Chapter 18 Dangerously Healthy by Malcolm Birkenshaw

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Chapter 18.

Back home, back to cricket, back to answering the telephone.
`You did what?' exclaimed Fiona from London.

`Climbed Snowdon.'

`How much did you get?'

What did she mean? She was one of the founders of our embryo
charity but her question still left me puzzled. `It wasn't a
professional race, I just did it for pleasure.'

`Weren't you sponsored?.... That's ridiculous,' she was angry,
`You know how desperate we need funds for research.'

`Don't worry,' I cast for an idea to bluff my way out, `Next
year I'll do something dramatic, now that I've tested my stamina.'

`Like what?' she responded.

`I don't know,' I found myself hoisted, suggesting the first
petard to enter my mind.... `Probably cycle to London.'

`Good idea. I'll set up a reception at this end, involve T.V.,
get the cast from a West End show,' she entered my suggestion into
her diary.

Damn, I had forgotten about her contacts from when she worked
on the stage.

Nor was everything well in the village of Adderton, Lena having
fallen out with Willy over the use of his tennis court. Why was
this? - had he slipped in a few caustic digs about her
disappearance during last New Year's Eve after her having flirted
with friends?.... Or were other things in her life now more
important than tennis?.... Or perhaps she was distancing herself
after new storm clouds of trouble at my parents had started to
rumble louder than any others before?

`Stop!' I said to myself. `Stop worrying. There's really
nothing to bother about, try to forget it,' so out came my
sledgehammer, and some diversionary therapy, as I smashed a few
holes in our hall to add a dining extension. It had been planned,
and put extra value on the house, making Lena quite pleased and
suspending her complaints about me not having a job.

But as one door of stress closed another squeezed open - this
time it was Mother on the telephone. `I've found out about Peter.
You'll never believe it,' she interrupted my decorating as I
finished off our new dining room. She alleged wild facts about my
brother's marriage. `He's filthy, he's dirty, he's evil,' she
ranted and raved for at least half an hour before turning her wrath
upon Father's attempt to mediate a reconciliation.

She had always been like this, so far as my suppressed memories
were prepared to recall. Yet both her and Father's intentions were
painfully good, so I assumed that these reactions were the
consequence of her childhood having been scarred, hers by violent
beatings at the end of a strap from her stepmother. But Father also
suffered psychologically, his father turning violent when drunk.
Were these the common experiences which subconsciously drew them
together?

There were differences, though, his problems only being
whenever his loving father became drunk, whilst hers were at the
hands of a dedicated sadist. Their responses to brother Peter's
difficulties were as a result different. `He's rubbish,' she
shrieked, `I've told his wife that she needs to get rid of him.' My
brush had set solid by the time she was finished, like my mind as it
fought to keep the M.S. at bay.

Each day thereafter our telephone burned, though my ears
remained cool. But her hemlock got through when I overheard Father
attempting to mediate aggressively once she started to send
libellous postcards to Peter's employers, each marked in red ink,
"PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL", in her attempt to get him the sack if he
refused to submit to her will.

But her demands were not met, so the next target was Peter's
other woman, thus that afternoon she packed a carving knife in a tea
towel and caught the two o'clock train to Bedford. `I'm going to
murder her, slash her face so no other man ever will look at her.'

Father was beside himself, face drained, pacing around the
kitchen in circles, his morning cup of tea going cold. `She's never
happy unless she's causing trouble,' he kept repeating.

He was quite right, of course, for this man of little learning,
born in the last century, had learned the hard way what a modern
psychiatrist might refer to as being a `As long as you hate
somebody it makes you feel good,' type of condition, `Diverting
attention away from being able to handle your own failures.'

Though my Father's scarred childhood had involved spending many
a night huddled round a night watchman's brazier, driven out by his
own father's drunken rages, his early months must have been sound
for he had no such problems. Indeed, he had long since decided that
he was one of life's "failures", a recognition of which Mother never
ceased to remind him.

`Yet another of her bluffs,' I tried to assure him. `She's
intending to arrive just as Peter gets home from work. If she had
wanted to catch them together she'd have caught an earlier train.'
Lena agreed, which helped deflect the stress whilst the storm was
still raging. True, she had a taken a knife, setting out upon a
crusade, but it was merely a threat intended to impress, typical of
the wild theatricals to which her frustrations resorted when not
getting their way. `She'll be all right. I've told her not to do
anything silly,' I repeated.

Of course, my mediations had done nothing for her tongue. That
remained cyclonic as she blew through the streets of Bedford telling
all-comers about her wicked son, intending the scandal would spread,
teach him a lesson and bring him to heel. She failed, her efforts
helped to drive the company bust, and father suffered a stroke.

`I want to go home,' father gripped my hand, pleading, when I
visited the hospital daily.

`How about coming to my house?'

`No,' his tone softened. `I want to go to my home.'

`Just a minute, I'll see what can be done, Sister's over
there.'

`You're not going to leave me, you're coming back, promise,' he
held on.

`Yes, promise, I'm coming back,' I loosened his grip. Sister
referred to her notes, explained the situation, and nodded. I
returned, smiling. `You can go, but Sister doesn't know what Mother
is. It will be just the same as before, so you'll have to control
yourself, no matter how she torments you. Will you promise not to
shout?'

`I won't shout,' he promised. `I won't shout. You will get me
out, won't you?'

I agreed, but, `First I'll clear it with Mother.'

What a hell of a task to take on. A black rook crowed and my
legs became heavy whilst my health, like a pan of cold porridge,
simmered with frozen emotion as bubbles of M.S. threatened to rise
to the surface.

Pray for a miracle, I mused to the traffic. No, better not, God
knows what has to be done. If it's right I'll survive, I closed my
mind and rang the door bell.

`It's you, come in, have a cup of tea,' she measured water into
the kettle whilst pouring abuse, running more scandal over Peter.

`Thanks, I've been to see Father.'

`Oh,' her tone slumped, she became silent.

`The hospital says he can come home.'

`Do they, and who's going to look after him?'

`He's walking about, they know he's recovered. He's promised
not to shout, so it's up to you.'

`Huh! Not shout, that'll be the first time. I suppose that
means I'll have to take him. Pour yourself a cup of tea, then give
me a lift to the shops, we'll need a loaf of bread.' Thank goodness
that was over, I stirred in sugar without counting the spoonfuls.
`It's not very convenient, I might be out,' she raised her voice
from the bathroom.

`That's all right. The ambulance will make extra trips.'

`Ambulance!'

`Yes, ambulance.' She was outmanoeuvred.

`My husband's being discharged from hospital. Edward's had a
stroke, you know. I've got a lot to do, let you know more next time,
when we've got longer to talk,' she told every customer in the
baker's, bathing in sympathy as they asked after his health. Fifteen
minutes later she had bought a loaf. I drove her back to their
house, then left to take the good news to Father.

His eyes swelled, he smiled, searched for a handkerchief, did
not have one, and hurried to the nurses' desk. `I've decided to
leave,' he apologised, anxious to go home to the house he had built.
`Could I have my bill?' Not that he was posh, it was his first time
in hospital, but he was only familiar with private wards. `I always
have to pay when my wife is ill,' he insisted, standing in the grey
light which was passing through the ward's windows, refusing to
leave until Sister promised to send on the bill.

Poor Father, temporarily disorientated, but even the strongest
man's mind would have started to wander after what he had been
through. Putting up with mother's onslaughts must have been like
being on the wrong end of the Gestapo's interrogation techniques.

Shattered, but not limping, I reached Adderton and looked for
something to shake off the stress. `How about me building a passage
to link the extension to our garage?'

Lena approved, though was less enthusiastic about the remaining
games of cricket.

Cycling seemed to be all right, so what was so inconvenient
about cricket? Sooner or later she'll understand, I told myself, as
I played out the last of the season as well as completing the
passage. All this activity not only provided exercise but my games
also helped keep the tension at bay, for my parents had resumed
where they left off by re-establishing undiplomatic relationships.

Throughout these hostilities Peter remained out of reach at
remote telephone distance, leaving Father to soak up the flak,
particularly since Mother had always claimed to be a hater of
Christmas. `Shall we ask your parents over for Christmas dinner?'
Lena suggested during a meal one day after I completed the passage.
`My mother's coming.'

I swallowed, in a quandary, before nodding in agreement.
Eighteen months had passed since my discharge from hospital, and
this invitation would involve me in breaking my health rules, yet
again; and they were rules which had taken so long to uncover.
Still, now I knew how to control the disease.....

Christmas morning arrived, full of joy. `Dad, how do you know
when an elephant's sleeping?'

`What time is it?'

`What time!'

`Who on earth's bought you a joke book?'

`You don't know!'

`I better get up before they throw the wrappings and gift
labels away,' Lena said as she put her dressing gown on.

Thus it was in good time that I set off for Leeds. Where do the
rooks go in winter? I wondered, musing to pass the time during the
journey to pick up my parents. Mother and Father had agreed on a
truce, but when she opened their door it was more like a truce from
the First War - all around an eerie silence amongst the
psychological carnage. This, I thought, is where the rooks go, or
at least where their ghosts settled, you could feel their invisible
presence of lead within the cold of the kitchen. Yet, when we
arrived in Adderton, Claire and John ran into our drive and the
truce became peace and peace became joy.

It was Father's largest meal since being discharged from
hospital, he confided whilst inspecting the extension and approving
its woodwork. He enjoyed doing that, what with him having been a
builder; and also examining the passage, and the......... `It's
dark outside,' he suddenly became disorientated, his recovery still
fragile. `Where's the toilet?'

I followed his shuffle back into the house where his problem
was exacerbated for our bathroom door had become jammed. I was
unable to free it. `It's locked from the inside!... John. Are you
in there?' I rattled its door, but there was just silence. `I bet
he's fixed the door and climbed out through the window,' I
apologised, for someone had locked grandpa out of the lavatory.

`I can't wait,' Father stood on one leg.

`Ted, get outside,' Mother bundled him through the door, as
compassionate as ever. `Nobody will see you, use a tree, it's pitch
black, there's nothing round here but countryside.'

Minutes past, a feint tap-tapping was heard, Lena opened the
door. It was Father. `I've not been.'

`What have you being doing all this time, then?' mother forced
her way past.

`I've been waiting for John, but I can't wait no longer, and
I'm not going out here because a plane's just flown over.'

`Don't be so ridiculous. They're pilots, not Peeping Toms,'
Mother mocked.

`It's all right,' Lena assured him, having telephoned Rosemary
and Roy to explain our predicament, their bungalow being in the
orchard next door. `Get in the car, Pop,' she drove him round to
their house rather than risk him stumbling the short distance though

the trees in the dark.

`Come in, the toilet's through that door,' Roy welcomed Father
and showed him the way.

When Father wandered back into their kitchen he imagined he was
still in our house. `By Jove, Martin has built a big extension.'

We suppressed our smiles when Lena returned and told us the
story. Yet it was so sad for, although rows had taken place between
Father and Mother for as long as I could remember, it was the war
concerning Peter which was beginning to tell. But at least today he
was happy, and looking much better by the time they were ready for
returning to Leeds.

His joy was short lived for as soon as they got home he
telephoned Peter, it being Christmas and goodwill to all men,
attempting a reconciliation between mother and son. `Who gave you
permission to phone him?' she pulled out the plug.

As punishment he was not to be allowed out for any more walks,
all his privileges withdrawn - except for him washing the pots and
`driving' the fireplace. Then the poker was confiscated, leaving
him only the controls to play with. `You've got it all wrong,' she
shut down the flue, slamming its door, `All the fire's going up the
chimney.' She stopped it going up the chimney all right, in fact she
turned the controls so far that it stopped going anywhere,
compelling him to put on an overcoat.

I withdrew to the peace of our village. Yet within a few days
there was an urgent telephone call. Father was injured. Not only
had he refused to agree that Peter was all evil but had made the
mistake of saying, `Blessed are the peacemakers,' whilst standing
too close to the poker she was waving.

When I arrived mother's private doctor was there, and a
specialist. What's this, I wondered, sensing the air.

`It's only temporary,' they assured me. `Just to give your
mother a rest.'

I still felt uneasy, sitting silently like Pastor Bonhoeffer
who said nothing when the Gestapo came to arrest the Gypsies,
nothing when they arrested the Intellectuals, and nothing when they
arrested the Jews. But, no, these men would not be like that,
though this time sad Father would end up paying the bill for being
on the receiving end of Mother's attack.

When I visited him it looked as though they had been telling
the truth about her having a rest, for this time he was being
billeted in a different ward, a kind of geriatric transit camp,
and one for which he would not have to pay. He sobbed for joy,
clasping my hands when I entered. `You've saved my life. How long
have I been here?'

`Two days.'

`It seems more like two years,' he became angry. `I'm not like
these other people. It's your mother and her doctor who've had me
locked away. Is this an asylum?'

`No, no,' I assured him. `It's the same hospital, just a
different ward.' Though this one not modern, like the last time, but
a Victorian building left at the back, its skyline now dominated by
the steaming bowels of the health authority's central laundry.

His eyes did not believe me. `I've read about women who get rid
of their husbands when they've got all the money,' he molared away,
adding bite to his words. I remained silent, certain he was
imagining things. How little did I know, but she had already done
it, held his hand whilst he signed and now it was hers, all hers,
all hers to do with just as she wanted. `When am I getting out, your
mother always says tomorrow?'

Still ignorant, I side-stepped the question, `Cup of tea?' not
knowing the answer, at the same time coaxing him to lower his voice.

`No,' his eyes burned, looking beyond me, having spotted his
tormentor. Mother had arrived. `When am I getting out?' he gripped
the edge of the table and shook to his feet.

`Tomorrow. Stop nagging, Ted. You're not like these others,'
she gestured with an expansive sweep of her arm, `They'll die here.'

I flinched, the tourniquet gripping my stomach turning another
twist tighter. Already the plight of these poor folk had filled
Father with compassion without her needing to mock them. I returned
home, having slithered back into the deep end, wondering as I drove,
`Was she born like this? Were her stepmother's beatings the only
explanation? What could I do to secure his release?'

Two visits later I floated my question at the controller's
glass cubical before I entered the ward. `You can take him for a
trial drive,' the man in a white coat replied. `Then we'll consider
whether an odd weekend or so at home can be arranged, always
providing your mother says yes.'

Like a man on his way to the gallows father rarely looked out
of my car. `I want to go home,' he kept on repeating, remaining
disinterested as we drove around Leeds.

Returned back to hospital, being a man used to exercise, he
continued pacing the corridor from morning to night, waiting for
permission to spend a weekend at home. `There's nothing wrong with
me,' he wagged a finger when the weekend arrived and I called to
collect him, his face white with fury, blaming me. `I'm not like the
others, I can look after myself, I'm a fit man....'

`Hush,' I ushered him through the doors, before his behaviour
was seen, lest they cancel his weekend.

With one foot on the first step outside he came to a halt.
`There's nothing wrong with me, I shouldn't be here,' he continued
complaining, working out what to do with his other foot. Lack of
exercise or drugs had made him forget. `Help me! Don't just stand
there. Help me!'

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

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