of the leather footstool. She was barefoot and wearing only a nightie. Her frailty and tufty hair gave her the look of a very old woman, which was exacerbated by the shrewd look she gave the empty bottle of Teachers whisky.
“It’s, okay, Daddy. I just wanted to talk to you.”
“Sweetheart, it’s very late. Aren’t you cold? Come on,” Simon staggered to his feet, “Lets get you up to bed.”
“I’ve been in bed all day. I want to talk.”
Simon stopped at the door and regarded the seated Sarah carefully. His seven-year old daughter spoke with a calm authority, a maturity that had been increasingly presenting itself since Disneyland. Sarah had always been articulate, observant – animated but mature. But recently … there was something else. It was as if as she had slowed down, she had more time to think.
Simon moved back into the room, shutting the sitting room door and turning up the gas fire. He tripped slightly, recovered quickly and took a travel rug from the arm of the sofa to wrap around Sarah, sobering up with the speed only a parent can muster.
“What did you want to talk about?”
Sarah stood up, then hopped onto the squashy sofa and tucked her feet under her blanket. She held her father’s gaze firmly.
“I’m dying aren’t I?”
Chapter 14
Sarah tucked the lambs wool blanket under her toes, wiggling her feet and curling up into the sofa. The house had taken on the strange atmosphere that, in her experience, houses did, when only the grown-ups were up. The lights in the kitchen were off, the usual vibrancy of the large family room zapped. The little sitting room in which she rarely sat felt different in the night. The lamps made the room more solemn than in the daytime.
Daddy was drunk, she mused. It wasn’t a particularly shocking revelation, though she did find it a bit sad. Mummy and Daddy often got what they called ‘tiddly’ at Christmas. And in the summer there were plenty of garden parties where the grown-ups talked too loudly and did silly things like ride the children’s bikes. At her last birthday party there had been a number of trampoline-based accidents involving the grown-ups. Uncle James had fallen asleep in the bouncy castle. This kind of being drunk was slightly different though, she could tell. The yummy smelling jugs of brown stuff with fruit and cucumber - cucumber! Grown-ups were weird - that were passed around barbeques were fun, harmless. The empty whisky bottle beside her daddy was dirty somehow. Like drunk people on telly.
Daddy looked tired. His hair was longer than normal and his face was all furry. Scratchy actually. She wished he’d shave.
“Daddy?”
He sank into the sofa next to her and she thought he looked old. Older. He spoke slowly and his voice sounded thick. “What on earth has made you say that, Princess?”
Sarah picked at a speck of lint on the blanket. “It’s okay, Daddy. You can say. I won’t cry.” She looked up at her daddy and noticed the rims of his eyes were reddening. “I’m not getting better am I, Daddy? You all think I’m going to die.” She winced as a pain shot through her thigh bone. Leukemia sucked.
He still didn’t answer. “Daddy.” A little more insistent this time.
“I �
� we – you are very poorly.” Her father shifted his weight, a hand covering his eyes. “There is a chance. No. It doesn’t seem that you are going to get better. No.”
Sarah had the same feeling that you get when you go over a bump in the road. Like her tummy went up and down. Normally she loved that feeling. Knew the spots in the roads they travelled regularly where they would get the sensation and encouraged her mum to drive faster, faster.
This time it wasn’t a nice feeling.
“Am I going to get worse?” She picked at the lint diligently. Trying to separate the little ball from the fibers of wool. She wished her nails were longer.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Yes, Sarah. You’re going to get more poorly.” Her father took a sharp little intake of breath.
“Don’t cry, Daddy.”
“Oh, Sarah!” Her daddy’s shoulders started to shake up and down, though he kept his hand over his face. Sarah wriggled up the sofa to him, wincing as a seam of upholstery scratched against her hypersensitive skin. She put her arm up to cuddle him, but his back remained to her. She patted him on the back, helplessly.
“What’s going to happen to me?” The lint was free from its fibrous net now. Sarah flicked it away, found another and started working on it. “Am I going to die?”
Her father took a deep breath, followed by some other long inhalations. His shoulders steadied slightly and he turned to look at her. “We all die, Sarah.” He tucked a stray hair behind her ear, his fingers feeling slightly rough against her delicate skin.
She frowned at him and gave a little nod. “We all die when we’re old. Like Harry’s granddad. He died last week. He was old. Harry missed PE. I’m not going to be old, am I? I’m not going to be a grown-up.”
Sarah’s daddy’s voice went squeaky. “No, you’re not going to be a grown-up.”
Sarah’s tummy flipped again. “Do you want a tissue, Daddy?” Sarah unraveled herself from the blanket and got up. “Do you think we could have your special hot chocolate? I’ll brush my teeth after.”
Sarah watched, fascinated, as her father’s features contorted into a number of facial expressions that she had never seen before. He looked like he was in pain. Or like he was trying to smile at the same time as being in pain. Or having a poo. Actually, that was quite disgusting, Sarah thought, and pushed the image to the back her mind.
Daddy sniffed deeply, snot making a disgusting gurgling sound in the back of his throat. “Come here.” He sniffed again, his voice cracking a little bit. “Let’s go get hot chocolate. I don’t think we need to worry about teeth tonight.” He picked her up, a little unsteady. Sarah held on tight as he put the blanket back round her shoulders. She buried her head in his neck, breathing in the comforting, salty smell of his skin, his aftershave - so familiar - and another scent, tangy, alcoholic.
Sarah sat on the island unit in the kitchen, the blanket wrapped round her, her bare feet sticking out the end. She loved making hot chocolate with Daddy. Mummy didn’t do it right, didn’t break up extra bits of chocolate from the treats cupboard. She didn’t do it in a pan, stirring until all the lumps of Dairy Milk or Galaxy had melted.
“Have we got squirty cream?”
“Not sure, Princess. But if we do, we’re having it. Do you want to grate chocolate for the top?”
“Uh-huh.” Sarah spun awkwardly on the counter, and carefully ran the bar of chocolate along the blades of the grater, watching her fingers as she had been taught. “Daddy?”
“Yes, Princess.”
“How old am I going to be? How much older am I going to get, I mean?”
Sarah watched her Daddy as he stopped. His knuckles went white as his grip tightened on the pan he was stirring. He put the chocolate powder down and came to her, frowning, though not like when he was cross. His forehead was frowny, but his eyes were kind. He put his hands on either side of her hips, as a tear rolled down his cheek.
“You are very, very poorly, Sarah. We’ve tried everything we can to make you better, but those baddie blood cells we talk about have just been too strong for us. As you know, you have been getting more poorly recently and that is going to continue. The special hospital place we are going to on Tuesday …”
“Mad House.”
“Madron House, yes. Madron is a special kind of hospital for girls and boys, like you, who aren’t going to get any better. At first, we might just go there during the day, or if you are feeling particularly unwell. After a while, you might decide that you want to stay there more, particularly as they can give you medicines that will make you more comfortable.”
“How long will I be there?” Sarah felt the tummy going over a bump sensation again. This time she felt tears welling up. “When am I going to die?”
“We don’t know, darling. I can’t answer that.” Sarah watched her daddy chewing his lip, something he did when he didn’t want to tell her something.
“What happens when I die? Will it hurt?” Tears had started flowing now and Sarah wiped them roughly from her face with the flat palm of her hand. Her daddy did the same, his face creasing again, his voice going funny.
“No, treasure. It won’t hurt. You will probably be fast asleep and won’t know anything about it. Mummy and Daddy will be there, cuddling you and you will just slip away.”
“To heaven?”
“Yes, to heaven.”
Sarah nuzzled into Simon, who held her tight in her arms. It hurt a bit, but it didn’t matter. “But, Daddy. Who will live with me in heaven?”
Sarah felt the arms around her slacken slightly. Her father’s breathing seemed to stop for a moment. He moved back from her slowly, his face in hers, his breath tainted with the whisky stuff he had been drinking.
“God, Sarah. You will live with God.”
“But I don’t know God.”
There was a pause. “Of course you do, darling. God is with you all the time. He knows you. He made you.”
“But I don’t know him. I don’t know what he’s like.” Sarah started to sob now. She didn’t want to go somewhere alone. She didn’t even like going to the loo in restaurants alone. She was scared. She knew she wasn’t a little, little girl anymore, but she still needed her Mummy and Daddy. Or her Grandpa Aitch. Or Grandma Diana. She had to have someone. She started to howl now. She couldn’t help it. She’d had enough of being brave little Sarah. She was going to die and she was going to go to heaven and she wouldn’t know anybody there. It wasn’t fair.
“Great Grandma and Grandpa will be there – and Mummy’s grandparents. They were lovely. They will take care of you. And then there is Mummy’s dog from when she was little. And Grandpa Robert had a pussy cat called Winston – he’ll look after you…”
“I don’t KNOW them.” Sarah hyperventilated, struggling to get the words out. “And I can’t be looked after by a stupid cat. I need a grown-up. I need you and Mummy. I’m scared. I don’t want to go on my own…”
Sarah felt herself being lifted off the counter top. She wrapped her legs round her father as he squeezed her. She could feel his tears dripping onto her neck and ears; he bit the shoulder of her nightie as he mumbled into her shoulder. Beside them the milk hissed as it boiled over, the bubbles surging up, uncontrolled, out of the pan.
“I’ll go with you. I’ll go with you. It’ll be alright. Oh God, it’ll be alright. I’ll go to heaven with you.”
Chapter 15
“You stupid, stupid bastard.”
Another roll of ribbon hissed past Simon’s head, followed by a carnation and a box of nameplace cards. He dodged the missiles, ducking beneath the florist shop counter. Two or three blocks of oasis crashed down upon him, projected with surprising power despite their light weight.
“What was I supposed to do? Wake you up?”
“Yes,” howled Melissa. “No. Yes. You should have brought her up to bed. We could have talked to her together. I could have changed the subject. We could have worked it out. But you…” Another carnation whizzed
past, “… you, stupid, selfish, drunken bastard …” A rose followed the same trajectory “… decided to get pissed up and have the most important conversation we will ever have with our daughter on your own and shit-faced.”
“I didn’t mean for it to happen. She asked…”
“And not only,” Melissa’s face, incandescent with rage, appeared above where he crouched, “not only, did you decide to tell our daughter she was going to die, you also told her that you were going to die with her.”
“I didn’t!” Simon wailed, cringing in case Melissa decided to bring anything heavier down upon his head. “I didn’t mean it like that. I was upset, confused. I …”
“You were drunk! You’d downed an entire bottle of whisky and a bottle of wine and you let Sarah see you like that. You are a dirty, hopeless alcoholic and I never want to see you again.”
Melissa disappeared again. Simon waited a few moments to see if more missiles would be forthcoming. The airspace above him seeming clear, he stood up cautiously.
“Being drunk one night doesn’t make somebody an alcoholic, Melissa.”
“A whole bottle of whisky, Simon.”
“Bad, yes. But a one-off. We’ve both been drinking too much. I don’t think it’s unknown exactly, given the circumstances.”
“You told her you were going to kill yourself.” Melissa sat down on a plastic office chair near the back area of the little shop.
“No. I didn’t. I think I told her…”
“You think.” Melissa spat. “You don’t even remember.”
Simon sighed and leaned on the countertop. “I do remember. I said that I would go with her. She was scared and I was scared and it just sort of came out. I didn’t think …”
“No, you most certainly did not think, Simon. There hasn’t been an awful lot of thinking going on in that head of yours for sometime. I’m sorry, Simon, but I don’t want you back in the house. You’ll have to go and stay with your parents. I can’t have a loose cannon, a drunk, in the house at this time. You’re a liability.”
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