WITHOUT A CARE HOME
4 SEPTEMBER
I’m going to tell her. Today.
No matter what happens. No matter the consequences.
. . . oh, who am I trying to kid? I know what the consequences will be. Allie is going to bugger off as quickly as she possibly can. Not only do I have a tumour that could kill me, I’ve also covered it up and lied to her consistently about it for our entire short relationship. The idea of losing her terrifies me. It makes my breath catch in my throat – but I can’t go on like this any longer. I feel far too much for Allie to keep putting her through this.
The time has come to man up and tell the truth.
. . . now, do I do it by text or email?
It’s been a week since my brief but devastating conversation with Callum. A week to ponder his profound words, while also trying my hardest to get rid of the headache that Mr Punchy sparked off.
I stayed in Eliza’s spare bedroom for the rest of the party, my head throbbing like a bastard. By the time Allie came to see me again, all I wanted to do was get in a taxi, go home and swallow every single painkiller I possessed. I have to confess I was a bit short with both her and Eliza before leaving, but being civil when white-hot agony is coursing through your grey matter is quite impossible. I promised to call them both the next day, then bundled myself into a cab and went home. I called Eliza first to apologise and arrange a time when I could pick up my guitar and amplifier. I also told her I was going to be honest with Allie when I next saw her, which headed off another argument before it had a chance to surface.
I didn’t tell her about the secret bank account I’ve opened up in Callum’s name, however. I opened this account because I just don’t trust Bryan to be a decent father to Callum in the coming years. By the time Eliza finds out about the account, I’ll be long gone, so she won’t be able to shout at me about it. It’s a win-win situation. Callum will be taken care of, and I won’t have to have my eardrums punctured thanks to having hopefully escaped to another plane of existence.
I called Allie straight after speaking to Eliza and told her I would see her in a few days, once I felt a little better. I suppose I could have just confessed everything to her over the phone, but that didn’t seem right. This kind of shit needs to be done face-to-face and when I’m not bleary-eyed and fuzzy-headed from a Herman headache.
Which, friends and neighbours, I’m happy to say is today. The headache has cleared.
. . . only I’m not actually happy about it at all, am I?
Part of me secretly wanted the headache to go on and on, just so I never had to have the conversation with Allie. However, when I woke up today, I felt clear-headed for the first time in a week and knew there was no putting it off any longer.
‘So you’re feeling better now?’ Allie says down the phone when I call her just after breakfast.
‘Yes. Are you free today?’
‘I am. I’d like to see you if I can?’
‘Of course, that’d be lovely.’
‘Great.’ She pauses for a second. ‘Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask you about something . . . about that money you gave away to the lady with the donkey sanctuary?’
‘Oh yeah?’ I reply with a small shudder, remembering Pipsqueak’s excited member.
‘Would you be willing to give any more money away, by any chance? To another worthy cause, I mean?’
I’d told Allie all about my visit to Winnifred and her charges, including the incident with Pipsqueak. She laughed so hard I was worried I might have to start administering CPR at some point. I didn’t tell her the real reason for giving the cash away, of course – that I’m trying to do something worthwhile before I die. She just thinks I did it out of the goodness of my heart.
I truly am a shameless worm.
‘Um . . . yeah, sure . . . I’d love to, actually,’ I tell her.
‘Would you be willing to come and see somewhere with me that could do with your help?’
‘Yeah. No problem.’ I was planning on visiting the GivingLocal.com website again sometime soon anyway, but it sounds like Allie has someone she’d like me to help out instead, which suits me just fine.
‘Great! Can you meet me on the other side of town after lunch, at about one? I can text you the postcode.’
Hmmmm.
That’s not ideal, to be honest.
I had hoped to be able to go over to Allie’s flat to confess my sins. That way I could have just left quickly once she told me the relationship was over. Now we’ll be meeting somewhere strange, which will make the whole thing more awkward.
‘Yeah, that’s fine,’ I reply, keeping the reluctance out of my voice. ‘What kind of place are we going to?’
‘Um . . . I’d rather you saw it for yourself. I have a good reason for that.’
Cryptic.
‘Okay, well . . . I’ll see you later, then, I guess.’
‘Yes. You will.’ Allie pauses. ‘Are you all right, Nathan? You sound very low. Are you well enough to do this?’
‘Yeah. I’m fine. Honestly,’ I tell her, trying to sound a bit more perky.
She pauses for a moment on the other end of the line. ‘Nathan . . . does what happened at the party have anything to do with those things you haven’t been able to tell me about yet? You know? Like you said in the car that day on the way back from the hospital?’
I blink a couple of times in surprise. Allie hasn’t mentioned that conversation again, but it’s obviously been preying on her mind.
How the hell do I reply?
‘Er . . . it might have. A bit.’
Pathetic.
‘Ah. I thought so.’ She doesn’t say anything else. You can tell she wants to push the issue but doesn’t quite know how. It’s exquisitely awful.
‘Look, I’m fine. Honestly,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve just been cooped up in here for a few days and need to get outside.’
. . . and destroy both of our love lives in one fell swoop.
‘Why don’t we sort out this thing you want to show me and worry about everything else later?’
‘Okay!’ She actually sounds a little grateful that I’ve moved the conversation on. ‘That’s a good idea. I guess I’ll see you at one o’clock, then?’
‘Yep. You will.’
I end the call and spend a few moments considering my options. Do I just blurt out the truth as soon as I see her? Or wait for the appropriate moment? She obviously has something she wants me to see, so it’s probably a good idea to hear her out. I’ll just have to pick the right time when I get there.
Feeling some sort of half-hearted resolve, I go upstairs to take an extremely long shower. I also pop a few painkillers into my pocket as I leave the house – just in case.
The postcode Allie gave me takes my cab driver to what appears to be a bog-standard suburban street on the east side of town. It’s not the most salubrious area, to be honest. There aren’t quite any mattresses left out on the front lawns or untaxed cars in the driveways, but I do spot a couple of moth-eaten England flags hanging from windows here and there. The houses are all uniformly from the 1970s and are that special kind of drab that only England in the 1970s could create.
I spot Allie’s little Fiat 500 parked up and tell the cabbie to pull up behind it.
‘Hiya,’ I say as I climb out. I pay the cab driver and walk over to where she’s standing beside her car.
‘Hey.’
Allie looks a little nervous. This is quite ironic, given that it’s me who’s here to deliver bad news. I should be the one with the nerves. However, I think I’ve dropped into something of a fatalistic acceptance of the way things are going to turn out today. Allie is going to break off the relationship, of that there is no doubt. There’s nothing to really be that nervous about from my point of view.
‘Everything okay?’ I ask, as I kiss her on the cheek and give her a small hug. ‘You seem a bit tense.’
‘Er, well . . . There’s something I want to show you, and I don’t know what your reaction is going to be.’
‘Oh . . . I’m sure it’ll be fine.’
‘I hope so. They could really do with your help and I don’t want to screw it up.’
‘I guess you’d better show me why I’m here, then,’ I say, affecting what I hope is a positive tone. Let’s face it, I’m likely to throw the cash at Allie’s good cause no matter what it is, given the circumstances. That way, when she does break up with me for repeatedly lying to her, at least she won’t think I was a complete bastard. She could be about to lead me round to see Helena and her dog turd glue company and I’d still probably fork over fifty thousand pounds.
Alison takes my hand and we start to walk down the road a little way.
She leads me around a corner and stops. In front of us, about fifty yards away and across the road, is a massive and ramshackle old building that must have been built a good forty years before the rest of the houses around here were thrown up.
The mansion – there’s no better word to describe it – is built of grey stone and has a red-tiled roof. There are some flashes of art deco here and there around the windows and door frame, but other than that, the place is built in a fairly utilitarian style. I can count at least a dozen windows just at the front of the place, suggesting it’s a very big building indeed.
It’s in a right fucking state, there’s no doubting that. I’m reminded of Winnifred’s donkey sanctuary, only the decay here is far, far worse. There are roof tiles missing and cracks in a lot of the windows. The large front garden is overgrown, and the driveway is festooned with weeds.
This place must be abandoned.
‘Looks awful, doesn’t it?’ Allie says.
‘Yes.’
‘What do you think it is?’
‘Scheduled for demolition?’
‘Not quite.’
Allie leads me closer to the building. As we do so, I see a sign at the entrance to the drive that had been previously hidden by an oak tree in desperate need of a trim. The sign reads ‘Helmore Lodge Care Home for the Elderly’.
‘You’re kidding me,’ I say in disbelief. ‘People can’t live in there, surely?’
Allie’s eyes suddenly get very misty. ‘They do. One very special person in particular.’
She leads me across the road and up the care home’s overgrown driveway, which I now notice has small signs dotted here and there that say ‘Parking for Staff Only’. Most of them are empty.
The front doors of the building are awful. Not because they are in a dilapidated state, but because at some point in the past, some genius ripped out what were probably very attractive 1930s-style art deco doors and replaced them with a set of hideous ’80s UPVC nastiness. Any self-respecting architect would be throwing up as they examined this travesty.
We go inside and I’m hit with an overpowering smell of mustiness. It’s not unpleasant, but it is a strange odour to the nasal cavities of one lucky enough to live in a house built only eight years ago. The entrance lobby is quite large, with huge sets of heavy oak double doors leading away to both the left and right and a broad staircase rising up into a fairly gloomy-looking first floor. The decor can be described as tired at best – and fucking knackered at worst. I would describe the carpet as threadbare, but that would probably be giving it too much credit.
Just to the left as you enter the building, somebody has constructed a small reception out of plasterboard and hope. Sat behind the tiny desk is a young black girl in a blue nurse’s outfit, attempting to work at a computer from 1998. Allie goes over to her.
‘Hi, Carla,’ she says with a smile.
‘Hey, Allie! How are you doing?’
‘Fine, thank you. This is my friend Nathan,’ she says by way of introduction. ‘Nathan, this is Carla. She’s one of the staff here.’
Carla gets up and proffers a hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Nathan.’
I shake it and give her a winning smile. I get the feeling that winning is in short supply around here, so being overtly nice seems like the best thing I can do. ‘Nice to meet you, too. Lovely place you have here.’
Carla gives me a disbelieving look. I might as well have just told her that Martians were parked outside on the driveway, offering to trim the hedges for just ten Intergalactic Credits.
‘How is he today?’ Allie asks Carla as the girl sits back down.
‘Oh, the usual.’
Allie’s face screws up. ‘Oh no.’
Gosh. We’re obviously here to see somebody who’s not doing very well at all.
‘Yeah,’ Carla looks quite troubled. ‘In fact, everyone’s having one of those days.’
‘Oh no,’ Allie replies, her hand going to her mouth.
Bloody Nora. One of those days can only mean one thing, right? In a care home for the elderly? Someone’s died, haven’t they? Some poor bugger has died and here we are to witness the toe-curling aftermath.
A sudden wave of fear washes over me.
I can’t do this! I can’t be in this place!
I didn’t realise Alison was going to bring me to a care home full of sad, old people, all of whom are probably at death’s door. I’m at death’s door, too! What good is it going to do me to be around people who are only a couple of places ahead of me in the queue?
But I’m here now, aren’t I? I should have said something while we were still stood out on the street, but the shock of being told that people were forced to live in a place like this overrode any other considerations until we walked in through the front door. I should have told Allie about the tumour already, then I wouldn’t have to go through this!
I open my mouth to say something, but Allie has already snaked her hand back into mine. ‘Thanks, Carla, we’ll go through and say hello to him.’ She gulps. ‘I just hope . . . hope they’re not too bad.’
Carla winces. ‘Good luck,’ she says, giving us both a look filled with pity.
Allie moves towards the double doors on the left-hand side, pulling me along with her.
I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to spend any time in a room of people breathing their last. I’m not good around old people. I got fired from a paper round when I was twelve because I couldn’t deliver to 36 Clarkwell Street. The old lady who lived there always answered the door to me, and she looked like an ambulatory cadaver. I didn’t know whether to hand over the gazette or aim for the head to make sure she wouldn’t keep coming for me.
Allie pauses by the doors and looks at me. ‘This might be a little . . . distressing,’ she says, not knowing the half of it. ‘They’re all lovely people, really.’
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Are they going to just start dropping dead at my feet? Will I be corralled into helping Carla put the bodies into bin bags?
‘They cope the best they can, bless them,’ Allie continues, ‘given what this place is like.’
‘Okay.’ This is awful.
She gives me a thin smile. ‘Try to keep an open mind, won’t you?’
I swallow hard. I’m about to come face-to-face with the Grim Reaper himself, and she wants me to keep an open mind.
I take a deep breath. ‘Come on, then,’ I say.
Allie gives me that thin smile again and pushes the doors open . . .
Beyond is – well, beyond is not what I was expecting at all.
There are not a load of immobile, dust-covered pensioners sat in broken chairs, letting out their last death rattles. Neither is the room as silent as the grave, nor as smelly. When Allie said the residents cope the best they can with the dilapidated old building they live in, I didn’t quite get what she meant.
I didn’t expect quite so much laughter, for instance. Or so much terrible, terrible acting.
The room is full of large chairs and a lot of them are indeed in pretty bad shape. Almost every single armchair shows signs of wear and tear. I can even see the white upholstery stuffing coming through a couple of them. The carpet in here could give the one in the hallway a run for its money in the threadbare stakes, and the last time I saw curtains like that I hadn’t been born yet. There’s Artex on the ceiling. Oh, so much Artex. It’s yellowed with age and cracking in several places. There’s also what was once a grand fireplace in the centre of the far wall, around which the majority of the armchairs are placed.
In front of the fireplace are two old men reciting Shakespeare very badly. One is bald, short and holding on to a Zimmer frame. He looks a tiny bit unsteady on his feet. He’s still managing to wave his arms around theatrically, though. The other looks more limber – a tall, grey-haired man with a heavy tan, a wicked smile and a very loud mouth.
‘Now is the winter of our disco tent! Made glorious summer by this Yorkie bar!’ he exclaims, to the general amusement of all gathered.
‘And all the clowns that poured water on our house,’ says the other old boy, one arm extended out in front of him while the other still grips the frame. ‘In the deep bosom of Deidre buried!’ He points at one rather large lady in the front row of the audience. She roars with laughter and leans forward to give him a playful slap on the hip.
I turn and give Allie a look.
She cringes. ‘I know. I know. Welcome to the madhouse.’
The tall, more ambulatory pensioner is doubled over with laughter, until he notices Allie and me standing there. ‘Aha!’ he cries happily. ‘Our guests have arrived!’
‘Hello, Grandad,’ Allie replies, waving uncertainly at the crowd of old people.
Well, that explains everything, then. No wonder she would like me to consider putting some money into this place.
‘Well met, my favourite granddaughter!’ he tells her in ebullient fashion, coming over to join us. His gait is somewhat unsteady as he does so. This is a man still very full of life, but not even enthusiasm can stop the march of time on the human body. He’s robust enough for his age, but there’s an underlying frailty there, no doubt. He also looks oddly familiar. ‘You find us in our weekly sojourn into the works of the bard,’ he says, leaning in to give her a kiss on the cheek.
‘You mean murdering the works of the bard,’ Allie replies with a roll of her eyes.
The old man nods. ‘I take your constructive criticism on board, my dear.’ He points to the other old man he was ‘onstage’ with. ‘Don’t say anything to Bernard, though. He has the soul of a poet and the ego to match.’ He then looks at me for the first time. ‘But enough of this idle Shakespearean discourse – surely this must be your most recent gentleman friend, Nathan?’ He looks down his nose at her. ‘I do hope he’s a better prospect than that nincompoop Zack you were with a few months ago.’ He looks back at me. ‘Could barely string two words together . . . and had a strange, wispy beard that put me in mind of my dear old auntie Mildred.’
‘Grandad!’ Alison exclaims in horror.
‘Pleased to meet you!’ I say, stepping in before this goes any further. I get the impression that Allie’s grandfather is not a man who is afraid to speak his mind, whether he should or not. He also appears to like the sound of his own voice, which is fine, as so do I. ‘I can string at least five words together if you give me a long enough run-up, and I own a very expensive shaver that takes just five minutes to charge.’
The old man smiles broadly. He claps me on the shoulder and looks at his granddaughter with delight. ‘Much better! And wealthy to boot, by all accounts. I look forward to buttering him up as much as possible.’
Allie’s head goes into her hand. ‘Nathan, this is my grandfather Freddie Stockhouse. I apologise in advance for everything that comes out of his mouth.’
Freddie Stockhouse? I’m sure I’ve heard that name before . . .
I peer at him closely for a second. Then it hits me. ‘Were you . . . were you in a band in the sixties called Reluctant Badger?’
Freddie’s eyes light up.
‘Oh God, no!’ Allie wails.
‘Yes!’ Freddie confirms with triumph. ‘Indeed, I was!’
‘You played the crumhorn, didn’t you?’ I continue, scarcely able to believe it.
‘And the hurdy-gurdy!’ Freddie reminds me.
‘Of course!’
A few years ago, I indulged in a hippy phase, musically speaking. For about three months I immersed myself in the flower power music scene, listening to as many albums of the period as I could. Along with all the classic bands like Jefferson Airplane and Hawkwind, I also dabbled in more obscure fare. Easily the strangest of the bunch was Reluctant Badger, who had three albums out in total, each of which more zany and bizarre than the last.
‘I have all of your albums!’ I cry excitedly.
‘Do you?!’ the old man replies in disbelief.
‘Yes! Montezuma’s Packet of Peanuts is great, but I think you guys really peaked with Chickens Halfway up the Mountain.’
Freddie throws his arms around me. ‘You truly are a wonderful boy! I am usually recognised for my time treading the boards, but it’s most welcome to hear that my brief sojourn as a rock musician went down well with at least one person!’ Freddie fixes Allie with a meaningful stare. ‘Marry this boy immediately, my girl! I demand it!’
‘Grandad!’ Allie looks mortified.
I’m starting to see why she had a look of dread on her face before we came in here. I thought it was because somebody had died. By the way Allie looks right now, she probably wishes it was her.
Freddie snakes one arm around her as well. ‘Why don’t you both come and sit down? We have prepared something of a show for Nathan here to help him understand our plight.’
‘You have?’ Allie replies. ‘But I just wanted you to meet Nathan and for him to have a look around the place . . .’
Freddie looks aghast. ‘But that would have been so boring.’ He starts to pull us towards two armchairs that have been hastily vacated by two of the residents. ‘No, no. We’ve been planning this for a few days now. All you have to do, Nathan, my boy, is sit back and let us regale you with our tale. Fear not! It has been written with a comedic bent. We’re not the types to wallow in our own misery or inflict it on others!’
I am propelled into the armchair before I have much of a chance to respond to this. I hadn’t expected to be an honoured guest ever again. I had quite enough of that over in the West Country. But now I have to sit and watch while a bunch of frail, old people try to convince me I should give them cash for their nursing home, apparently through the medium of stand-up comedy.
‘I’m really sorry about all of this,’ Allie says from where she’s sat beside me in a faded-green armchair. ‘Grandad is like this all the time, and he tends to whip the others up.’
‘It’s fine. I’m rather hoping he’ll break out the hurdy-gurdy at some point and do a rendition of “I Once Slapped Buddha on the Backside”. That’s my favourite Reluctant Badger track.’
Freddie takes centre stage in front of the fireplace again, looking directly at me. ‘Our story will begin soon, young Nathan, but first a few introductions are in order. This is my main cohort and brother in the theatrical muse, Bernard Goldberg.’
Bernard bows and gives me a toothy smile. Well, half-toothy, anyway.
‘Going around the room,’ Freddie continues, ‘we have Deidre, Michael, Babs, Patty, Kenneth Not Ken, Harry, Lottie and Grub. Then there’s Arthur, Kathy, Kay and Ralph, Sam, Midge and Bob.’
He meant that to rhyme, didn’t he? I just know it. I wouldn’t have put it past the old man to force at least a couple of them to change their names to make the rhyme scan properly. From the expression on Allie’s face, she’d agree with me wholeheartedly.
‘So now our story shall start!’ Freddie exclaims, dropping into oratory mode like the old pro he so evidently is. ‘’Tis a tale of woe, most egregious! Featuring a cast of misfits and reprobates!’
This makes the assembled pensioners titter. Being referred to as a reprobate obviously becomes less of an insult and more a compliment the older you get.
‘For our tale, Bernard will play the part of Alfonse Helmore, proud owner of this care home until the dark days of a decade ago!’
‘His name wasn’t Alfonse,’ Allie whispers out of the corner of her mouth. ‘It was George.’
Bernard affects an expression of such beneficent good nature that Mother Theresa would have looked like a member of the Gestapo by comparison.
‘I shall play the part of Lord Pinchyface!’ Freddie roars. ‘Proprietor of the evil corporation Lockard Holdings PLC!’
Allie sighs. ‘Lord Pinchyface is Simon Lockard, the man who bought the care home.’
Freddie’s face clouds. ‘Don’t give the plot away, young lady!’
‘Sorry, Grandad.’
‘Good girl . . . Our tale of woe begins with the kindly Alfonse slipping into his dotage.’
Bernard pretends to slip on some dog poo, because that’s the level Freddie is choosing to work at. Still, the rest of the crowd are finding it very funny, so who am I to judge?
Freddie puffs his chest out and addresses Bernard. ‘I, Lord Pinchyface, see that you grow old, Alfonse Helmore! You can no longer sustain this fine and elegant home for the old! You should be in it yourself!’
‘Aye. I grow weary of this life and its tribulations!’ Bernard replies in a voice cracked and wavering. ‘I shall see that this fine and elegant place which I have presided over for all these years is sold to you, Lord Pinchyface, safe in the knowledge that you shall take care of its residents – of which I shall become one – from now until the end of days.’
‘Yes, yes! I shall do that very thing, my old, old friend.’ Freddie puts a comforting hand on Bernard’s shoulder. ‘Rest now. I will carry your burden from here!’
Bernard groans and goes to sit down in the nearest chair. I can’t tell if the groan was genuine or put on for the show.
Freddie’s eyebrows knit and he sneers. ‘Ha! Now the old fool has gone, I will start to squeeze this place for all the money I can! First off, to sack half of the staff!’
Three of the ladies in the room stand up. It takes a while – they are all very old, after all.
‘You!’ Freddie intones, pointing at them.
‘Who? Us?’ the three old women respond together in perfect harmony.
‘Yes, you! Begone! You work here no more!’
The three old ladies all start to cry theatrically. They slowly return to their seats with their heads bowed.
‘And next, I will cut the maintenance budget by two-thirds!’ Freddie cries with a flourish, before cackling like a pantomime villain. ‘Aha ha ha ha ha!’
‘Aha ha ha ha ha!’ all the other men in the room repeat right after him.
From my left-hand side, I see Deidre of the large bosom rise to her feet. She clasps her hands in front of her and tries her best to look pitiful. ‘But, Lord Pinchyface, who will take care of us now? Who will be there for our needs? We pay so much to live here, where does the money now go?’
Lord Pinchyface draws himself melodramatically up to his full height. Freddie wobbles a bit uncertainly for a moment, but otherwise pulls off the towering villain very well. ‘Yachts! Many, many wonderful yachts!’ He cackles again. This time all of the audience other than Allie and myself boo him loudly. He points an angry finger at them ‘Quiet! Quiet, you fools! You cannot do anything to stop me! You are old and nobody cares about you! You cannot afford to move anywhere else! Nobody cares what you think! I will bleed this institution dry, until there is no money left! Aha ha ha ha ha!’
‘Aha ha ha ha ha!’ the men all repeat the evil laughter once more, while all the women do their best horrified swoons.
On the surface this all looks like good fun, but underneath, once you get past the theatricality and look at what’s actually going on here, it’s bloody horrifying. These poor people are forced to live in a crumbling building because some rich arsehole sees it as a way of stuffing his bank account, rather than giving care to those who most need it.
I am suddenly and comprehensively mad as hell at Lord Pinchyface – or whatever his real name is.
‘You are an evil, evil man!’ Deidre shrieks from beside me in the falsetto voice of a classic damsel in distress.
‘Quiet, oh foul, large-bosomed wench!’ Freddie replies haughtily. He then does something that shocks the hell out of me. He mimes motor-boating Deidre.
A man in his eighties has literally just squeezed an imaginary pair of large breasts between his two hands, pressed his face forward and shaken his head from side to side with his lips loose.
Motor-boating.
And the reaction from his friends and fellow residents is to all collectively shriek with laughter.
How do they know what motor-boating is? Old people shouldn’t know about things like that, should they? They all stopped having sex in the 1950s when the lights came back on.
The only motor-boating they should know about is the type done on the Thames after the blitz.
Allie shares my horror. Her mouth is hanging agape and her eyes are wide. We youngsters are usually safe and secure in the knowledge that sex is only something that we are allowed to do – or even think about. Having this reality shattered completely by one old man’s bit of hilarious mime is disturbing to say the least.
What else are these people hiding from us?
I look at them all laughing their heads off and have to sit back in some kind of disbelieving admiration. Here they are, in their autumn years, living in a place that’s falling apart, and yet they are not sat around bemoaning their lot – they are making the legendary ‘best of it’. There’s no one here sliding into depression or wondering at the futility of it all.
I suddenly feel quite ashamed of myself.
Freddie once again affects his high and haughty stance. ‘Now, all of you, just be quiet and accept your lot! You will all die here in this foul and pestilent place. There is nothing that can be done to change that! Aha ha ha ha ha!’
‘Aha ha ha ha ha!’ go the men.
Then Bernard rises from his seat. From somewhere he has found a white tea towel, which he has cut two eyeholes in and draped on his head. I assume he’s going for ghost rather than clan member.
‘Woooooo . . . Not so fast, Pinchyface!’ he wails with a ghostly tremor.
Freddie recoils. ‘Aaaarggh! ’Tis the ghost of care homes past, come to visit and torment me!’
‘Yes, Pinchyface, it is I, Alfonse Helmore, returned to haunt your days! Wooooooooo . . . With an important clause written into the buyout contract for this care home that states’ – Bernard rifles for a moment in one of his pyjama pockets and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper, which he reads from. He still keeps the ghostly voice as he does it – ‘which reads that if the owner of the home does not control at least ninety per cent of all assets linked to the estate of George Helmore, then they will not be allowed to make any pertinent financial decisions regarding the care home and the estate without the permission of fellow asset holders.’ Bernard then holds up both hands and wiggles his fingers. ‘Woooooooooooo.’
Freddie initially looks aghast, but then appears to realise something. ‘Aha! But the only other asset holder in this home is Lionel Helmore, your cousin, who resides in Canada and does not care what I do! Your scheming will come to naught, dread ghost! Aha ha ha ha ha!’
‘Aha ha ha ha ha!’
‘Woooooooo . . . That’s quite true, Pinchyface, but the residents of the home have been in touch with Lionel, thanks to something called ‘the Google’, and have discovered that he is willing to sell his stake in the home to them for what is frankly a ridiculous sum of money, the money-grubbing little bastard.’
‘Stay in character, Bernard,’ Freddie says from the corner of his mouth.
‘Sorry. The money-grubbing little bastard . . . woooooooooo.’ Waggly fingers.
Oh, I see. That’s why they need the money. If they can hold a stake in the home, they can stop whatever nefarious plans Pinchyface might have for the place in the future.
Bernard floats closer to my chair. ‘If only – sorry, woooooooo – if only there were someone kind enough to help us. Some good, young soul, who may or may not be currently engaged in a relationship with the granddaughter of one of our residents, who would come to our aid at this most trying of times.’ Bernard wiggles his fingers over my head. ‘Wooooooooo.’ He then freezes and gives me an expectant look.
I look to my left. The look on Deidre’s face is much the same. I look to my right. The whole audience is staring at me – including Allie. She has tears in her eyes and a dismayed look on her face. She knows this is very important to them, but also knows I am being royally put on the spot here.
I look up and see Freddie, frozen at his most high and haughty. The pleading look in his eyes rather ruins the pantomime villain impression, though.
Here we are, then. They’ve done their pitch to the best of their abilities. I can see them spending days practising to get it right, just so they can put on a show for me . . . instead of just coming right out and asking for money. Who can blame them for that? These people must have a lot of pride and respect for themselves. I’m sure the idea of simply asking for cold, hard cash would be anathema to them.
How the hell can I say no? I’d give them the money just based on what I’ve seen here today, but throw in the tears in the eyes of the woman I love and am about to lose and what possible other decision could I make? That money has to go somewhere – it might as well go to the man who played the crumhorn on the seminal hit ‘My Love Requires Pumping Thrice Weekly’. I want to do something worthwhile with my cash before I go. What better place could I choose to spend it than here?
And what the hell . . . if they can put on a show to ask me, I can sure as hell put on a show to answer. It might be one of the last I get to do, so I’d best make a good job of it.
I rise slowly from the threadbare armchair, placing my hands on my hips as I do so. In an instant I go from Nathan James – mild-mannered musician – to Tumour Man – the cerebrodondreglioma-powered superhero, ready and able to throw his cash at any and all good causes! Aha ha ha ha ha!
‘I will help you!’ I exclaim, in my biggest, butchest superhero voice. I look at Bernard. ‘I will give you the money you need, strange, ghostly tea towel man!’ I point a thrusting and manly finger at Lord Pinchyface. ‘You shall not be allowed to destroy this place any more, oh foul and evil miscreant! The good people here shall receive . . . er . . . how much do you need, Bernard?’ I say to the old boy out of one corner of my mouth.
‘Seventy-five thousand quid,’ he replies with a gulp. I hear Allie gasp in horror.
‘Bloody hell, really?’ I reply, not able to keep the shock out of my voice. I give Bernard a rather horrified look.
‘Yeah. Sorry about that,’ he says. ‘Can we still have it? Er . . . wooooooooo?’
That’ll take up the rest of my Brightside cheque and a lot more besides. What with the money I need for Callum, it looks like I’ll have to sell some stuff . . . probably starting with my dusty Porsche.
Then I look at Bernard’s expectant face again and the tears in Allie’s eyes.
Oh, come on, you idiot. What else are you going to do with the money? And that stupid car is just going to waste anyway. This is what you wanted. This is where you get to make a bloody difference.
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ I tell Bernard, trying to keep the wobble out of my voice. ‘That’s fine. You can have all the money you need.’ I shrug, and give them all a winning smile. ‘After all, you can’t take it with you, can you?’
I puff out my chest and return my attention to Lord Pinchyface. ‘These fine people shall have the seventy-five thousand pounds they require, and you shall be defeated, you monster!’
The crowd of old people all start to applaud my terrible acting, for some reason. Freddie gives up his own act and returns from being the villain of the piece to one of its heroes. The smile on his face is a wonderful thing to behold.
He comes over to me and shakes my hand, tears of gratitude in his eyes.
This is all getting a bit much.
‘Thank you, my boy,’ he says in a voice full of emotion. ‘We really are most grateful.’
‘My pleasure, Freddie. My absolute pleasure.’
What a fantastic feeling! What a marvellous thing!
Nothing I have ever bought – not the Porsche, not the red Prada dress, not the Les Paul guitar and certainly not the bloody bifold patio doors – has ever filled me with such a sense of pure pleasure!
‘What do you mean, you can’t take it with you?’ I hear Allie say in a small voice from beside me.
I look down at her.
She looks back up at me with a mixture of confusion and doubt.
Oh shit.
Not like this.
It wasn’t supposed to happen like this . . .
I wave a shaking hand. ‘Oh, nothing. Don’t worry about it. Just a turn of phrase!’ I try to sound light and carefree and fail completely.
Allie rises from her chair and fixes me with a stare that’s impossible to break away from. ‘What’s going on, Nathan? What did you mean by that?’
The room has now gone quiet. Freddie has stepped away, the rest of the residents are watching in silence and Bernard has thankfully taken the tea towel off his head.
‘I didn’t mean anything, Allie!’ I reply, a cold feeling of dread clawing its way up from my belly. ‘It was just a . . . just a figure of speech. I didn’t . . . I didn’t . . .’
Stop.
Just stop.
My shoulders slump. I take a long, deep, ragged breath and look into Allie’s eyes.
‘I’m sick,’ I say, heart hammering.
‘What?’
I try to clear my throat. ‘I’m sick, Alison. There’s something wrong with me, and . . .’
Say it.
Say it and have done.
‘. . . it’s going to kill me.’ I clench my jaw for a second. ‘I’m going to die.’
Allie’s response is just what you’d expect. Her legs go out from under her and she falls back into the chair.
‘What is it, son?’ I hear Freddie say in a soft voice.
I look at him. ‘It’s a brain tumour. Something called a cerebrodondreglioma – if you can believe that.’
From the back of the assembled residents, a man’s voice pipes up. ‘I had one of those!’
‘Did you, Kenneth Not Ken?’ Freddie responds.
‘Yep. They whipped that bugger out, though. Still got the scar.’ He pokes himself just above the left temple.
All eyes return to me.
Great. Now I have to explain myself. Just what I wanted.
‘Mine isn’t like that,’ I tell them. ‘Mine’s way down deep in the centre of my brain. It can’t be cut out, radiation wouldn’t touch it and chemo would just make me worse. It’s a very rare version of this type of tumour, named after some Eastern European doctor whose surname I’ve never been able to pronounce.’ I force myself to look back down at Allie. ‘It’ll keep growing, until one day soon it gets too big and . . . shuts me down.’ There are tears in both of our eyes now. ‘I’m so sorry, Allie.’
‘Why . . . why didn’t you tell me, Nathan?’ There’s sympathy in her voice, no doubting that. But there’s something else there, too. The thing I knew would be there, but would have loved to have been wrong about. There’s anger. It’s a small thing at the moment. But it’ll grow. Just like this damn tumour, it’ll grow until it gets too big and shuts me down.
I shake my head. ‘I don’t know . . . I guess I was just afraid that if you knew the truth, you wouldn’t want to see me any more, and I really didn’t want that.’
‘So instead you lied to me?’ She looks hurt. She has every right to.
‘I’m sorry,’ I repeat, lost for anything more constructive to say.
The faces on the crowd of pensioners around me all show hastily arranged sympathy. I have to look away from all of them and down at the rotting, shagpile carpet.
‘When were you diagnosed?’
I can’t breathe. ‘Over five months ago.’
‘Oh Christ.’ Allie’s hand goes to her mouth in shock. She seems to draw in on herself.
Freddie and the rest of the gang simply don’t know where to put themselves. Mere moments ago they were celebrating the fact that they might have a chance to save their care home from annihilation, and now they find out the bloke giving them the money is about to drop dead. These people are quite frail and I don’t know if they can handle that amount of whiplash.
‘So the headaches . . .’ Allie says, trailing off.
‘Yeah. The tumour’s fault,’ I tell her.
Her eyes widen. ‘That’s what that business at the hospital was about after you had that reaction to the herbs!’
I nod. I guess it’s nice to get it all out in the open. ‘I was taking the stupid things in the first place due to what Herman was doing to my head.’
‘Herman?’
How embarrassing. I really should learn to think about what I say before I blurt it out. ‘I, er, I’ve given the tumour a name. It’s really hard to keep saying cerebrodondreglioma all the time.’
Allie looks aghast. ‘And you thought it would be a better idea to name it after your grumpy potato? A bloody children’s character?’
Well, when you put it like that, it sounds silly.
‘Look, Allie, I am so, so sorry for lying to you like this.’
She stands up.
Here we go. That anger is starting to assert itself a little bit more now. ‘Why, Nathan? Why did you have to lie to me all this time? I thought we had . . . had something.’
‘We do!’ Did, you moron. It’s now definitely did. ‘I couldn’t say anything because I couldn’t bear to lose you!’
‘So you thought keeping me in the dark about an illness that’s going to kill you was a better idea?’ She throws her hands up. ‘Again, why, Nathan?’
‘Because . . . because . . .’
‘Because he’s in love with you, my dear,’ Deidre says from beside me. I feel her comforting hand on my arm. ‘Isn’t that right, Nathan?’
I can’t nod or say anything, but I guess the tear rolling down my cheek says everything I need to.
Allie can’t respond, either. Getting told your new boyfriend is both dying and in love with you in the space of two minutes is not something that’s easy to process. Not without extensive amounts of time and hard spirits anyway.
‘Perhaps the two of you would like to be alone?’ Freddie says, breaking the awkward silence. He puts an arm around Allie’s shoulder. ‘I’m sure there’s a way you two can get through this.’
Nice try, Freddie. But take a look in her eyes, will you? She’s already running away in her head. It’s only a matter of time until her body catches up.
‘I . . . I have to go,’ Allie says. ‘I need time to . . . I . . .’ She can’t even look at me.
The girl who I would very much have liked to grow old with – if I’d been given half a chance – backs away from me, her grandfather and the rest of the residents and hurries towards the double doors.
I watch her go with bone-chilling acceptance.
‘I’m sorry, my boy,’ Freddie says. ‘If I’d have known our little show would bring all of this up, I would have postponed.’
‘No need to apologise, Freddie,’ I tell him. ‘Shakespeare liked to mix comedy with tragedy, didn’t he?’ I wipe the tears out of my eyes. ‘I think I’d better see if I can catch up with her. Don’t worry about the money. You’ll get it as soon as I can send it over to you.’
Freddie nods. ‘Go get her, my lad.’
I give him a look of such gross self-pity it makes my face ache. ‘I don’t think there’s any way of getting her now, Freddie.’
Deidre squeezes my arm. ‘Don’t give up, Nathan. Not yet.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you didn’t see the way she was looking at you when you offered to help us. Now go.’
I catch up to Allie just as she’s climbing into her car.
‘Alison! Please! I need to talk to you.’
She looks at me as I come trotting up the road towards her. ‘Nathan . . . I can’t . . . can’t talk right now. I just need to go home and . . .’
‘Drink a lot?’
She smiles in spite of herself. ‘Probably.’ She gives me a disbelieving look. ‘Was Deidre right?’
‘Yes. Absolutely. I’m in love with you and it’s completely unfair of me.’
She shakes her head. ‘It’s not unfair! It’s just that . . . I can’t . . .’
I smile softly at her. ‘It’s okay. Really, it is. You don’t need to say it. Just go. I’ll be fine.’
She lets out a gasp. ‘I’m sorry, Nathan, I just . . .’
‘Go.’
She tries to say something else, but stops herself. What the hell else is there really left to say?
Allie closes her car door, fires up the engine, gives me one last look and drives hastily away from the kerb, not looking back as she does so. This leaves me staring down the road, watching her go, the first sensations of a headache forming deep in the darkest depths of my brain.
Show’s over, folks – well and truly, this time. Nothing to see here.