We sat in the kitchen talking and waiting for Daisy to come home, until a lone bird started to sing. Eventually I made a bed up for Pandora in Gracie’s room. I looked in on Bernard. He was sleeping soundly on the sofa with a copy of Anthony Powell’s Casanova’s Chinese Restaurant over his face. Before I went to bed I stood over the lavatory and tried to pee. After two long minutes I had only succeeded in voiding an acorn cup’s worth, but within only a short time I was back. I don’t know at what time I finally fell asleep but quite a lot of birds were singing and Daisy was still not home.
2008
Tuesday 1st January 2008
Woke up to find a text on my mobile.
Taxi did not come. Forced to stay here.
Back soon Daisy X.
I had just digested this news when Pandora came in wearing Daisy’s dressing gown. She had brought me a cup of tea.
I showed her Daisy’s text.
Pandora said, ‘It’s a plausible excuse, I suppose.’ She went to fetch her own tea and then sat down on my side of the bed and said, ‘Is your marriage in trouble, Aidy?’
I told her that Daisy seemed a lot happier recently, since she’d gone back to work.
Pandora raised an eyebrow and said, ‘She certainly looks quite beautiful lately. She’s lost weight and she has a new wardrobe. Does she work odd hours?’
I said, ‘They work late a few times a week.’
Pandora sighed and said, ‘You can’t see the rhinoceros in the room, can you?’
I corrected her, saying, ‘You mean elephant in the room.’
She said, ‘I cannot bloody bear misquotations. The quote was taken from Ionesco’s play Rhinoceros, which is an absurdist allegory of the rise of Nazism in Germany!’
What a woman she is, Diary!
She said, ‘One last question. Is she buying matching bras and knickers?’
I said, ‘Yes. Why?’
Pandora said, ‘Ha! Thought so!’ She got up and went out of the room.
The next time I saw Pandora she was wearing her clothes of the previous night and she was allowing Gracie to brush her long heavy hair.
Gracie said, ‘You’ve got hair like a princess.’
Pandora said, ‘Not Princess Anne, I hope.’
Bernard Hopkins laughed and said, ‘I met Her Royal Highness at a book do in 2002. She has a remarkably equine face. I was tempted to give her a lump of sugar.’
When I started to prepare breakfast, Pandora ordered me to sit down and said, ‘You look like shit, Aidy. Why don’t you go back to bed?’
I sat down but didn’t go to bed. I wanted to look at her loveliness and be in her company.
Wednesday 2nd January
Daisy came back at lunchtime yesterday. Hugo Fairfax-Lycett gave her a lift. He didn’t come in and Daisy said that he had to supervise the clean-up of the hall. She said, ‘You wouldn’t believe how some of the partygoers behaved. Some dirty bastard, it could only have been a man, peed into a blocked-up sink in one of the bedrooms!’
I changed the subject and discussed with Daisy what we were going to do with the carcass of the turkey. ‘Shouldn’t it be thrown away?’
Daisy said, ‘Take it into the spinney and leave it for the foxes.’
I said, ‘Isn’t Fairfax-Lycett a fox-hunter? Aren’t you showing divided loyalties?’
She said, ‘It’s the one thing I don’t like about him.’
Diary, one thing.
Brett came round this morning with my father.
I said, ‘Are you growing a beard?’
He said, ‘No, I can’t be bothered to shave. There is a difference.’
He sat at the kitchen table next to Bernard, who had just informed us from the pages of the Independent that we were heading for a depression to rival that of the thirties.
Brett said, ‘And oil’s risen to a hundred dollars a barrel, which is unprecedented.’
I said, ‘Why should you care? You haven’t got a car any more.’
He said, ‘Yes, but I will make another fortune. That’s the difference between us, Adrian. You’ve never made any money and you never will – you’re a provincial loser!’
My father said, ‘Come on now, lads, shake hands and make up.’
I would have shaken Brett’s hand for my father’s sake, but Brett slammed out of the front door and ran down the drive.
My father watched him through the window. ‘Look at him run!’ he said admiringly. ‘He’s like a young gazelle.’
Bernard said, ‘My father walked from Jarrow to London to bring the government’s attention to the fact that we were starving up north. I can remember my mother boiling a marrowbone with a few carrots and a leek for Sunday dinner.’
I said, ‘Bernard, I thought you came from a middle-class family. Didn’t you go to Cambridge?’
He said, ‘I was a scholarship boy. It broke my father’s heart. He wanted me to go down the mines.’
Thursday 3rd January
Daisy has gone back to work. Before she left, I asked her when she would be paid, whether she was on an hourly rate, what her hours were and was she paid overtime? I advised her to insist on a contract of employment.
She said, ‘Why do you have to drain the fun out of everything, Adrian?’
I said, ‘I don’t want that Hugo Fairfax-Lycett exploiting you, Daisy,’
She said bafflingly, ‘If anybody exploits anybody, it will be me exploiting him.’
I have got nothing to do until my next hospital appointment. At some time I will have to go to the storage place where the contents of the bookshop are kept in a container, but I am not up to it and I don’t want Bernard to go without me.
In the afternoon Glenn and Finley-Rose came round to show us Finley’s engagement ring – a surprisingly chunky white gold band with a large white stone that flashed under the kitchen light. They had spent Christmas and New Year in Scotland with Finley’s grandparents.
Glenn said, ‘I din’t like to tell you before, Dad, but I’ve gotta go back to Afghanistan at the end of the week. I know you worry, I din’t want to spoil your Christmas.’
I took Glenn into the living room under the pretext of showing him Gracie’s trampoline. After closing the door, I said, ‘A few words of advice from a twice-married man. Women don’t actually say what they want you to do. For example, if they want you to empty the dishwasher, they might say, “I think the dishwasher has finished its programme.” Do not say, “Really?” Or they might say, “My back hurts every time I bend over to empty the dishwasher.” Do not say, “Poor you.” And when a woman sighs and you ask her what is wrong and she says, “Nothing,” do not believe her – there is always something wrong and you must stick at it until you find out what it is.’
Glenn nodded and said, ‘Now we’re talkin’ man to man, Dad… this prostrate. ’Ave I got one?’
I said, ‘Of course, all men have one.’
Glenn asked ‘What’s it there for, Dad?’
I took a deep breath, my knowledge about the form and function of the prostate is on the sketchy side. I said, ‘It’s a gland situated near to the bladder and its job is to alkalinise semen and let some semen out now and again.’
Glenn said, ‘You’ve lost me already, Dad.’
I said, ‘The prostate is like the Bank of England, but instead of it having money in it, it has sperm, OK?’
Glenn blushed. ‘OK.’
For a soldier, he is incredibly prudish. Then he said, ‘So that’s why they call it a sperm bank. I always wondered.’
I went next door to ask my parents to join us for a celebration of Glenn’s engagement. I found them both asleep, my father in his wheelchair and my mother in the armchair next to the fire. They both looked old and frail, and I wondered what it will be like to be without them when they are gone. Brett was in the spare room, lying in his bed smoking a cigarette, in his vest and boxer shorts.
I said, ‘Isn’t it time you got dressed?’
He said, ‘I’ve got nothing to wear. All my shirts
are in the bin.’
The wastebasket next to his bedside table was overflowing with pure white cotton shirts. I pulled them out and counted them. There were ten. I said, ‘You can’t throw these away, all they need is a hot wash.’
He said, ‘Nobody washes shirts on the trading floor. We buy them in packs of ten and chuck them at the end of the day.’
I took the shirts and put them in my mother’s washing machine, turned the dial to sixty, placed a tablet of Ariel in the soap dispenser and turned the machine on. When I went back to Brett’s bedroom, I asked him if he had any plans.
‘I can’t stay here for long,’ he said, ‘they haven’t even got Bloomberg.’
Monday 7th January
Appointment with Dr Rubik.
She was wearing a bright red cardigan. When I complimented her on it, she told me her husband had bought it for her for Christmas, although, she said, ‘I don’t know why – he knows I only ever wear black, grey or white.’ She told me that she had received my latest blood results from the lab, and that my PSA was over ten, ‘Which is a little worrying,’ she added.
I felt the blood from the rest of my body collect in my feet. ‘So I’m back where I started,’ I said.
‘It’s certainly a setback,’ she replied, ‘but remember, we have a little while to wait yet for the optimum results. And it’s not uncommon – quite a high percentage of men with prostate cancer need several treatments before we can give the all-clear.’
I told her about my latest symptoms, and she nodded and said, ‘Yes, that’s quite normal,’ and began to go through the various ‘roads we can go down’.
I thought, ‘No, it’s not a road we can go down, Dr Rubik, it’s a lonely road that I will be going down alone. You are merely waving to me from the safety of the pavement.’
When I left, I realised that I had not taken in what she had said about treatment options. I went down the corridor to see Sally in Radiotherapy, but the light was on outside her door, signifying that she was delivering deadly rays to another poor sod. Eventually I went into the waiting room to meet up with my mother. She asked me how I’d got on. I made a non-committal noise in my throat and forced a smile. I didn’t want to tell her my bad news, not until she’d driven us safely home.
When she pulled up outside the Piggeries, I broke the news to her that the radiotherapy had not cured my cancer. She headbutted the steering wheel, sounding the horn. My father opened their front door and wheeled himself down the ramp. I got out of the car and he said, ‘What’s up with your mother?’
I told him about my appointment with Dr Rubik.
He said, ‘Your poor mother. Help her out of the car, Aidy.’ Then he started to beat his thighs with his fists and shouted, ‘You should sue the bloody National Health Service. They’ve obviously done a crap job.’
To prevent further self-flagellation from my parents I went into my house and hoped that they would not follow me. I had wanted to have a few quiet moments to think and to ring Daisy, but my parents insisted on staying to keep me company.
My father asked, ‘Do they do prostrate transplants? Cos if they do, you can have mine, kid.’
My mother sniffed, ‘You should have tried that crystal next to your groin. It wouldn’t have done any harm, and it might have helped.’
Eventually I persuaded them to go home and I rang Daisy.
She answered immediately and said, ‘Adrian! What did she say?’
I told her that my cancer ‘was not quite cured’.
She said, ‘What do you mean “not quite cured”? That’s like saying I’m not quite pregnant. You’re either cured or you’re not.’
I said, ‘Not.’
I heard her say to Fairfax-Lycett, ‘Hugo, I have to go home.’
I heard him say, ‘Can’t we just finish…’
She shouted, ‘No, I have to go home.’
He gave her a lift in his Land Rover. I noticed him crawling up the drive, avoiding the potholes with exaggerated care. I thought, perhaps unreasonably, that he was comparing our drive to his, which has its gravel raked every morning. When he had stopped his four-by-four, he got out and opened Daisy’s door. They exchanged a few words and he put his hand on her shoulder before Daisy ran in and threw herself into my arms.
I have spent happier afternoons. We tried to cheer ourselves up by lighting a fire in the living room using Zip firelighters and kindling. Daisy went outside and brought in some logs, but they were damp and the fire soon went out. We walked together to pick Gracie up from school. I noticed that we both averted our eyes from the graveyard opposite.
*
Gracie talked non-stop on the way home about snowflakes. She told us there are millions and millions and millions of flakes and not one of them is exactly the same. Watched television after dinner but didn’t see or hear anything. Went to bed early. Daisy joined me and we lay in each other’s arms until we went to sleep.
Thursday 14th February
Valentine’s Day
I should have made more of an effort with Daisy’s Valentine’s Day present. I am unable to get to the shops independently lately, so asked my mother to choose something for me from the city centre. She came back with a bag of toiletries that she had bought from a stall in the covered market. When she handed it to me, she said, ‘It’s Chanel, but I got it for seven pounds ninety-nine.’ There was a block of pink soap so pungent that it made your eyes water before the cellophane wrapping was taken off. There was a nailbrush for a dwarf, a moisturising cream that wouldn’t rub into the skin, and an exfoliating pad so harsh it could have scrubbed down an industrial turbine. My mother had obviously been duped by a crooked market trader – on closer examination I saw that ‘Chanell’ was spelt with two thin ‘l’s.
When I handed Daisy the Chanell gift set, she was polite and said thank you. But later, when she was in the bedroom on the phone to Nigel, I overheard her say, ‘It’s as fake as our marriage at the moment.’ She gave me an earthenware mug with a heart on it and a card featuring a black Labrador sitting by the side of an armchair at his master’s feet. Inside she had written ‘Love as Ever, Daisy’. My card to her had been made by Gracie. It showed me and Daisy at our wedding. I only came up to knee height on my bride – is that how Gracie sees our relationship?
Friday 15th February
Went out to the bin after lunch to dispose of non-recyclable food packaging and found a family of foxes gorging on yesterday’s chicken bones. How did they drag the carcass out of the bin?
The largest fox, the father presumably, gave me a contemptuous look and then carried on eating. How dare he? Are these wild creatures no longer afraid of us humans? I shouted, ‘Boo!’ and clapped my hands together, but the ginger beast smiled and carried on eating. The mother and two cubs strolled a few yards away, then sat down and proceeded to groom each other.
I shouted, ‘Clear off!’ and clattered the lid of the wheelie bin down, hoping to startle them into flight, but all four remained where they were. Eventually I got cold and went inside.
Brett had been watching me through our front-room window and said as I went into the living room, ‘You should have taken a spade to their filthy verminous heads.’
Bernard looked up from his book and said, ‘You’re a complete bastard, aren’t you, Brett? Why don’t you toddle off next door?’
Brett said, ‘This is my brother’s house, you stupid old fart. I have more of a right to be here than you, you ligging old bastard.’
I should have said something to Brett but, quite frankly, Diary, I do not have the energy for any more confrontations. I went into the bedroom and lay down on the unmade bed.
Saturday 16th February
My mother and father came round to ask if they could do any shopping for us. While I compiled a list my mother carried on with the argument she’d been having with my father earlier.
She said, ‘George, promise me you won’t give in and lend Brett that money.’
My father said, ‘It’s hard to deny the b
oy a chance and it’s not doing anything, is it? You have to speculate to accumulate, Pauline. Who dares wins, remember.’
I said, ‘Dad, if you’ve got some money in the house, Brett will sniff it out.’
My mother looked worried and said, ‘Adrian’s right, George. It’s not safe where it is.’
Later that night she came round carrying a giant tin of Heinz beans. She gave me the tin and tapped the side of her nose, saying, ‘This is a very, very valuable tin of beans. Do you get what I’m saying? These beans are in a very rich juice. They will be a great asset on your pantry shelf.’
Before she could make any more clumsy financial analogies, I took the tin from her and put it on the tinned food shelf.
Wednesday 27th February
Diary, you have been a cruel mistress. I am enslaved by you. But it is increasingly difficult to find sufficient energy to report to you on a daily basis since I started chemotherapy. I have been subsumed by my illness and its treatment.
Wednesday 5th March
Went to see the NHS wig supplier today at the hospital. Daisy drove us there in the Mazda. (My mother still refuses to put us on her insurance, so we have been forced to buy our own extortionate policy.) She said, ‘You can’t be trusted to buy underwear for yourself, let alone a wig.’
The wig bloke was called Malcolm Daltrey. I asked him if he was related to Roger Daltrey, the singer in The Who. He looked at me in a puzzled way and said, ‘No.’
Diary, why do I feel the need to make conversation with health professionals? Is it because I hate being a patient and need to reassert my status?
He examined my scalp and said disapprovingly, ‘You should have come to see me weeks ago before your hair started to fall out.’
Daltrey’s hair looked suspiciously like a wig to me. It resembled a piece of roadkill – a stoat, perhaps.