Cassette #27
Hi Sean.
I don’t think I’m going to be able to talk for long today. I’ve just started another round of my trial chemo and it definitely isn’t a placebo. This time around, it has knocked me for six, in fact, it has left me so utterly, utterly exhausted, that I barely managed to sit up and talk to you this afternoon. I’m so sorry.
The oncologist came around just after you left and said they were having a case meeting tomorrow to review my progress, and though I’m hoping, for your sake, that it will show it’s working – I know that you’re desperately clinging to that idea – I can’t help but think what a relief it will be if they tell me that it isn’t and that I can stop taking this poison, because poison, it is. From the second they hook me up to the IV I can feel it burning my veins. And the tiredness it induces is truly sapping my will to live. How ironic is that?
Anyway, it’s time to get on with these tapes. I’m approaching the end of the photos I chose and though we’re all still pretending that I’m going to live forever, it’s probably just as well that these are nearly finished.
It’s time to talk about that bloody car.
You came out to the shelter to pick me up one Thursday evening, and I couldn’t believe my eyes.
The first thing I thought of was Jake’s MG. It was even the same colour. So if my initial reaction was a bit off, that will be why. My back had been hurting all day, too, and the second thing I noticed was how difficult it was to clamber in and out of. That made me feel not younger, as intended, but older. And then you asked me, for some reason, if I wanted to drive out to Brampton Wood and I said “No,” but couldn’t explain why. You seemed put out by that and suggested dinner in Grantchester instead and I spent the whole drive out there wondering if you had somehow found out about what had happened with Jake; if this was all some elaborate scheme to take the Mickey, or to be more like him, or just, perhaps, to let me know that you knew.
So we didn’t get off to the best start with the car, did we?
You were as excited as a three-year-old with a brand new tricycle, so I did my very best to be enthusiastic. I just don’t think I was very convincing. I was too busy trying to decode the subtext; too busy fighting my own guilt, no doubt.
It was a cool, damp, September evening, but you insisted on having the top down and the music on – you were playing Van Morrison – and by the time we got to The Rupert Brooke my neck was so stiff that I could barely turn my head.
We went through a difficult patch after that, and it was largely to do with the car, though I’m sure, if we had seen a shrink, it would have turned out to be symbolic of something much bigger. You believed, I think, that I had invented my back pain as some kind of protest about the car, and to counter this I did my best to pretend that I loved the damned thing, even when I could barely lever myself out of it. We ended up acting out this dodgy drama of half-lies and unspoken truths, all revolving around the subject of my back and that stupid, stupid sports car.
The pinnacle of this idiocy was, of course, the trip to Edinburgh. Even the question, when you asked me, was a trick one.
“How do you fancy a romantic weekend in Edinburgh?” you asked. “Or will it be too hard on your back?”
There was no way I could say no to that, was there?
By the time we got there, I was virtually paralysed. I literally couldn’t move for pain and you had to lever me from the passenger seat and almost carry me, whimpering, to the hotel room. The hotel organised for a doctor to visit and he prescribed some very strong painkillers which left me feeling woolly and stoned, but which still didn’t completely dull the pain. And then on Sunday night, like a piece of clunky origami, you folded me back into the car, and drove me back home. I took a double (entirely prohibited) dose of painkillers for that, along with a double dose of Scotch at the hotel bar, and I’m happy to say that I don’t remember a thing.
I was never quite sure whether you thought that I was actually lying about being in pain just to piss you off about the car, or if you thought that the pain was real, but psychosomatic. Either way, it amounted to pretty much the same thing. You were annoyed with me and, knowing that it was unreasonable, you did your best to hide it. And because you knew it was unreasonable, you lied and denied being angry the only time I ever tried to discuss it with you. Isn’t that amazing, though? Isn’t it incredible that as well as we knew each other after thirty-something years together, there were still things we simply couldn’t discuss.
Your anger didn’t fade, either, did it? As you ferried me back and forth to Addenbrooke’s for X-rays and CAT-scans and God knows what else, none of which came up with anything, it was all just grist to the mill. It was all proof that, other than car-envy, there was nothing really wrong with me after all.
You know the way they say that dogs and cats can smell cancer on people? Well, I’ve often wondered whether we don’t have the same gift. I’ve often wondered whether on some subconscious level you hadn’t realised that I was dying – whether that wasn’t the reason you felt so angry. And whether that wasn’t the real reason you felt so desperate for us to go whizzing around in a sports car while we still could.
Eventually, about a year after you’d bought it, you gave in to the inevitable and swapped the MLC for something you were actually able to lift me in and out of, and around the same time, in desperation, I tried yoga with Maggie, which actually seemed to ease my pain, for a while.
I’m sure that even this coincidence you saw as some kind of victory lap on my behalf. My brief little pain-free celebration that I’d finally made you get rid of your beloved car.
So, secretly, you stayed resentful towards me, and I towards you for not believing me. And it wasn’t until the real cause of the pain was found that the whole problem went away. Though I have to say that, in the end, I think I preferred it when we didn’t know, even if that did mean we were angry with each other. Because even when we were angry I loved you. The loving never stopped.
• • •
Sean is eating a tuna sandwich in the landscaped gardens of Nicholson-Wallace. It’s nearly the end of September, but it’s a beautiful sunny day. An Indian Summer everyone keeps saying, and every time someone mentions it, Sean resolves to look it up and find out where the term comes from, before promptly forgetting all about it.
He’s just picking up the second half of his sandwich when his phone, in his pocket, starts to vibrate.
“Hello Little Daughter,” he says, on answering.
“I’ve told you to stop calling me that,” April says. “I’m going by a new handle now. I’m calling myself The Blob. I’m on my break so I can’t talk for long, but I was just wondering if there was any news on the flat front?”
Sean laughs. “You must have a sixth sense or something,” he says. “I just upped my offer, like, a minute ago.”
“They refused you then?”
“They did. But I did go in a bit low so I was kind of expecting it.”
“And what about this time? If they refuse, are you going to carry on haggling or is that it?”
“I was just debating that,” Sean says, watching a robin eyeing his crumbs from the far corner of the bench. “And I think I’ve decided to stop. To sort of leave it in the hands of the Gods. I could go higher, but things would start to get tight. And I’m a bit too old, I think, to start worrying about how to pay the electricity bill.”
“Sounds fair,” April says. “But I hope you get it.”
“Do you really?”
“Yes. I think it would be great.”
“Well, good. Let’s cross everything. And how’s the baby?”
“Oh, kicking like crazy. He’s all elbows and knees at the moment. I think he’s practising to be a gymnast.”
“It was basketball last time.”
“Maybe he’ll do both,” April says. “Simultaneously. Gym-ball or basket-nast or something. A whole new sport.”
“I’d like to see that,” Sean says distractedly. His phone has begun to vibrate again, so he pulls it away from his ear to check the screen. “Sorry, I’ve got another call. Hold on a second, will you?”
“Is it them? Is it the estate agent’s?” April asks.
“Yes,” Sean says. “Won’t be long.”
Two minutes later, when Sean attempts to recover the call, it’s not April he finds on the end of the line but Maggie.
“How did that happen?” he says.
“I’m sorry?”
“I was talking to April. I didn’t phone you.”
“Ooh,” Maggie says, with mock distaste. “Don’t sound so keen, Sean. Just tell it like it is, won’t you?”
Sean laughs. “It’s not that I don’t love talking to you Maggie. It’s just I was on the phone to April. I put her on hold and suddenly I’m talking to you. I don’t see how that happened.”
“I phoned you Sean,” Maggie says. “Do you want me to bugger off?”
“No, you’re OK,” Sean says, glaring briefly at the screen of the phone. The call with April seems to have been dropped. “Was it for something specific?”
“Not really. I just wanted to know what the news was. About the flat out at C.R.”
“Did April call you?” Sean asks.
“No. Not at all. Why?”
“It’s just… that’s weird, that’s all. You both calling me.”
“Why, is there news?”
“I just found out. Literally ten seconds ago.”
“You found out what?”
“They said yes. The sellers, that is. They just accepted my offer.”
“Oh, gosh!” Maggie exclaims. “Gosh, that’s brilliant news, Sean.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. You’re not having doubts, are you?”
“I’m not sure,” Sean says. “I’m just a bit shocked, I suppose. Look… it’s… lovely chatting, Mags, but would you mind terribly if I phoned you back this evening? I was on the line to April and I lost her. She’ll be wondering what happened.”
“Of course,” Maggie says. “Kids come first. How about a pint somewhere? To celebrate? This evening?”
“Maybe at the weekend,” Sean offers. “I need, I don’t know, time to digest it all, I think.”
When Sean tells her the news, April shrieks. “I’m so excited!” she says.
“Are you?”
“Yes! Of course. Aren’t you?”
Sean swallows with difficulty. “I don’t know,” he says. “That’s the truth. It suddenly feels very… I don’t know… symbolic. Final. Do you know what I mean?”
“Sure…” April says, doubtfully. “Well, it isn’t final though, is it? Not until you sign on the dotted line.”
“No.”
“When’s that supposed to be happening, by the way?”
“Saturday morning. If I go through with it.”
“Why the sudden doubts, Dad? Is it the hassle of moving? We could help with that. Or the money? Or is it … it’s not because of Mum, is it?”
“We lived there for nearly twenty years,” Sean says. “We chose every bit of furniture together. Every roll of wallpaper. Your mother hung most of it.”
“I know. But isn’t that why?”
“Why what?”
“Well, why this is necessary.”
“I thought so,” Sean says. “But now that it’s real, I’m not sure.”
“Do you want me to come up, Dad? So we can talk it through? I could come this weekend – maybe even drag Ronan along. He’s very sensible about things like this. Very logical. Very detached. That’s helpful. Well, sometimes it is. Sometimes it’s really bloody annoying.”
“You don’t want to be driving all the way to Cambridge,” Sean says unconvincingly.
“Hum,” April says. “OK. I’ll see you Saturday morning, then.”
“I’m signing Saturday morning,” Sean reminds her. “Well, I’m supposed to be signing.”
“OK. Then I’ll see you Friday night.”
• • •
Sean is just pulling three curries from the freezer when the doorbell rings.
He dumps them on the counter and walks to the front door. “Hello,” he says as he opens it. “You’re early.”
“Hi Dad,” April says. “I got off earlier than usual, so…”
“But mainly it’s because she drives like a maniac,” Ronan jibes.
“That’s not very reassuring. Perhaps you should let Ronan drive?”
“Fast but careful,” April tells Sean. “That’s me. Whereas Ronan is slow and distracted. He’s always looking at the clouds or the cows in the fields or something. Believe me, you don’t want him doing the driving.”
“I do tend to look around a bit,” Ronan admits.
April follows Sean into the kitchen and Ronan dumps their bag at the base of the stairs before joining them.
“How do you feel about curry?” Sean asks.
“Ooh,” April says. “Your curry?” As an aside to Ronan, she adds, “Dad’s curries are the best.”
“No, these are Sainsbury’s, I’m afraid,” Sean explains, moving to the counter and gesturing at the frosty packaging. “But they’re all right. I’ve got Rogan Josh and…”
“Can we get pizza?” April asks. “Those aren’t defrosted yet, are they?”
Ronan laughs heartily.
“Pizza?” Sean asks, then, “What’s the joke, Ronan?”
“Oh, he’s just taking the piss out of me because all I want to eat is pizza,” April explains. “It’s a kind of craving, I suppose.”
“Kind of, you say? No, that’s exactly what it is,” Ronan says. “We’ve had to have pizza five times this week. And then she eats the remainders for breakfast and lunch.”
“Four times,” April says.
“Five. Saturday – in the restaurant – and then Sunday, Monday, Wednesday and again yesterday at home.”
“Monday was leftovers,” April says. “That doesn’t count.”
“It was pizza leftovers though, was it?” Ronan asks, grinning broadly. “Or was it not?”
“Oh, whatever,” April says, batting away his words with the back of one hand. “Can we though, Dad? Have pizza?”
Sean laughs and shrugs. “Sure, whatever. Ronan you can still have curry if you want.”
Ronan shakes his head. “Nah,” he says. “Pizza’ll be grand.”
“Are you sure that’s a balanced diet, though?” Sean asks, as he returns the packages to the freezer.
“Oh, don’t you start,” April says.
Ronan wide eyes Sean and nods exaggeratedly. “It’s what I keep telling her,” he says. “But Princess Pizza will not be told.”
“Just stop, both of you,” April says. “I can’t stand it when you gang up on me. Plus I always get the one with all the veggies on it, so it’s fine. It’s what the baby wants. He’s asking for it.”
“He’s Italian, not Irish, apparently,” Ronan says.
April puts one hand on her hip and looks at Ronan with exaggerated disdain. “Well, maybe he is,” she says. “Maybe I had a secret fling with the guy at Domino’s.”
Ronan pulls a face. “You remember what your man at Domino’s looked like, do you?” he says. “Good luck to you there, girl.”
Ronan returns to the car for two six-packs of beer he has in the boot.
“I’m not sure we need twelve bottles, do we?” Sean comments. “Especially with April not drinking.”
“It’s all part of Ronan’s theory,” April says.
“I call it the beer oracle,” Ronan explains, removing the cap from a bottle and handing it to Sean. “If you can’t make a major decision you just have to spend a night talking about it and getting blathered. By the morning, you’ll know.”
“Is that an Irish thing?” Sean asks.
“Nope. It’s a Ronan thing,” April says. “Be afraid. Be very afraid.”
Ronan raises his bottle to tap it against Sean’s. “Cheers,” he says.
After much discussion about who does the best pizza, Sean gives in to his daughter’s wishes and orders them from Pizza Express via Deliveroo.
They then move to the lounge and, while they wait, Ronan keeps them supplied with beers from the refrigerator. April, for her part, drinks the best part of a litre of apple juice.
They discuss April’s job. She’s in the process of handing over to a guy who will be replacing her during her maternity leave, but it’s not, she says, going smoothly.
Sean asks her what the problem is and she laughs. “Basically, the problem is that he’s an idiot.”
“Then again,” Ronan interjects, “she’s always telling me that I’m an idiot, so…”
April pulls a face at her father. “He pretty often is,” she says.
They discuss the baby for a while, with a repeat detour via the subject of April’s pizza diet. “You’ve never had a craving,” April says, “So you wouldn’t understand.”
“Did April’s ma go through the whole pizza thing?” Ronan asks.
There follows a momentary pause; a stolen, awkward glance from April to her partner, and an involuntary wince, just visible around Ronan’s eyes, before Sean says, “It’s fine, Ronan, really. And no, not really. She ate quite a few bacon sandwiches. So maybe that was her craving. Oh, and cheese. Lots of cheddar cheese.”
April raises her palms to the ceiling. “Cheeeese,” she says, exaggeratedly. “Cheese? Pizza? Any connection there? I rest my case.”
“So, on names,” Ronan says, clearly trying to change the subject. “April says you don’t like ‘Giles’. So we were thinking about–”
“Hang on,” April interrupts. “I’m the one who doesn’t like ‘Giles’. It’s a wanker, banker sort of name, that’s all.”
“Is it?” Ronan asks.
“It’s quite posh,” Sean comments. “But I quite like it actually. Giles. Yes, I had a friend at school called Giles. Giles Anderton. He was quite posh. But very nice.”
“He’s not being called Giles,” April says, rolling her eyes. “No, we’re almost settled on Jack, actually.”
Sean purses his lips and nods thoughtfully. “Yes,” he says. “Jack’s a good name.”
“It’s nice, isn’t it? Sort of unpretentious?”
“Jack Nicholson,” Sean says. “Jack Dempsey. Jack the Ripper…”
“Ooh, they’re all pretty butch, aren’t they?” April says, doubtfully.
“Especially Jack the Ripper,” Ronan says, laughing. “He was as butch as butch can be.”
“Jack Twist,” Sean offers.
“Who’s Jack Twist?”
“He was one of the gay guys in whatsit Mountain, wasn’t he? In Brokeback…”
“Ah, all right,” April says. “Well, as long as my son has the possibility to explore his feminine side too, then that’s OK.”
“You boys sure found a way to explore your feminine sides up there on Brokeback Mountain,” Ronan says, mockingly.
“And there’s always Jack Kerouac,” April offers, ignoring him.
“And Jack Dee.”
“So, Jack Patrick?” Sean asks. “Or will it be Jack Connolly?”
“We haven’t decided yet,” April says. “It might end up being Connolly-Patrick. Or Patrick-Connolly. Would you mind?”
Sean shrugs. “Not at all,” he says. “But no second name, then?”
“Oh, don’t get us started on that,” April says. “It’s taken us a month to settle on bloody Jack.”
Once the Deliveroo guy has been and gone, Ronan heads to the kitchen for more beer.
“I’m not sure I want another one,” Sean says, when he returns.
“Just trust the process,” Ronan instructs.
“The thing is, I think I’ve decided, really,” Sean tells him. “So, I’m not sure I need to spend the weekend with a hangover after all.”
“Hangover, shlangover,” Ronan says, pushing the bottle forcefully into Sean’s hand.
They eat in the lounge, the three pizza boxes open on the coffee table.
“Oh, God, I’d forgotten how good these are,” April says, tipping back her head and lowering a slice of her Romana Padana into her mouth.
“So, you’ve decided, you say?” Ronan says. “That sounds positive.”
“I think so,” Sean replies, between mouthfuls. “Gosh, these are good, aren’t they? Yes, I’ve tried to be logical about it all. I even wrote out a list of pros and cons.”
“That’s good. That’s my kind of thinking,” Ronan says.
“And?” April asks. She rubs her belly and adds, “Umm… See, happy baby! Baby like pizza. He says it’s molto bene. What are your pros and cons, then, Dad?”
“Well, the apartment is perfect,” Sean tells them.
“Right…”
“And I do have to move at some point. Because it’s crazy staying in such a big house.”
“That makes sense, too,” Ronan says.
“And I hate gardening. That really was your mother’s thing.”
“Yes, I noticed that it wasn’t looking its best,” April says.
Sean takes a deep breath and then, speaking more rapidly than usual, says, “But I don’t think I’m ready. That’s the main thing I’ve realised.”
April’s mouth falls open. Realising it’s full of pizza, she quickly hides behind her hand. “Oh!” she says, swallowing and then licking her teeth.
“I might be ready soon. Perhaps even in a few months. But I’m not quite ready now, I don’t think.”
“Not ready,” Ronan repeats, sounding unconvinced.
“No. So that’s where I’m at.”
“But the place you’ve seen might be gone in a couple of months,” Ronan points out, concernedly.
“That’s true. It almost certainly will be gone. Especially at the price they’re asking.”
“So, what would it take for you to be ready?” Ronan asks.
Sean shrugs. “I don’t know. Time, perhaps?”
“Don’t push him, Ro,” April says.
“I’m just saying that there might be a way for Sean to feel ready. If he wants to.”
“I said don’t push him, sweetie,” April says. Then addressing Sean, she continues, “I think you should wait until you’re good and ready, Dad. And I know that’s what Mum would have said, too.”
Ronan clears his throat. “Can I?” he asks.
“Can you what?” April asks, shortly.
“Can I say something without you biting my head off?”
“Of course you can, Ronan,” Sean says. “Say anything you want.”
April sighs. “Just don’t try to–”
“No, let him speak,” Sean insists. “It’s fine.”
Ronan puts his half-eaten slice of pizza down and presses his fingertips together. “So, at the risk of being called Mister Spock,” he says.
“Mister Spock?”
“It’s what I call him when he gets all logical on me,” April explains.
“At the risk of being called Mister Spock,” Ronan repeats, “I’ve never been much of a believer in being led by your mind.”
“I’m sorry?” Sean says.
“It’s your mind,” Ronan says. “It’s your organ, and waiting for it to be ready for something is a bit like waiting for your own hand to pass you a cup of tea instead of telling it to just do it.” He reaches, theatrically, for his beer to demonstrate this. “Or a bottle of beer,” he adds.
“I’m not sure I’m following you,” Sean says.
April, who catches his regard, rolls her eyes again.
“If it makes sense for you to do it. Because, a) it’s the perfect place for you – your words not mine, Sean – and b) you need to move, because this place is too big, and, c) it’s at a good price, then change your mind. Tell it you’re ready. Don’t let some nebulous biochemical process in your head make the decision for you. Your brain is a tool. And you’re the one in control, Sean. Or at least, you should be.”
“Now, that, you see,” April says through laughter, “is one hundred percent Ronan. I told you he’d be irritatingly logical. But in the end it comes down to what it always comes down to. Do you want to decide with your head or with your heart?”
Sean nods. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I suppose that is what it boils down to. My head says move, but my heart says I’m not ready.”
Ronan laughs genuinely. “Your head or your heart?” he repeats.
April pulls a face. “Yes, Mister Spock. His head or his heart.”
“Well, as far as I’m aware,” Ronan says, swigging at his beer bottle and looking vaguely smug, “One of those two things is a biochemical computer, the most powerful computer on the bleeding planet and designed specifically for thinking. And the other one’s a pump. So I know which one I’d favour for making decisions.”
“A pump,” Sean repeats, grinning and nodding. “That’s good. I like it.”
Sean sleeps badly that night. He dreams tortured dreams of heavy limbs which refuse to respond to his orders, arms that won’t lift bottles of beer or cups of tea, legs that won’t walk… He dreams of queues of people that never seem to advance and forms that for one reason or another cannot be filled. And because of all the beer, he has to get up four times to pee.
But when he wakes up in the morning light, the decision, despite his tiredness and despite the hangover, is clear. Perhaps Ronan’s beer oracle works after all.
When he gets downstairs, April is already up, eating the remains of last night’s pizza.
“Oh, hi, Dad,” she says. “Ronan’s gone out for a run. So, what are we up to today?”
Sean shrugs. “I don’t know what you’re up to,” he says. “But I think I’m buying a flat.”