“I shouldn’t think it was a picnic for you either, by the sound of it.” He gives me a weak-looking smile and says he’s doing all right.
“It’s good to see you,” he says, patting my hand back. “I mean it.”
He seems a bit vague and I can’t tell if he’s just dopey from his nap or a bit out of it. God knows what drugs they pump into you after something like that. Wouldn’t be surprised if all the patients are coked to the gills as a matter of routine—keeps ‘em quiet, need less nurses and that, like they do in prisons. Bromine, is it? Bromide? Something like that. Mega-tranquies of some sort anyhow.
It’s weird visiting people in hospital. For a start, they’re in bed in their pyjamas only you’re supposed to chat away like everything’s normal and you’re surrounded by other blokes all in their pyjamas with their families all huddled round them. And you bring grapes and flowers and magazines and a card and so each patient’s got like a miniature house round them with their vase and their cards and their wife sat next to them—only really it’s just like playing house the way kids do when they’re little because it’s no more like being at home than having a picnic on the hard shoulder of the motorway is like having a relaxing barbie in your back garden. You can’t relax ‘cause there’s all this equipment bleeping away or—worse—not bleeping all of a sudden, and there’s tubes going in and coming out carrying God knows what, you’d rather not know thank you, and nurses bustling past and some poor sod mindlessly polishing the floor apparently twenty-four hours a day to make you think the place is clean as a whistle when we all know a hospital’s the last place you want to hang out when you’re ill because it’s full of germs and diseases. The only thing you almost never see, if you think about it, is a doctor. You’d think chaps in white coats with stethoscopes round their necks would be two a penny in a hospital, but God knows what they do with them ‘cause I didn’t see a single one fluttering round Harry that whole first time I was there.
Well, Maureen comes back from her exciting trip to the toilet—every tiny thing feels like an event in a hospital because it’s so sodding boring. I offer to go fetch her a cup of tea from the canteen because the trolley lady’s bringing one for Harry and gone are the good old days when the visitors got one as well. Maureen says she thinks she might just manage a biscuit, too, but not to get the ones with the raisins in because they get stuck in her dentures.
One minute, her husband’s at death’s door, the next she’s worrying about whether I might bring her the wrong kind of biscuit. But that’s the way it is, isn’t it? That’s what we do. Tell ourselves everything’s back to normal as fast as possible. Sweep it under the mat like it never happened if we can. Heart attack? What heart attack? Just a blip in our normal routine. Smooth it over. Right as rain again.
“Did Harry say …?” Maureen asks as I turn to go.
“Say what?”
“Chris is coming.” Her voice is proud, but her smile is shy, guilty-looking, like a kid who knows she’s been naughty, like she knows that of course all she should be thinking about is Harry but she’s so pleased her beloved son is coming from the other side of the world to be with them that she can’t hide her excitement. “Said he felt he should be with his dad. Nothing could have kept him away.” I bet. “Said he’d be on the first plane out. He’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Good. Of course he’d come. That’s great. Right. Biscuits—no raisins. Rightio. I’m pleased for you.”
I say it, because I know I should, but I’m not really pleased for her. I feel all tight inside, mean and sort of scrunched up and horrible. Chris will turn up and be welcomed with open arms and my presence will be unnoticed, unwanted even—I’ll just be some bloke from work who’s thoughtfully popped in for a few minutes. I tell myself I’m a sad, mean-spirited bastard and if I’m not careful I’ll end up like my sodding father, then I stomp down to the canteen in search of some sodding raisin-free biscuits.
I realize I haven’t had a bite to eat all day, so I splash out on a dodgy looking “all-day breakfast” sandwich, which is basically bacon and hard-boiled egg that’s been steamrollered then stuck between two bits of bread, and a murky-looking coffee. They have those chocolate muffins and seeing them makes me think of Ella. I really want to speak to someone. Actually, I really want to speak to her. The canteen’s practically the only place in the hospital where you can use a mobile, so I dial her number.
“Hello?”
“'s me.”
“Hello you. Wassup?”
So I tell her about Harry and about Maureen and her biscuits and her knitting and about the return of the prodigal son from Australia. I take a bite of my sandwich because I’m starving then find that I can’t seem to swallow. Gulp at the too-hot coffee to get it down.
“You OK?” Ella’s voice, soft and close in my ear.
“Guess so.” I pause, feeling myself start to well up. Stop it! I tell myself. Stop this right now! “I’m fine.”
“Oh, Scott. You’re not. I can hear you’re not. I wish I was there with you. This must be hard—I know Harry’s like a father to you. I’m so sorry. No wonder you feel a bit peculiar if this Chris is going to suddenly come back and be the golden boy for a while.”
“It’s OK. I’m OK. Chris is his real son, after all. I’m nobody. What’s it to me? I should be pleased he’s coming, pleased for Harry.”
“Never mind what you should be or shouldn’t be. You are allowed to be upset, you know. I don’t think any less of you.”
“I wish you were here.”
“Do you want to come over? Maybe I can get Cora to take Jamie for a while.”
I drop my voice.
“I could do with a cuddle.”
“So could I. And, besides, I’ve got bosoms here going to waste. They need to be nestled in, so why don’t you get your bod over here soon, hmm?”
“Oh, well, all right then. You talked me into it.”
I know, I bet you think I sound like a pathetic bastard, some stupid cry-baby in the playground whining that it’s not fair, that some bigger boy’s pinched my ball. But that’s about how I felt, like I was five years old and my best friend had gone off to play with someone else and I was left all alone, kicking at the tarmac and biting my lip so’s I wouldn’t cry.
Rosie
Mum said Uncle Harry’s had to go to the hospital because he had a heart attack, but it is all right—he didn’t die or anything. I’m supposed to be specially nice to my dad because he is sad about Harry. I made a Get Well Soon card and Mum bought one and Dad came and picked them up to take them to the hospital. Mum had to sign hers from Nat too because he was at swimming, then Nat was cross when he came back because he said he wanted to sign it and he was always being left out of everything and it wasn’t fair and Mum should have waited for him.
Mum gave Dad a hug in the hall when he came round to make him feel better, but it does not mean that they are getting back together or anything because it was only a friendly hug. There was no snogging. Dad goes to see Harry every day at the hospital and some days he goes twice. He takes him a newspaper and tapes of old songs to listen to. I said he should get him a puzzle magazine because they are good when you are bored and they have the answers in the back for when you get stuck. And I told Dad he should buy some chocolates too because that’s what you take people in hospital, but he said no, he didn’t think it was a good idea because Harry was on a diet and was only allowed healthy things and no more cakes or doughnuts or chocolate or chips or anything and I said maybe he should take him a lettuce instead then and Dad said he thought it was a very good idea and it would give Harry a laugh and remind him of his allotment and that I was a genius. I’m not a genius actually in fact, but I’m glad I said about the lettuce.
Scott
We walk up and down the hospital corridors. Harry and me, arm in arm like a couple of old ladies taking the air along the seafront. You’d think that one good thing about being in hospital is you’d at least get plenty of rest. But not a chance�
��they say he’s not to lay in bed all day, it’s not good for him. Harry says he feels like a right wally walking about on his own in his dressing-gown, so I tag along.
“Here we go again,” I say. “Nice day for a stroll, eh, Grandpa?”
“Cheeky sod. I bet this is more exercise than you’ve taken in years ‘n’ all.”
As we walk, I tell him what’s occurring at First Glass, what jobs we’ve got on, what’s coming up, what birds Lee’s knocking off now. I do impressions so he can feel like he’s right there: Lee’s side-to-side swagger, his cocky greeting—"Awwright?” Gary, tongue poked out in concentration like a kid as he peers close at the measuring rule; Martin, trying to talk through a faceful of egg sandwich. Harry laughs and nods, says he can’t wait to get back to work.
“Hey—but no overdoing it, eh?” I tell him. “We can manage.”
“How’s that boy of yours doing?” Harry squeezes my arm.
“I don’t see him enough to know. I’m still not Mr Popular in his book. Have to get reports from the front via messenger. Gail says his moods are up and down like a fiddler’s elbow. I wish I could—well, you know.”
“They can be awkward so-and-sos at that age, eh? Bet you were a right little tearaway yourself.”
“You’re not wrong, Harry. But … I dunno. You reckon I should just let him alone, leave him to sort it out in his head—or what?”
Harry stops a minute, before we go back into the ward, rubs his unshaven chin.
“Talk to him. You don’t want to leave things unsorted. Unfinished business. See, fathers and sons …” his mouth tightens a sec and I know he’s thinking about Chris. “'s tricky. Well, I’m no expert either—but I’d say you give it your best shot, eh?”
I nod.
“Yeah, I should have a crack at it.”
“After all,” he says, “we’re all a long time dead. You want to get the good while you’re still here.”
He’s a cheery old soul sometimes.
The first three days, by dint of luck and by sneakily finding out from Maureen, I manage not to coincide with Chris at the hospital. I pop in to the hospital twice a day if I can. Harry says he’s glad to see me but not to stay long because while the cat’s away etcetera—and goodness knows what the little sods might get up to with only Denise to keep an eye. Maureen says she’s not up to going in to work just now.
Then there’s a conservatory to be done and it’s a right bugger, frankly, so I have to go give Lee a hand and I don’t make it to the hospital in the morning. It’s gone two by the time I get there. I’m walking along the corridor, with my hands full: Harry’s newspaper and a copy of Auto Express, a Nat King Cole tape—he’s a right old softy is Harry—a bottle of lemon barley water, and a bag of satsumas. He likes those ‘cause they’re easy for him to peel in bed and it helps take his mind off his cravings for crisps and nuts.
There’s two men walking ahead of me along the corridor. Suddenly, I click that the older one’s Harry. That’s his dressing-gown and I recognize his shuffle—it’s them backless slippers of his. The other one must be Chris. As I watch, he puts his arm round Harry, then they turn the corner to carry on with their walk.
I should catch them up and say hello.
Yes, that’s what I should do most probably.
* * *
I go in the ward and the nurse flashes me a smile and greets me, “Hello there, you’re late today. Harry’ll be back in a few minutes I should think if you want to wait.”
“It’s OK. I can’t stop now anyway. I’m, er—I’ve got—yeah—I’ll just stick this lot by his bed. Tell him I said hi.”
“I’m sure he won’t be that long if you—”
“Nah. I’d better go. I’ll come by tonight.”
Eight o’clock. He should be gone by now, right?
He isn’t.
Chris looks healthy and tanned and relaxed. I feel crap and pale and tense. Not a good start. I’ve met him twice before, when he came over with his wife and kids. Last time was about three years ago I think. You should have seen Harry, crawling about on the floor playing at being horsey for his little granddaughter. It was only the second time he’d seen her since she’d been born. He was gutted when they went back to Australia. I reckon in the back of his mind he kept hoping they’d decide to jack in their jobs and swanky house over there and come back here, that they’d see what they were missing. Problem was, they saw exactly what they were missing—mostly in the form of rain, rude service and lousy job prospects. Can’t say I blame them really. But it was hard on Harry and Maureen.
Chris is an OK kind of bloke, I suppose, but he’s got his own life and I don’t think his parents figure much in it. He sends them a couple of cards a year and each time, Harry brings the card in to the office. It’ll be a picture of a koala or a kangaroo or whatever and you can see Harry turning it over and over in his hands, looking at the picture, then reading the back, then looking at the picture again, before he says, ever so casually:
“Postcard from Chris. From Australia.”
He always adds that and it’s like he’s telling me but really he’s telling himself, like he’s saying: see, he’s sent a card from all that way away—as if Chris had strapped on a pair of wings and flown over with it personally instead of just whacking on a stamp and shoving it in a letterbox. I mean, to Harry’s generation, getting something from Australia is still a big deal. Course, now flights really don’t cost all that much, and Chris could come over three or four times a year if he wanted to. I guess he just doesn’t want to.
Maureen writes them every fortnight. Harry’s not big on letter writing. I told him he could e-mail them no sweat, but Harry’s a bit of a technophobe ever since he lost part of the database. It didn’t matter. Denise had a printout on file and she just keyed it back in again. Harry likes things he can pick up with his hands—like a sheet of glass or a piece of timber or a cutter—or a postcard.
* * *
Anyway. Chris. I’m here now and I don’t see why I should have to go sneaking off again. Bollocks to it. It’s fine. I’m cool with this, really I am. We shake hands and he says how’s it going and I say fine and he must be relieved to see Harry’s OK, but it must have been quite a shock when Maureen phoned him.
“Yeah, well I was due a trip over here anyhow.”
“Business going well?” He has one of those jobs that you have no idea what he actually does all day. He’s an Associate Executive Something-or-Other or an Executive Associate Director, something like that, for some food processing corporation. I don’t know, I asked him about it last time we met and he said, “It’s kinda dull, you wouldn’t want to hear about it.” And then proceeded to give me a minute-by-minute account of what felt like an entire year in the life of this mind-bogglingly tedious business—and, at the end, I still didn’t have a clue what he did.
Maureen comes sidling up to us and says Chris is keen to come in to First Glass, take a look, especially as Harry will be having some time off. And I’m thinking, “Well, you sure as hell don’t know how to cut a piece of glass, mate, so what use are you going to be?” Then it occurs to me that what he really wants is to have a good old snoop, probably find out what our turnover is, see how much his old man’s worth. Chris goes off to the toilet and Maureen leans close like she’s telling me a secret.
“Chris is such a love. Always takes such a keen interest in the business.”
Er, hello? Takes a keen interest from umpteen thousand miles away by sending two postcards a year. Is she kidding herself or what?
“Er, yeah, right. And you’re OK with him coming round work then?” Maureen looks puzzled and I feel like I’ve mishandled it.
“Of course. You’ll show him how it all works, won’t you, Scott? Whatever he wants to see.”
“Rightio. No probs. He’ll get the full guided tour.”
Next morning I’m in at five to eight, but he’s already there, sitting in Harry’s car, waiting for me. He probably got here at 6 a.m. just to make sure he w
as here first. I feel like I’m being watched by an inspector from the Rev, and I fumble with my keys and bump myself hard against the counter as I rush to do the alarm.
“Two—seven—three—nine,” he says out loud, watching over my shoulder.
Why don’t you just fuck off?
“So …” he nods slowly to himself. “You don’t have to have the alarm code written up somewhere to remember it?”
I can’t tell if he’s trying to take the piss or if he’s actually serious. Please can I punch him? Just the once?
“No, even though I’m a bit of a thicko, I never forget it because it’s Harry’s birth date.”
* * *
There is a pause. A definite pause.
“Hey—I know that.”
Yeah, but you’d forgotten, I think. I know it.
Gail
I’m worried about Nat. I try to tell myself he’s just being a teenager, but he seems so withdrawn and I can’t seem to communicate with him at all. I ask him how things are going with Joanne and he just grunts. She seems like a nice girl, so maybe it’s fine. And he’s barely at home—when he’s not at school or swimming practice, he’s over at Joanne’s or Steve’s.
“So what do you get up to?” I ask him.
“Just, you know, hanging out.”
“Oh. Right.”
It could mean anything. I tell myself it means sitting around chatting and listening to music, maybe even discussing their homework. Not every teenager is off his skull on crack and beating up old ladies for their pension money, I remind myself. The papers are chock full of rubbish. I wish he’d talk to Scott. Or at least just see him other than when Scott picks up Rosie.
Lessons for a Sunday Father Page 33
