by Jane Moore
Leaving the crew to set up the camera and lights, I follow Ben down the corridor for a guided tour of the center. He shows me an empty unit, waiting for a new family to arrive that afternoon, then leads me into an annex at the back that houses the small kitchen cum canteen. It's empty.
"We've got three families staying with us at the moment, and they're all in their units right now. Coffee?" He points at an instant coffee machine.
"That would be lovely, thanks." I wander over to a small notice board at the back of the room and study the photographs. Again, it's a selection of shots of children and their parents, just like those found in any family home. Except, of course, for the stark difference that these children have a death sentence hanging over their young, innocent heads.
Ben appears at my side brandishing a cup of coffee and two sugar packets. He points to the picture of an angelic-looking blond boy, aged about seven, grinning widely and standing slap bang in the middle of a puddle. "That's Billy. He was such a great character."
"Was?"
"Yes, he died about six months ago," says Ben matter-of-factly. "He needed a bone marrow transplant to save his life, but they just couldn't find a match for him. His whole family had the tests, and so did everyone here at the center. But I'm afraid nothing even came close. It happens that way sometimes."
Staring at the smiling face of the little boy robbed of his life before it's barely begun, I feel overwhelmed by sadness. "Did he die here?"
Ben smiles warmly. "Yes, he did. That's the whole point of this place. When parents know their child hasn't got much longer to live, they can come here and be surrounded by a support network. We have doctors, nurses, and counselors on hand if need be, as well as general staff just to help out with cooking, cleaning, or even a bit of babysitting if the parents want a break."
I walk over to a table and sit down. "So where do you fit in?"
"Me?" He sits opposite me and runs a hand through his hair. "Well, I sort of run the place, but I'm also trained in grief counseling."
We sit in silence for a few moments, him staring down into his coffee cup, me studying the top of his head whilst deep in thought.
"Doesn't it ever get you down?" I say eventually. "You know, getting to know the children, losing them, and then having to deal with their parents' grief as well as your own?"
"Sometimes." He shrugs. "But it's not about me, is it? It's about the children and the families they leave behind. I would feel horribly self-indulgent if I allowed my grief to overwhelm me when it's so much more valuable to hold it together and help the parents to cope. After all, their distress is always going to be much worse than mine."
"Put like that, it makes perfect sense," I reply. "But I'm still not so sure I could deal with it. I'm probably too selfish."
He makes a scoffing noise. "Nonsense. You'd be surprised what you can cope with when you have to."
Despite promising her I wouldn't discuss it with anyone, I suddenly feel compelled to tell him about Olivia. At this precise point, he doesn't even know of her existence, and that anonymity proves too tempting. After all, what harm can it do to share the burden with a virtual stranger?
"It's funny you should say that," I say with a half-smile. "My sister has just been diagnosed with breast cancer and is relying on me to hold it together." It feels odd but liberating to have finally told someone.
"And are you holding it together?" He looks at me intently, as if searching for clues.
"Kind of." I shrug, none too sure myself. "I'm being strong in front of her, but I must confess I have lost it a couple of times when I've been on my own."
"That's entirely normal." He smiles reassuringly. "You'd be unusual if you didn't."
"I suppose it's a form of panic really. I can't bear the thought that her children might lose their mummy."
"And that you might lose your sister . . ."
I nod. "Yes, that too." Before I know it, tears are pricking the corners of my eyes and I start to blink furiously, determined not to cry in front of someone I barely know.
Ben, seemingly nonplussed, stands up and walks behind the kitchen counter. Seconds later, he returns with a box of tissues and quietly places it in front of me.
"How bad is it?" he asks.
I dab my eyes. "I'm not really sure, as everyone involved in the diagnosis is being rather noncommittal at the moment. She's about to have an MRI scan to see whether it has spread, and if so, then probably a mastectomy."
Ben considers what I've said for a few moments. "Well, I'm certainly no expert on breast cancer, but if, as it sounds, they've caught it in the early stages, then there's still plenty of hope."
"I sincerely hope so. But it's the waiting I can't stand." I blow my nose, feeling pathetic to be disintegrating in a building full of young children that hope abandoned long ago.
"Yes, the parents here say that, too. But unlike your situation, there's no chance of a happy ending for them."
Reaching into my handbag for my notebook, I place it on the table in front of me. "Do you mind if I ask you some questions for the report? I want to make sure I get it absolutely right."
"No problem."
"Do the children know they're dying?"
He nods. "Yes. That's part of what we do here . . . help the parents to tell them and keep reinforcing the message. But children are a lot more accepting of death than adults."
"In what way?" I'm jotting it all down.
Pursing his lips in thought, he stares into the middle distance for a few seconds. "They don't get as sentimental about it, if you like. The parents think of all the future missed birthdays, the missed wedding, the missed birth of their grandchildren, but the child doesn't. They don't really have an awareness of all that, so they don't think about it."
"So how do they react?"
He gives a little sigh. "Um, it depends really. They pick up an awful lot from their parents, so if Mum and Dad can pretend to be quite matter-of-fact about it, then the child will cope better. But if they fall apart, the child will react to that and become very upset too."
"Are you able to tell me more about Billy?" I jerk my head back towards the notice board and the photographs.
"Yep. His parents have given us media clearance to talk about him. Some parents retreat into a shell and block out the world, but Billy's mum and dad want to help the center whichever way they can, and they also take comfort from seeing him written or spoken about."
I scrawl "Billy" on the page and underline it. "So when did he first come here?"
Ben screws up his face, trying to think straight. "It was last summer, about August, I think. He was from Kendal, in the Lake District, and he'd been under the care of a specialist unit in Bristol whilst waiting for a bone marrow match."
Seeing me scribbling to keep up, he pauses for a moment, watching and waiting for me to get it all down.
"He got weaker and weaker, until it was pretty obvious he was going to lose the battle. So his parents brought him here." He smiles at the memory. "He was such a fantastic little boy, so full of life considering what he was going through. He used to call me Big Ben . . . he thought that was hilarious." He tails off, a sad look on his face.
I put my pen down. "This isn't for the report, but I'm fascinated to know, so I hope you don't mind me asking . . . do you know when someone is about to die?" I can't remember the last time I asked such a weighty, significant question within the context of something work related.
He turns down the corners of his mouth, pondering the question. "Everyone's different. Some simply pass away in their sleep, which is the nicest way to go for them, but horrible for the parents because they feel deprived of the chance to have said a final, final good-bye. But Billy was quite something. He knew when he was going to die."
He takes a sip of his lukewarm coffee and glances over at the notice board to Billy's picture.
"Billy was a huge Manchester United fan, and his bedroom here was covered in posters and memorabilia. Even his quilt cover was Man U.
His dad used to take him to quite a few matches, but that became an impossibility after he got ill, so we arranged for Ryan Giggs to pay him a visit here.
"I'll never forget his little face when Ryan walked up to his bed. It was magical." He pauses for a moment, clearly savoring the memory, then lets out a deep sigh. "Anyway, after Ryan had gone, Billy asked to watch his favorite TV show, Byker Grove--he loved that--and his mum and dad sat either side of his bed and watched it with him. When it had finished, he lay back on his pillows and said 'I'm ready to die now.' A few minutes later, he drifted off to sleep . . . and that was it."
Tears are unashamedly pouring down my face. Tears for Olivia, tears for Matthew and Emily, and tears for a little boy called Billy who I never even met but, to my mind, represents everything that is unfair and unjust about this world we live in. A world where good, innocent people get struck down in the prime of their life, whilst others with shameful existences frequently live long into old age.
Ben looks concerned and passes me another tissue. "Sorry, I didn't mean to upset you."
"Please don't apologize," I mumble through the tissue. "Bizarrely, that story makes me feel lucky, because I know that Olivia still has a long way to go before things get that bad. If they get that bad." I cross my fingers.
"That's the spirit." He smiles, glancing at his watch again. "Look, Phit should be here at any moment. Shall we go and find Anne so I can introduce you? She's so excited about coming up to London for her makeover next week."
I nod and stand up. It will be good to leave the sadness behind for the moment and focus on putting something happy and positive out into the world.
Twenty
It's 8 a.m. and, believe it or not, I'm sitting at my desk clattering away at my keyboard. For the simple reason that I want to make sure the report on Phit's visit to Sunshine House is as accurate and thought-provoking as it can possibly be on a television program that usually prides itself on sound bite vacuity.
Sunshine House and its special occupants deserve better, and I'm determined to give it to them--even if I have to lock antlers with Janice in the middle of the office.
After our chat in the kitchen, Ben had taken me back through to the communal lounge, where Stinky and Perky were all set up and chatting to a pleasant-looking woman in her early forties with short brown hair and the clear blue eyes of a young girl.
It was Anne, and we spent the next ten minutes huddled in a corner, talking about her work with the charity and the death of her daughter Sarah, also from leukemia.
Sarah was just six when she was diagnosed, and died in her mother's arms less than two years later. Anne told me that Sunshine House had stopped her from falling apart, and that she wanted to give something back by helping others like her. She came off as genuine and caring, with a wonderfully dry wit, and after watching her interacting with the children, cajoling them into being more confident around Phit after they'd performed and cuddling them with delight afterwards, I wanted to be her friend.
"I told you she was incredible," Ben whispered, seeing me standing to one side and watching Anne tickling a little girl named Jane as her parents looked on.
I nodded. "She is. Has she never tried to have any more children?"
He nodded. "Yes. Sarah died seven years ago, and Anne left it a couple of years before trying for another baby, but sadly nothing happened. I think she and her husband, Ralph, are now resigned to the fact that it probably won't."
"She's only forty-two," I replied, having established her age during our chat. "Surely she could go for IVF or something?"
"They haven't got the money. The NHS says she's too old for treatment, so she'd have to go private and it's an expensive business."
Especially when she works mostly voluntarily, I thought, feeling anger rising inside me at the injustice of it. "What does Ralph do for a living?"
"He's a security guard down at the local supermarket. He's very supportive and they seem to have a good marriage." Ben smiled. "They now pour all their energy and attention into their two West Highland terriers."
I had left Sunshine House determined not to let any of them down, both with the film on Phit and with Anne's makeover scheduled for next week. I know it's strange, but somehow helping out Sunshine House makes me feel as though I'm helping out Olivia as well. Just the sense of taking action is one I relish. This morning, I have already e-mailed Kevin, Trudi, and Camilla to ensure they make an extra-special effort with her hair, makeup, and clothes.
"She's a really special friend of mine," I write. A lie of course, but it feels good to say it.
An hour later, I check over the script for the Phit film and slump back in my chair, finally satisfied with it.
"Bloody hell, alert the media. Jess Monroe at her desk before lunch." It's the ever-sarcastic Janice, peering over my shoulder. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"
"I'm just finishing off the script for the Phit film," I reply with as much geniality as I can muster. "It went really well. It's going to make a great item."
"I'll be the judge of that," she says ominously, heading towards her lair.
Thankfully, despite being the bitch queen from hell, Janice knows a good item when she sees one and has just given the go-ahead for the Phit film to run tomorrow. If she hadn't, I seriously would have contemplated resigning over it, such is my devotion to the cause at this point. Now all I have to do is pray that some major news event doesn't knock it off the schedule and conserve my energy for making sure Anne's makeover still goes ahead next week.
I can just see it now. Janice will say "But we've already done Phit visiting Sunshine House. That's quite enough publicity for the charity" and I will reply "Yes, but this is about rewarding a woman who selflessly gives her time free of charge to help sick children."
Then Janice will hit back: "Admirable, I'm sure, but this is a ratings-driven TV show, not some charitable rewards scheme for do-gooders." And I will fly across the office and punch her teeth out. OK, so I made that last bit up.
After grabbing a quick sandwich with Tab in the canteen, I return to my computer to put the finishing touches to the script for tomorrow's makeover, a trucker called Barry whose wife is threatening to leave him if he doesn't shave off an unruly beard and wave good-bye to his greasy ponytail.
Wrinkling my nose, I stare at the photograph of him in his grease-smeared lumberjack shirt and black . . . at least, I think they're black . . . jeans, and wonder whether a damn good scrub in the bath might do the trick. I shudder to think what Kevin's reaction is going to be when he claps eyes on him.
The script is fine, littered with the usual job-related cliches such as "Barry doesn't have any truck with fancy clothes, but his wife Jill is steering him towards a new image." Pulitzer Prize-winning stuff.
A new e-mail suddenly pops into my in-box and I glance at it for a couple of seconds, vaguely familiar with the address but unable to remember who it is. Double clicking on it, my eyes scroll quickly to the bottom for a name, and I freeze with shock.
It's from Simon, the man I last saw as he hightailed it out through the kitchens, leaving me the bill and a heavily dented ego.
Hi there,
Bloody cheek. Blase as you like.
I'd like to think you'd remember me for my wit and personality, but I suspect it will be because I abandoned you halfway through our first date. I can only apologize profusely and hope you forgive me.
I thought about e-mailing you the next day to try to explain, but it's a complicated story and I felt the impersonal nature of computers wouldn't be appropriate. So I stalled, then days became weeks, and after that I felt I had left it too late and that you'd probably moved on anyway.
Anyway, my complicated story has now become a little less so and I was wondering whether you would give me the chance to give you an explanation face-to-face? It's just that I really enjoyed your company, although I know my strange behavior didn't back this up!
So, any chance of us meeting up again? I fully understand if the answe
r is no, but as I said earlier, all I can do is apologize for what happened and promise to give you a full explanation if you feel like hearing it.
If you say yes, I promise to stay put for the entire date and buy copious amounts of champagne to make up for my ungentlemanly behavior!
Yours hopefully,
Simon
"Well, fuck me sideways," I mutter aloud.
"I beg your pardon?" Tab is giving me a stunned look from across the desk.
"Guess who I've just had an e-mail from?"
"Orlando Bloom?"
I shake my head and pull an "I wish" face. "No, you'll never guess."
"Well, why bloody ask me then?" Tab raises her eyes heavenward.
"Simon."
"Simon?" She looks puzzled.
"The bloke who did a runner through the kitchens, remember?"
She widens her eyes. "Really? Cheeky sod, what did he want?"
I stare at his e-mail again and scroll up and down, just to make sure. Dating on the Internet certainly presents some interesting twists. "He wants to meet me to explain why he left in such a hurry."
Tab makes a loud scoffing noise. "Well, I hope you're going to press delete and not even bother replying. Can you believe the sheer nerve of it?"
I purse my lips for a few moments, deep in thought. "It might be worth going along, just for the hell of it."
"Hell is the right word," mutters Tab down the side of her computer screen. "Have you completely lost your mind?"
"I really fancied him though." I pout. "And I don't feel that way about many people."
"You said Donald Rumsfeld had sexy eyes the other day. Are you going to go on a date with him, too?" she hisses. "If you want my advice, don't touch this Simon bloke with a bargepole. He sounds bad news to me."
