Chapter 14 Dangerously Healthy by Malcolm Birkenshaw

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Chapter 14.

First out of bed, doing my exercises, Sunday or not - well,
nobody else can do them for you, can they? Besides, I had remained
excited after yesterday's meeting, my enthusiasm resulting in John
waking up and beating me to the cornflakes.

`Why waste soap, I'm not dirty?' he squirmed out of reach,
bolting his last spoonful, and made for the door, `I'll get a bath
after I've been to the farm,' he dashed away, setting off to explore
his "jungle", intending to meet Richard from the farm under the
rookery in Bluebell wood.

`Bluebell wood rookery?.... Don't look up with your eyes open,
then,' I laughed. He pretended not to hear, walked with his head
down, thinking I might be calling him back.

Claire eventually rose from hibernation, having read about
beauty sleep. `Why's mum crying?' she asked.

I shrugged my shoulders. Lena was still in bed. `Perhaps she's
tired after yesterday.'

`From just buttering sandwiches?'

`She did more than that,' I defended, though remained silently
puzzled. Was Lena like this because of yesterday seeing so many
people in wheelchairs? - my future if I did not keep fit. `Your
hair looks nice, let's have some lunch. Ask your mother if she'd
like some.'

`Mum's not hungry,' Claire returned, having been put through
the emotional mill.

`Oh,' I commented, low-keyed, trying to defuse Claire's
apprehension, and carried on peeling potatoes, at the same time
wondering what to do later now that I had finished concreting the
extension's foundations. Trouble was, our local stonemason had died
last week: if only he could have waited a bit longer.

`She just wants a cup of coffee.'

`The water's already boiled,' I motioned with my head in the
kettle's direction, my hands fully occupied, having begun slicing
some chips. Perhaps tomorrow I'll put an advert in the post office
window?...... In the meanwhile I might be able to occupy myself,
always providing Stan will lend me his pig truck, by going for loads
of breeze blocks at trade price until a bricklayer replies.

Bit of a cheek, really, I thought, but, `Help yourself,' Stan
pointed with a spanner towards his truck's unlocked door before I'd
half started to hint at my plan, then he carried on repairing his
seed potato planter.

It seemed that the spring tide of Lena's depression or cry for
help or something or other had receded long before Monday when she
was back at school, teaching, and I was on my way for the blocks.
`You'll have to load them yourself,' the foreman said - when I
reversed into their yard, and took another bite into his sandwich,
balancing back upon the legs of his chair, both feet crossed on a
dust-worn desk, disordering the papers into greater disorder. `It's
our lunch-time.'

`That's all right,' I hastened not to upset him, anxious to get
the blocks cheap.

`You'll have to wait.' Clearly messing with invoices was one of
his hates.

`My boss told me to pay cash,' I fed him what I hoped he would
be happy to hear, propping myself against his doorway to hide any
signs of M.S.

`Leave it there, then, and help yourself,' leaving his bosses
to deal with the documentation as suited them best.

Negotiations thus complete I was free to take my time, pace
myself, with nobody to pose personal questions. Stupid pride, I
suppose, but probably best to continue with my pretence of being a
workman.

Lena wondered about the blocks when she got home from school.
They were stacked chest high, so presumably they had been delivered
by somebody else. `I don't want you knocking yourself up, we're
going to mother's this Sunday.'

`Good, I can cycle part of the way.'

`Cycle! After last year's fiasco?'

`I only said part of the way.'

`It's winter.'

`Looks more like spring to me,' lemon sunlight luminescent on the
dust of our windows. `Don't worry, if winter returns I shan't
bother.'

`What do you mean, part of the way?'

`Before I get tired I can always stop, can't I? After all, my
BIKE has been in the back of your car... at least one time before.'

`Huh!' she turned away from any argument, the custard was
boiling. `Suit yourself, you've obviously made up your mind.'

The weather stayed so fine on Sunday I set off an hour before
Lena and the children, having again restated in fine detail how I
planned to keep to her regular route.

`Don't ride on the A.1, that's all I can say,' her final
instruction followed me onto the lane, not being enthusiastic
herself about having to drive along it let alone contemplate what
might happen to a cyclist.

I slowed, wobbled, and called back over my shoulder, `I'll
walk, if I get that far,' then slowly accelerated past the Brick
Pond, building up to a carefully regulated pace, considering my
departure to be morally unhindered now that my reassurance had been
given.

Everything went much better than I had hoped for, my legs still
feeling fresh even when I reached the flyover. `Dare I risk it?' I
glanced at my watch. `Plenty of time,' but soon realised just how
right Lena had been as I filtered onto the Great North Road - no
longer the exact route Cromwell's army had taken but no less a
battle as I struggled to steer along the hard shoulder, buffeted by
air-quakes and slipstreams as an unbroken cavalry charge of wagons
hurtled northwards. `Sod this for a Sunday, I'll need more than a
bike and faith in my mustard seed to play David against all these
Goliaths.' But I had to get off that road somehow - there was no
place for Lena to stop. My legs filled with fear, with only a
peppering of bravado, and drove the pedals faster than they had ever
pedalled before until I reached the next junction.

Thank goodness for that, I eased off, that damned dual
carriageway safely behind me, and ahead the road to Leeds along
which Lena soon would be driving. `How are my legs?.. Not bad,' I
congratulated myself. `I wonder if the children are ready, with
John forbidden to do anything dirtier to occupy himself than throw
bread to the birds?... Still,' my watch surprising me, `They won't
be setting off for,' I wobbled, `For... er,.. at least another half
hour.'

Really, I should have stopped long before now. But, no, not
yet, not when it was only a couple of miles on the level to Garforth
where I could enjoy the luxury of freewheeling downhill.

The woods were sleepwalking, ready for spring, until its tangle
of trees ended as sudden as the edge of an oasis overlooking a
desert of fields.

`This is where my breeze blocks came from,' I thought once at
Garforth, with no pedalling to do, a different breeze in my hair,
gravity speeding me fast past the works and locked gates and
shuttered foreman's hut - all shuttered and dead. Halfway already,
just one uphill gradient remaining. `It's a long one, but not that
steep,' I calculated from the comfort of my freewheeling distance,
listening to the ego in my left ear rather than to the logic of my
right. `You know, Mytholmroyd, cycling the rest of the way is a
real possibility.'

`Oh no it's not,' my legs started to stutter, having forgotten
their rhythm during their free ride. `Get some of this down you,'
youths bellowed, waving cans of beer, when their car lurched past.

`Ignore them, concentrate,' ego fought to gain control of the
wobble. Had my legs gone to sleep after doing so little during that
mile?.... Had they become chilled?.... Or, worse, had I overdone
things yet again?' There would be that "I told you so" look when
Lena caught up. `Better not give her the chance,' I squeezed the
last dregs of determination out of my muscles. `Just one last
effort,' having got stuck in top gear, slowing my legs. `Funny!..
this gear is the wrong way to tackle a slope, but their aching's
decreasing?'

A giggling gaggle of cyclists overtook, legs whirling past.
`Ignore their sniggers, you know as much about racing as they do
about M.S., but that doesn't mean you shouldn't try to copy their
style,' I rocked my frame from side to side, breathing deeply in
time with my legs,.... much slower than they but it really did help.
`Bit like getting a second wind, perhaps something to do with
respiration and circulation,' I muttered, talking myself up the
incline past where bulldozers had blitzkrieged a field into a
pe of trenches, its flagpole fluttering "TIGER HOMES" on a
plastic flag with a permanent breeze.

Thoughts ate up the miles all the way into Leeds - I was
actually enjoying the misery, semidetached gardens of hoed winter
soil ignoring my passing, gateways shrinking until doorways led
straight onto cracked pavements, terrace houses my father had passed
on his way to work when tramways were horse drawn. `Go on, take a
short cut,' I returned to the present, seeing my chance to arrive
before the children and Lena.

A good idea, at first, until my dodge brought me to the
steepest hill of all, where every manageable slope had been
condensed into one, within sight of Mary's, the mother-in-law's
flat. `I'll crawl the last yards if I run out of legs,' I gritted
my calves, `And just have to hope she's not looking out.'

Damn, Lena's car was already there, engine still hot, I
grounded my feet, disappointed, but at least I had remained upright,
despite pedalling and aching all the way up that hill - a marked
improvement on last year. Mind you, my legs were numb, and like
plasticine. `Don't say I've done it again.'

`Oh, dear Lord,' Mary alarmed upon seeing my limp, once the
steam cleared after she finished draining her vegetables.

But the children were delighted, Mother was wrong, her Sunday
would not be ruined after all searching for father.

Oh no she wasn't, she was certainly not wrong, her expression
said so. More a foolhardy husband, she could tell by the spastically
of his walk.

`Sit here, Martin,' Mary moved a chair to the table, defusing
the silence. `Move up, a bit,' she nudged Claire, rearranging the
cutlery and mats closer together, leaving Lena to play at being
busy.

`Yes, please,' I smiled. Lean roast, creamed potatoes and veg.,
whilst the children ate my Yorkshire pudding as I avoided its flour
- I was yet to discover the real reason why Yorkshire puddings were
"poisonous" to people with M.S.

After a sleep in the armchair I rose to my feet. `There,' I
turned to Lena, my walk had recovered.

`You're never cycling back,' she saw me checking the lighting
up times.

`It's better than cramming my bike in with the children.'

`I'd rather manage that than have to nurse you in bed.'

`Do I look ill?'

`You're so well you can't get a job.'

`Cup of tea, before you set off,' Mary interceded. `No milk,
two sugars?'

`Thanks,' I looked at the clock. An hour and a half until
sunset.

`Sunset? I can only see clouds,' Lena's anger continuing to
fester.

`Best set off now, then.'

I was on the last stretch, it was dusk, when Lena's Morris
Minor drove past. Claire and John cheered to catch my attention,
betting sweets upon who would be first home, but I was too busy to
look, ducking beneath branches, riding close to the kerb, no lights
on my bike. I'd lost time walking up a couple of short hills, but
my legs were much better for that.

Success breeds success, not owning up to there being more
downhill than uphill on the way back from Leeds. But Lena still
refused to see it that way so next morning, when she left for
school, it was another jolly Monday. `What state will you be in
when I get home tonight?' she pursed her lips.

`I'm going to have breakfast,' I held up the cornflakes, `See,
like a good boy, and get washed then find someone to build our
extension.' What was she still moaning about, I wondered? I'd
already proved the specialist wrong. Mind you, I was still
learning, yesterday's ride proving the importance of pacing myself.
So, first job today, take it easy, feed the blackbird.

It scuttled under the hedge, preferring live food to bread now
that a touch of sunshine had wakened its larder, leaving me with
nothing to do other than be tempted to lay a few blocks.

`Mister Mytholmroyd, what are you doing?' the little boy from
next door had slipped through their hawthorn and was watching me
work.

`Mixing mortar.'

`What is it for?'

`Building a wall.'

`Why are you building a wall?'

`Because I'm making my house bigger,' I shovelled the mixture,
encouraging clouds of lime dust to make him stand back. Good, that's
got rid of him. I added the water.

`Mister Mytholmroyd?'

I tried ignoring him.

`Mister Mytholmroyd?'

`Yes.' That hadn't worked.

`What are you doing?'

`Mixing mortar.'

`What is it for?' The repetitive drip of his questions
producing a stalagmite in my heart.

He started to move closer. `Don't do that,' I snapped as he
tested the mix with the toe of his sandal.

`Mister Mytholmroyd?'

For a brief moment Misery Mildew, our neighbour on the other
side, the one without kids, did not seem so bad after all, for this
was turning out to be much worse than work. Will he never go away?
- I'm supposed to be taking things easy, with a life free from
stress. On second thoughts, filled with the milk of human
cussedness, I turned my back. Why stop him? I left him to paddle
around in the mound of wet mortar whilst I laid the first blocks.

`Nicholas, what are you doing?' his mother, hanging out
washing, parted the hedge, ignoring the thorns.

`I tried to stop him, Susan,' I economised on the truth, happy
to see him summoned indoors.

Back to normal, I smiled. Work a bit, rest a bit, the extension
beginning to take shape. `Time to knock off for lunch,' I mused to
the blackbird - it had returned to our garden after the to-ing and
fro-ing had ruined the peace of its hedge. Not that I felt tired, and
within half an hour was back on the job, using the rest of the
mortar.

`Mister Mytholmroyd.'

Bloody hell, the little sod's back, before I've hardly started
the next row. `Does your mother know that you're here?'

`What are you doing?' he asked, turning a blind ear to my
question.

`Susan,' I tried to attract her attention. Where is she?

`Susan.' She heard me. `I don't want to risk this wall falling on
Nicholas.....,' I trawled up an excuse, `.... When I go for more
water.'

He was banned whilst the walls were under construction. My
spirits lifted, actually I felt as though I might manage the job all
by myself.

`Suit yourself,' Lena snapped. Goodness knows what her reaction
would have been had she known about the load of window frames I had
ordered.

But for some reason even next day they had still not arrived,
the company's excuse being that a wagon delivering them had got
lost north of Watford. This was good news for the robins. They had
seen off the sparrows and were nesting in a hole which was destined
to be blocked up by my extension.

`Lost a wagon!' I exploded, over the phone, after Lena left
for school. `Lost a wagon?' I repeated, anxious to keep working,
remembering how I deteriorated whilst immobile in hospital. It had
taken me long enough to recover, I was not going to risk it again.
`Can't you do better than that?'

`We're rushing them to you as fast as we can, Sir. They'll be
with you sometime next week.'

`Next week!' I slammed down the receiver. What should I do
until then? There was cycling, of course, somewhere different for a
change. What about my parents? Trouble is, I was aiming for their
house that time I ended up at Molly's and Seth's, having to be
rescued by Lena. That really would go down well with her back
teaching!

Still, that was last year. This time I shall avoid all hills,
at least the steep ones, even if means using main roads.

`Should get there for lunch time,' I glanced at my watch,
setting off early. Good thing too, there were temporary traffic
lights round the first corner. What are they digging up this time?
I took my eyes off the road, checking for workers, and my wheels ran
over their lights' insulated cable.

Despite having never fancied a circus career my wheels ended up
trying to ride full length of the cable, refusing to steer clear, my
bike first going one way, then another, then back again..... Time to
bale out before reaching the trench.

`Are you all right, mate?' a head appeared out of a trench,
flat capped with a mug in its hand.

`Yes, thanks,' I pretended to examine my wheels, hiding the
pain. No blood, probably just bruises. Strange, how it hurt despite
being numb. Seconds became minutes, things started to ease. `Good,
get back on the bike before your legs forget how to pedal,' I said
to myself, remembering tales of fighter pilots being ordered back up
after being shot down.

`You haven't cycled all the way here?' mother unbolted and
inched open their gates, more likely to hide robbers at work than
keep them locked out. `Percy, put the kettle on, make yourself
useful,' she broke Father off from washing the pots. `You must have
something to eat, but we've got nothing in.. It's your father, you
know, he never remembers the right shopping.'

`A tin of beans will do, thanks,' I limped to a chair,
intending to ease her embarrassment as she rearranged the contents
of their pantry. They normally made bread and butter do, unless
visitors were expected.

`Tastes like margarine to me,' muttered Father.

`You'll need more than that,' she searched another cupboard,
ignoring her husband.

`And we never have jam.'

`No, really, beans are ideal, full of protein and fibre,' I
hastened to save Father's bacon - though he rarely had any of that.

But Mother ignored all that was happening about her and began
peeling potatoes, determined to fill me with something.

The mountain of mash put me to sleep yet, just like when I last
had a big meal after cycling to Lena's mother's, I recovered in time
for the ride home. Since I was now in even better condition my
condition must be continuing to improve - good old mustard seed
faith, good old sunflower seed oil. `But I wonder if sunflower oil
softens the tissues, increases the bruising?..... What the hell,
does it matter, if my strength continues to grow?'

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

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