Chapter 4 Dangerously Healthy by Malcolm Birkenshaw

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Chapter 4.

`Cup of tea, Mister Mytholmroyd,' sang a voice, but bright
sunlight kept my eyelids closed. It must still be afternoon. `Cup of
tea,' she repeated.

Tea? I pretended to sleep, hoping she would go away. Tea could
wait, there were too many memories yet to uncover.

`It'll be your own fault if it goes cold,' she plonked it down
and trundled to the next bed.

Did my disease really disappear after father recovered? Or did
it remain hidden, an invisible plague? My second business started
to fluctuate round about then, or was that because the Chancellor of
the Exchequer's stop-go economics stopped?

I may never know, for whilst the economy was overheating my
business went up in flames. `What's he doing here?' the police
inspector had quizzed, referring to a freelance loss assessor, the
first person to arrive on the scene.

`I don't know,' I wrapped my dressing gown against the air
which crept into our kitchen in the wake of last night's flurry of
snow. `I've never seen him before.' Behind the inspector a sergeant,
slush weeping from the welts of his boots, started to write notes.
This made me angry. `He told me that he stays up every night, tuned
into your damned radio channels, listening for business.'

`Put your clothes on,' the police appeared unimpressed, anxious
to return to the site of the fire whilst my composure was rattled.
`What's this?' they started looking for wood-worms amongst the
smouldering embers.

`Police?' the insurance company then delayed settlement,
claiming an electric heater had been knocked over.

`That's just a wild guess,' dismissed my solicitor. `It's not a
viable reason for refuting the claim,' he dictated confidently into
his tape recorder. This was a very different solicitor, not like
the wishy-washy one from Whitby, so I paid him a retainer because he
said I had a very good case.

Once my cheque had cleared he was soon on the phone, not to the
insurance company but to me. `Money, what spare money?' I exclaimed.
So much for him not messing around. This sounded uncomfortably like
that lawyer in Whitby, where my previous claim had submerged beneath
uncharted depths of litigation.

`All right, all right. We'll do our best,' he calmed me down, but
after a fiery start adopted a smouldering patience, waiting for the
opposition to flicker. Again the defendants were waiting for me to
run out of money. But this time they were due for a long wait, Lena
was teaching, so we could afford to make them work for their
premium whilst I helped out at home.

`I want you to take these,' my doctor kept me behind in the
surgery after she had treated my son.

`Tablets? I don't need any tablets.'

`I'd like you to take them, all the same. People can be very
cruel when others are in trouble.' I looked puzzled. `They're not
addictive,' she said, whilst writing one three times a day on the
label.

Within a day they had turned my legs into lead. `Lead?' she queried
when I returned, doubting my diagnosis because the manufacturers
claimed their tablets to be side effect free. However, to be on the
safe side, she prescribed an alternative, this time giving me
capsules. My legs seemed to become normal but, after a while, my
health began to deteriorate. No doubt due to being bored, having no
job, I had decided at the time, but all would be well as soon as the
insurers paid out.

Throughout this period the evenings had been lengthening and
the waiting became easier, that is until the T.V. companies switched
to summer schedules. `There's nothing on tonight,' Lena looked in
the newspaper, `I'm going out for something to do.'

`You're right, there's nothing on tonight,' I folded the paper
and went along for the trip. She had joined a tennis class so I
passed my time strolling amongst mottled sunshine beneath trees
heavy with blossom, listening to the chatter of birds, watching them
turning over titbits, looking for worms, grovelling for grubs and
snails, oblivious to the plonk plonk plonk of tennis from another
part of the park.

The plonking petered out, was it time to go home? I hurried to
the court, slid back a bolt, clanged its gate shut, sending a tremor
full circle of its wire-mesh wall.

`No, we're just having a break,' Lena looked up. She was
pouring coffee from her thermos.

`Would you like a knock up, then?' a caffeine abstainer asked me
whilst waving his racket for want of something dramatic to do. He was
obviously a fitness freak, with full-Wimbledon gear and a tilted
yachting cap that was crisp new.

I looked towards Lena. She nodded. It was all right for me to have
a game.

Embroidered on the pocket of his short-sleeved shirt was an
eagle. `Albatross, old boy, wanderer of the oceans,' he flaunted his
badge.

`Gooney bird to proper mariners,' I muttered under my breath – but
loud enough to ruffle his pride. At the same time I was bouncing the
balls, psyching myself up, tapping any duff ones aside, intending to save
and slip them in on second services, where lack of bounce would leave
captain Birdseye flat-footed, and help shorten the odds stacked
against me.'

`Pardon, old boy?' he pretended not to have heard, intending to corner me
into repeating the insult.

`Umm?'

`You mumbled something. Didn't quite hear it,' he raised his tone,
forcing the issue.

`Oh,.. diomedia,' I served up a word behind which I hoped to retreat.

`What's that?' he demanded in pursuit, turning the screw.

`Albatross. That’s its biological name,' I replied, hoping that
if I was wrong he would be in no position to know.

But he carried on as though the word had been a guess upon
my part. `If you look closer you'll see that it's actually an
expensive likeness,' he thrust out his chest, obviously intending
to set about serving aces and slay me.

`Ah! Procellariid, albatross-like,' I replied, hoping to ruffle
his feathers as I started to serve.

`If you go home for tennis shoes we'll let you enrol as a
beginner,' he flatfooted me, pointing his racket at my
non-regulation footwear, and my psyching-up fizzled flat.

`Here, have mine,' shouted member called Fred. `I'm beggared,'
he said, preferring to help Lena sweeten her coffee, and she
seemed only too happy to pretend that her coffee needed sweetening.

Meanwhile, back on the court, my health improved the longer we
played. This is marvellous - I had reckoned at the time, believing it
all being due to taking exercise whilst having fun. `Must come back
tomorrow,' I recalled saying at the time, without reference to Lena.
In any case - I had reasoned without thinking because she said she
was going to be busy.

But now, from my hospital bed, I supposed that I had been a bit
thoughtless, acting as though it went without asking that she would
want me to be healthy. On the other hand, how could she? - Even I
never realised that it was these early exacerbations of MS that were
nibbling my knees.

After several more trips to the club I was fully recovered and my
“peculiar” illness had gone. `There's just an unusual sensation of
tingling left,' I said to my doctor who asked how my tennis was going.

`Are you taking the capsules I gave you?' she queried. And this was
several years ago.

`No,' I had said, shaking my head. `I used them up ages ago.'

`You better have some more,' she scribbled yet another
prescription, still not sure that there was anything wrong.

`All right,' I had agreed, submitting to her treating me as though I
was ill, despite my recent recovery having convinced me that there
was nothing basically wrong. Still, she was a good doctor and, some
day, perhaps in forty years' time, when I may be old and infirm, I had
reasoned that I might need her. But, at that time, my immediate priority
had been to get back to tennis, so it did not surprise me when my
health and game continued to prosper. Yes, those were the days when
I could tell I was well, knew I was well, so there was no need to ever see
her again – at least that was what I thought then.
.
By high summer boredom had set in. Tennis was only twice a week
and my lawn, which had never been my pride, was mown so close its
roots were trying to hide out of sight. I wanted to work, proper
work, but our telephones were still out of order.

`Sod waiting for the insurance company,' I had chuntered at the
time, setting off to stroll past the Village Green - no longer green
but by then buff brown and balding. I waited until the day's haze
and high doldrums had sent all but the distant "put put" of a tractor
indoors.

With nobody to watch me, even birds were hiding, except for a
dog which was flat to the ground, slouching in the shade, watching a
fly buzz round the end of its nose, I climbed up the telephone pole
next to the remains of my business and reconnected its wires.

Good, now to dump the fire-buckled switchboard and saunter back
home then drive to the next village. `Hello, faults? I'd like to
report 603661, it's giving number unobtainable,' I telephoned the
operator and gave her the number of my ex-directory line, the line
which looped over fields connecting the business to my home. I had
planned that with a bit of luck I might speak to an engineer who,
having not heard of the fire, would routinely deal with the repair.
Perhaps if he checked their exchange first, and found something
simple, like a fuse blown, the ploy would succeed?

Later, after lunch, waiting until a different shift was on
duty, I tried again, this time giving our business number. `Hello,
faults? I'd like to report 603658 as being out of order.'

I returned home, assuming that they would never fall for it,
but at least the scam had given me something to do. `Martin,' Lena
looked worried. `There's been a queer dinging on our phone.'

`Hell!' I lifted the receiver, our private number was working
again. I ran out of the house, round to the business, and climbed
back up the burnt pole with a spare telephone strapped to my arm.
Bloody marvellous, they'd also reconnected my business line.

Before I got home our phone was ringing. `There's somebody
wanting to place an order,' Lena handed me the receiver, radiating
displeasure at being called upon to act as my secretary.

What to do now, I wondered, having never expected to find a
customer unaware of the fire? `Yes, certainly,' I scribbled their
address, `We don't have one in stock at the moment,.. but we could
deliver one direct from the warehouse tomorrow.' Better not say
anything about the fire, it might undermine confidence just when
there was a chance to be working again, irrespective of whatever the
insurance company decided to do. As for the telephone people, my
do-it-yourself wiring was making them money, surely they'd turn a
blind ear when they found out? `Yes, yes, it will be delivered
tomorrow.'

Yet here was a quandary. Was the house to become a business or
remain our home?.... Or should I carry on trade half way up a
telephone pole? Pliers, a telephone switch, and a pair of household
steps soon corrected that problem - business in daytime, private at
night. `And you're planning to run a business from our bedroom?'
Lena moaned.

`From the spare bedroom.'

`Spare bedroom? What if mother comes to stay?'

`It's only temporary.'

`Well, I hope it is.'

`I'll use profit from the first orders to patch up what remains
of my business.'

`Business? That shell which the fire left standing looks more
like the front of a Hollywood set.'

But Lena put her objections on hold whilst I made use of the
scrap which was still buried amongst the ashes where the firemen's
hoses had scattered it. `Won't take long, I'll finish it before the weekend.'

And I did, and the business grew, and tennis took second place.
Strange, though, for when I had been repairing the roof, high up, my
balance seemed to be uncertain and that tingling returned. Was I
starting with asbestosis caused by rummaging through the ashes? Was
it something left over from Egypt? `Stop it, you're becoming a
hypochondriac,' I muttered at the time, dismissing my complaints as
being nerves due to stress caused by the business.

But why? My firm was much smaller, being just me, Vanessa and
Ivy - she was my part-time skeleton staff who weighed sixteen
stones. `I don't know how you stand it,' Ivy shivered from beneath
her heap of fur coats, turning up the wick of a paraffin stove, our
only form of heating until the pre-fire electricity bill had been
paid.

My legs turned back to lead. `There's no doubt that it's only
the cold to blame,' I reasoned, especially since they began to get
better when the weather became warmer and the business improved. Or
was it because the business improved and had little to do with the
weather?

All very confusing, especially since my tennis ended in failure
as the new season progressed. Even an old man in grey flannels made
a fool of me! Yet, within weeks, I was playing cricket amongst a
crowd, having fun, without the slightest sign of ill-health, whether
it was cloudy or fine. Definitely all very confusing, though I never
did like that old man.

`Come on, let's have you, it's dinner time,' the hospital meal
lady was shaking my elbow. `I left you this afternoon when I brought
tea round. Thought it best not to disturb you, what with you being
fast asleep.'

`I wasn't asleep, just thinking.'

`Well, if that's thinking, my husband must be blinking
Einstein,' she dolloped a scoop of potatoes onto my plate. `He looks
just like that every night, and in the morning,' she autographed
gravy over my meal with her ladle. `Although, now that I come to
think of it, he always has been a bit of an inventor - spending most
of his life inventing excuses.'

I smiled, turning the meat nearer and the turnips further away,
covering up where my pyjama had been dunked in the gravy. `Blinking
Einstein, he is,' she overlooked my transgression and slopped up a
bowl of pudding before steering her trolley to the next bed. I
relaxed, taking comfort in what the specialist had said,... Only a
couple of days…. That means tomorrow, so at this rate I'll get away
without having injections and suffering pain.

That does not leave much time to discover a miracle cure, if
there is such a thing as a miracle cure. Of course there is. What
about that first day in spring, four years ago, when we went for an
outing to Wharfedale? Not to our secret picnic site by the river
but a new spot, at the foot of a "mountain" which the children
wanted to climb.

They had tried it when little and failed, before even reaching
the heather. Was it too high for them then? I don't know, but this
time Claire was seven, John four, although Lena was apprehensive and
remained in the car with her knitting.

`Are you being serious, will the children be safe?'

`Of course they will.... And we'll wave every hundred yards
during the climb.'

She could relax, wave back, and make a game of it. `All right,
then,' she agreed, unfolding a rug, spreading it upon a grassy slope
amongst the bracken. The grass had been cropped short by sheep which
were now grazing within sight of nervous rabbits. After all, Sunday
was her day of rest.

Where the hell were our two? I looked up, leapt to the chase,
shouting instructions, attempting to halt them. `Wave to mummy,' I
shouted, any excuse to make them slow down. My fault, offering a
cash prize for the first two to stand on the summit.

`Climb and rest, climb and rest,' I stressed once we restarted.
The car and Lena began to shrink. The only rabbits on our slope big
enough for us to see were hopping between tussocks of grass, whilst
gambolling lambs, bleating and white, kept Claire and John going when
the novelty of climbing began to wear off.

`Oops,' we reached a small ridge, a good place to rest and give
a final wave with our handkerchiefs. Lena would never see their
little hands from this distance. `This is as far as we got last
time,' Claire laughed, reminding me of how John had dived off a
rock, done a somersault, and come to rest on a ledge. `Here,' she
pointed. `Where it juts out over that drop.' We never did find out
whether he was copying something on television. I had forgotten all
about it and, hopefully, so had Lena.

The steep face of "Everest" now towered above us. It was time
for a lecture. `John,' I sounded severe, relating his former balmy
behaviour. He didn't know what we were talking about, the memory
gone, he was more interested in the present and wanted to learn how
to climb the most dangerous slopes and get the money I had promised.

I guessed Lena would be click-clicking away with her knitting,
confident that the children would be turning back once the going got
tough, not knowing that they now saw the mountain as a challenge
still to be beaten. Grunting and giggling they struggled against
gravity, the car forgotten; grasping hold of heather, ledges, mud,
or anything on most difficult part, feet blindly feeling for rocks.
John wanted to call it a day, his calf muscles were aching. `So are
mine,' Claire gritted.

`We've almost reached the boundary,' I pointed to a dry stone
wall crowning the steep incline, thirty yards above, every sign of
being the top. He looked down, saw how far he had come, opted for a
rest, then decided to try for the summit.

`You cheat,' Claire was first to the wall and look over. `The
top's miles away. I can't even see it. Can we have half the money
for getting half way?'

`No. The reward's only for reaching Simon's Seat,' the name of
their "Everest", `And we're over half way there,' I attempted to
persuade them. `Wouldn't it be a pity to turn back?' I added,
forgetting that half way on the map meant half way above sea level,
not half way to the top of the hill. There was still a long way to
go.

John remained unimpressed. My encouragement rang hollow for
him. It would be another ten years before cash ran high in his set
of values. Claire was different. `If I get to the top can I have my
money?'

`What about John?'

`Can't we leave him here.'

`I want my share as well,' he grumbled, his sense of fair play
stretched to demand cash without effort. He wanted to sit where he
was, resting, whilst Claire did the climb and earned him the money.
`I'll be all right, it's nice and warm.' True, the weather was
freakishly mild for springtime on the fells, especially for
somewhere so high, and that's why it was too dangerous to leave him
alone. `All right then,' he looked up, `As long as you help me.'

This left me with no option, it was me who wanted to get to the
top, so I lifted them over the wall, in awe at the hillside towering
above us, its peak now hidden from sight. We started the next
section, it being the most severe of the climb, and soon they were
defeated. Our calves ached, our thighs ached, our arms ached, `I
want to go back,' John dug heels in.

`How can you?' I gasped, my arms supporting both of them as we
clung like flies to the slope, our muscles trying to recover. `Give
me your hands, one at a time,' I held out mine, once we were
half-rested, and hauled him up foothold by foothold before working
my way back for Claire.

The manoeuvre was repeated as we climbed higher and higher,
though the horizon remained endless against a blue sky. There was
always more hill ascending before us and their spirits gave up,
worse than being Scott in the Antarctic. Then suddenly the scarp
became a plateau. `What's that?' they reeled back beneath the
majesty of a massive outcrop, a rock fortress built by the Gods.

`That's Simon's Seat.'

Ah, now things were different. Their energy flooded back in a
tide of enthusiasm, setting them off at a scamper, the goal now in
sight. `Stop,' I shouted. They had immediately lost themselves in
their dash through crevasses and giant stones, everything surrounded
by a jungle of heather and sunken in peat. `Stay where you are,' I
caught up and lifted and guided them boulder by boulder until we
reached the edge of the badlands. I still enjoy the memory of John
clinging to my shoulders, fingers clasped round my neck, and the
pride of watching Claire ploughing on, knees cut, new socks ruined,
tears on her cheeks, determined to make it all on her own.

`Not that way, Claire,' a frontal attack on the Seat being
impossible. `That's reserved for mountaineers,' I explained as we
crawled onto its rocks from behind. At last, after twenty years,
this was the high fell I had climbed as a schoolboy to sweat
influenza out of my system. That is if it was influenza.

I sat on a rock, musing, whilst they played on the roof of the
world, running along tracks, eroded, filled with sand. Far below
were limestone Kails, once coral islands in primeval seas, beyond
which grit-stone fells fingered their way along far horizons. How
well I felt, as though every one of those Kails could be dismissed
aside with the lightness of a mustard seed.

But Claire and John returned, breathless, to relax armchaired
amongst the rocks, to listen to tales of yellow dogs and devil's
bridges which haunted the valleys below. Yet their little legs
soon began to itch, their stomachs telling the time, time to go
down, down to where a picnic and Lena were waiting.

We used a sheep trail, slithering steeply until, with car in
sight, we reached a field and burst into a sprint down its slope.
`First to the gate,' I laughed, blood surging into my legs, the
mysterious trouble gone. Stress, I always knew it was stress. I
raced past them, vowing never again to work on Sundays, never again
be unfit.

That had been all very easy to say at the time, and I meant it.
But look at me now, in hospital, lying on my back, even last night's
pimple of a hill near our village being too much. Still, I had
climbed Simon's Seat then, so I intended to do it again.

Read the following chapters that tell of how Martin "cured" his M.S. and climbed mountains by the following year.

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