Chapter 19 Dangerously Healthy by Malcolm Birkenshaw

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Chapter 19.

On Sunday my heart sagged. It drooped even further when
evening arrived and it was time to take Father back, a black rook on
my shoulder as I drove to their house.

`Hello, good to see you,' Peter opened their door, grabbed my
hand, shaking it vigorously. `Come in, I'll take dad back to
hospital.' The prodigal son had returned, owning up to having dumped
the other woman.

Despite this bonhomie their hall of a kitchen remained a still
cavern of shallow emotions. Except for Father, sitting alone in the
middle at Mother's scrubbed Formica table, with a tea cupped in his
hands and a melancholic joy in his heart, his return to hospital now
being bearable, his torment worthwhile, for his youngest son was
here, his family complete.

I returned to Adderton, freed from Father's tumbrel trip. On
Tuesday Mother bought Peter a new car, his reward for succumbing to
the ways of clean living. `Thank you very much,' he said, not
mentioning that his bird was now dwelling in Leeds, shacked up in
digs, whilst he was eluding the financial hounds who were attempting
to corner him into paying his wife. `But I have no money, no
goods....... It's not even my car you see,' he spread an aniseed
trail, frustrating their hunt.

I closed my mind. At least he was doing the negotiations and
relieving me of the hospital run. An equitable solution since my
legs were again leaden. Best news of all, Mother was intending to
buy a flat, all on one floor, so she could look after Father. That
gave me a chance, time was of the essence, for I must recover in
time to cycle to London, funds for research being desperately
needed.

`Hell, it's cold,' as I cycled along the lane, my breath
freezing, the Balaclava helmet turning brittle. `To heck with this
for a lark,' I stopped at the Jolly Poacher to thaw out.

`Tha wants to give it up until spring,' Jack made room, giving
the fire a poke and turning over a log.

`Maybe. But where else can I exercise?

`Do you fancy painting our ceiling?' he said.

`Yes, please,' something to do whilst the Arctic was here. `Is
it big?'

`Depends upon what you call big.'

`Well,' I ummed, `A factory?'

`Nay, nay. It's just my shop in't next village.'

I was still painting his ceiling when spring arrived.

`Tha's taking longer than Michelangelo,' Jack rattled his keys,
wanting to lock up his village supermarket for the evening.

`That's because I'm painting a picture of The First Supper in
heaven, where everything's white,' I wiped my hands and left on my
bike. Home in no time, climbing and stretching having worked, this
time my speed of recovery even quicker because of the diet I was
using.

But father was running short on weekend passes. Mother's excuse
was that she was getting their house ready for selling. `I need the
money to look after him properly. Particularly if he needs to go
into a private home,' she shed a dry tear, playing the poverty card,
still telling nobody that all his was now hers, `For when we get
older.'

I was involved again, finding a decorator in our village who
did back-pocket cash jobs, no income tax to pay, no questions asked.
`My car's off the road,' he said. `Will you give me a lift if I do
it on weekends?"

`No problem, Chuck,' I agreed, anything to get Father released.

But the driving began to tell. Taking Chuck in the mornings,
doubling back to look after the children ( Lena was away on courses
with Ransley), and then rushing to collect him and his ladders at
night.

Worse was to come. Peter got a job and became too busy to do
the hospital run. `Do you mind if I pick up my father on the way
there?' I asked Chuck.

`Of course not,' he replied. `First stop the hospital.'

`Mind your head,' we nudged Father into the front seat. `Next
stop Fort Knox.'

We unbolted the solid gates to his house. They were made of
best builder's timber, as though when swung open they would let the
wagon train through whilst, when closed, keep the Red Indians at
bay. `Oh,' Mother choked, again taken by surprise. `I better put
the kettle on.'

`Tea,' Father smiled, he was all right now.

`I'll see you later, then,' I left in a hurry for Adderton.

Almost immediately after I set off apparently Mother went out,
leaving just one bread and butter sandwich to last Father the day.
`You'll have to watch him,' she told Chuck, warning him of much more
besides, and departing with, `He's enough to tax the Almighty.'

Thoughts of being up a ladder with a nut in the house left
Chuck apprehensive about unwrapping his brushes. `Haven't you got
anything to keep you warm?' he searched for something to say, hoping
to find something to keep Father busy and out of the way. But Father
shook his head, thought of the things he was permitted to do, and
put on the kettle to make tea. Chuck was never known to say no so
he started to light a fire whilst the water was coming to the boil.
Soon they were chatting, getting on famously, talking about
building, and politics, and the weather, and...... By the time they
had finished Father ended up outside, Chuck happy to have somebody
reliable guarding the foot of his ladder.

`It's a crime leaving an old man like that,' Chuck said to me
on the way home. `There's nothing wrong with him.'

Thank goodness for that. Hearing those words made me feel
better, knowing someone else thought Father was sane. At least I
was not wasting my time in trying to get him released from the
hospital.

`What's he done to be in your mother's black books?'

`She's always been like that.'

`Always! Even as a child?'

`I don't know, I wasn't there,' I smiled weakly. `So far as I
know she tantrumed at her grandparents when she was three and
refused to go home. She claims to have never seen her mother again,
so they brought her up, until her grandmother died when she was
eight.'

`Why not return to her mother after that?'

`I don't know, perhaps some family feud. Anyway, next thing the
housekeeper had married grandfather, and then set about thrashing
her stepdaughter until she left school and got a job in an
orphanage. Mother eventually progressed until she had became a
fully-trained nurse in a hospital. But she never forgot that her
grandparents had servants, and ever since has been hankering after
being upper class.'

`Is that why she married your father?'

`In a way, yes and no, I suppose,.... Father was definitely
working class but at least he had money, which she must have
calculated would return her to a way of life to which she imagined
herself to be due. Mind you, they also had things in common because
he also suffered a miserable childhood.'

`She will have been all right with you and your brothers,
though.'

`You must be joking. She might have meant well, but I can
remember pleading for the brown skirting boards to open up during
one of her unmerciful beatings as she continued upon her crusade to
knock all the evil out of me, before beating me again to knock
knowledge back in.'

Chuck remained silent, for a few moments, then started to talk
about the fields, and how they were bare, and the sky was grey,
and....

After four weekends of running Chuck to Leeds and back the
painting was finished. Whereupon Mother wasting no time ringing up,
`We're ready to move into the flat.'

`Ah, that's good,' I cheered up, thinking I had satisfied her
since goodness know when.

`But you'll never guess what, the previous owner's taken all
the good carpets. Do you still have your business contacts?'

I pondered.

`You did say you did, at least that's what you told me. I'm
stuck, absolutely stuck,' she started working herself up into a
state of contrived agitation. `Are you still there?'

`Yes, I'm here. I'm just thinking, tomorrow's a Saturday.'

`Don't bother, if it's going to be too much trouble,' she
exhaled, a discharge of breath which meant she was polishing one of
the chips on her shoulder.

`It's no trouble, I was just working out the best way to do
it,' I said, absentmindedly watching our lane through the window,
exchanging waves with Ernie who was passing on his way home from
work. `When do you want them?'

`Tomorrow.'

`Tomorrow!' my voice died the death of a thousand expletives.
`What kind do you want?'

`Anything, anything will do. Anything, just bring a few samples
tonight.'

Digging deep into my reserves of energy I raced round my
contacts in Lena's car and arrived at Fort Knox, laden with pattern
books. `Most are available ex stock,' I gasped, having hulked them
the long way round to her kitchen.

`That one looks nice,' she went straight to the bottom,
inferring I had hidden the best.

`It is, but not yet in stock. I'm sorry.'

`I thought you said they were ALL in stock.'

`They are, except for that one.'

`Well, why didn't you say so in the first place?' she flicked
through the rest, returning each time to the one not available. `Is
it good value?'

`They all are, but delivery on that one is over three weeks.'

`If it's not available it must be the best. I can wait,
providing I'm going to save money.'

I gnawed silent obscenities between clenched teeth. `How much
do you require?' I finally found something to say.

`I don't know,' she objected to being cross-examined. `Give me
a lift to the flat on your way home. You can measure up and tell
me yourself.'

A three-story set of flats, in the countryside? I mused,
breaking my concentration for a second, a brief moment of relief
from the flood of conflicting directions which continued to stand
logic on its pythagoras, each time her fingers pointing first one
way then another. I had been caught this way before, once being
panicked against the flow of traffic into a one-way street, then
being left to pick up the fine. But this time we were in the
country, up a lane, down a lane, back a lane.

`If you had listened to what I was telling you in the first
place we'd have arrived long before now,' she said as we drove
through a stone arch which led to a country estate, its wrought iron
gates left open except in times of civil strife.

`Good gracious,' I gasped, seeing a mansion ahead, complete
with stables, and gardens, and peacocks, and terraces, and a gravel
drive which swept up to its front.

`Stop here,' she tugged at my steering wheel, hauling me to a
halt in front of a broad terrace of steps which led to the main
doors, marble lions guarding all sides. `This?' I exclaimed, with
its pilasters and columns and its own chapel, `All this, the third
residence of an absentee marquis, is where you have leased a flat?'

`Mmm,' she nodded, searching her handbag for keys. `Follow me,'
she rattled the bunch, crossing to the east wing where she unlocked
a medieval side door of oak with a clang. It creaked open, revealing
a staircase to her flat which occupied all the first floor.

Up the stairs she clopped upon the uncarpeted treads and
unlocked another door. We entered the flat, its lounge, Georgian,
more like a ballroom, high ceilinged with tall windows was the first
room she showed me. `I'll have to measure twice, my tape measure
isn't big enough,' I boggled.

`My curtains are ordered,' she ignored me. `Peter's borrowed a
ladder, he's managing to put them up,' she hinted upon competition
before leaving me and entering another room.

`Well, he can do your bloody carpets if that's how you feel,' I
mumbled whilst doing a quick calculation, two hundred yards of
carpet being needed. Father was right, she must have got hold of
his money.

On Sunday he was introduced to the place. `I don't know,' he
lamented, being resigned to watching Peter decorate and me fit the
underlay. `This is the first time I've not helped with the
painting.'

The sooner we get him out of hospital the more chance he'll
have, I thought.

But back in Adderton a black rook was waiting, reclining back
on its wings, as though crowing each time it heard Mother telephone.
`We can't live on underlay,' she nagged every day.

I wrote, telephoned, and badgered the manufacturer until the
carpets arrived. `Good news, they're here,' I rang her, `And the
fitter can lay them on Monday.'

`Monday! We've got to be in tomorrow.'

`All right, stop nagging, I'll get it done for you, somehow,' I
snapped, determined I would do it myself if that is what it would
take just to show her. Stupid move on my part, for it left me having
to shift heavy radiators single handed before making a start on
laying the carpets.

`Never again,' I shook my head next day as I limped back to the
car. I was knackered, and she had not the first bloody idea. Oh, she
moved in all right, but furniture only, herself not arriving until
three weeks had passed, by which time she had discovered about
Peter's new girl friend.

This was war, which involved her returning to the solicitor,
changing her will and issuing writs. `The car I bought him was a
loan, not a gift,' she wrote, before locking him into the flat and
sending for the police to evict him. `That should get into the
papers, and if he's disgraced as a squatter he'll lose his job. He
needs to be taught a lesson.' Nobody risked Father's fate by
mentioning “blessed be the peacemakers.”

Thereafter my telephone rang daily, with up-to-date tales about
Peter. I dodged its sapping monotony by taking it off the hook, or
biking to friends to escape.

But Father could not dodge, his weekends got in the way, so she
had him transferred to a Mental Hospital. `You have no idea of how
disorientated he is,' she said in justification of her action,
promising that he would be released. `But you've no need to rush, I
think he'll still be there after you've cycled to London.'

Yes, the sponsored ride, most important for funds, especially
since the sun was shining and the rooks had migrated to somebody
else's misfortune, so I took her advice and put off visiting him.
Was this right, did the end justify the means? `Perhaps,' I
persuaded myself, but even more reason to get myself well and
succeed.

`I think I might have 'flu,' I told my doctor, feigning the
symptoms to obtain a prescription of tetracycline. After a couple of
weeks I came to the decision that it might touch the odd virus, but
it was an antibiotic which had no affect upon M.S., so back to
recovering the hard way, walking and cycling, day after day as the
summer grew hotter.

`Leave it to me,' my neighbour switched off his hedge-cutter one
day as I returned from yet another training ride. He was balancing
upon steps, trimming our side of the hedge.

I thought of the tyres and lifted my cycle over his thorns.
`Leave what to you?'

`I work for a brewery, don't I?'

`Yes,' I nodded, wondering what this had to do with the hedge.

`We sponsor all sorts of events.'

`Oh, yes,' I said, but remained at a loss.

`Well, you know, you and your ride.'

`Sponsor my ride?' my face lit up with a grin, toying with
prospects unlimited - but surely he must be just bragging?

`Have you got a better idea?' he wanted a quick answer.

`Me?.. No,' I sounded very responsible, clearing my throat.

`But will you have time?'

`It won't involve me. We have a Pro for this kind of work.'

`A pro?'

`P.R.O., Public Relations Officer. He'll welcome the chance of
a bit of local publicity, particularly since this puts him in good
stead with head office.'

With this spur to my ego each day I practised cycling much
longer distances and the fast repairing of punctures, especially
during the hottest hours just to make sure that every reason for
failure had been eliminated.

My strength grew daily, I was sure I could do it long before
their P.R.O. appeared. `You don't have to do a thing,' he said,
driving me round to the Jolly Poacher rather than give his short
legs a walk. `Here,' he carried our drinks to a table which was
tucked away in the corner. `We'll print ten thousand sponsor forms
for our pubs. How many extra do you want for your members?' he
unzipped his executive diary.

If twenty people per pub pay the cost of a pint, figures raced
through my mind..... This is ridiculous, impossible, sponsorship
figures beyond all expectations.

`How many extra forms do you require?' he repeated.

`Er,....' I calculated, `There are at least fifty thousand
suffers with M.S.,' I made a stab at a figure, `Plus the members of
our charity,' I divided by the figure I first thought of..... `Ten
thousand?'

`Call it twenty thousand,' his pen waved figures like a wand
conducting an orchestra. `We're also well in with a cycle
manufacturer. They'll provide specialist bikes together with spares
and a van to accompany you.'

`New bikes? I'll need a few days to get used to them.'

`No bother,' he scribbled more notes. `And you'll also need
special clothing, including shammy leather underpants soaked in
olive oil.'

I laughed.

`They're to prevent chafing.'

My laughing continued.

`It's no joke. Have you ever cycled several hundred miles
before?'

`No. But I think I'll manage London,' I wiped the tears on my
wrist, `It's only a couple of hundred.'

`Might be just an odd mile or two more, The brewery wants
maximum publicity, just for you, of course. How are you placed for
speaking on radio and talking to newspapers?'

The sun having moved round now shone through a window onto my
face. `Fine. I've broadcast on the radio before,' I said, unable to
look straight into his eyes, `But what newspapers?'

`There are plenty, that's why if you cycle just a bit further
you'll pass through a few towns.'

`What towns?' the beam of sunlight was now catching the
cigarette smoke, preventing me from watching his face.

`Just a few. Take a couple of days, stay in our hotels if you
wish, and we'll pay for your reception in London,' he bought some
more beer.

`That sounds great. But what towns?' I persisted.

`The route I sketched out is subject to your approval,' he
replied.

`Well, give me an example.'

`An example?... How about, for instance, Wakefield and
Barnsley, then perhaps Sheffield, Mansfield and Nottingham, before
straight on through Loughborough to Leicester, Northampton, Bedford,
Luton,...'

`Hang on a minute, hang on a minute, what about the hills? A
route like that's a bit too bloody close to the Pennines?'

He shrugged his shoulders. `All right, then. plan your own
route. I was only trying to help, thinking that if it was money your
charity wanted you'd be better aiming for places where people live.'
He waited, watching my silence through the smoke which was drifting
from a man with a pipe far away at the bar. Then he added a bonus,
`Take a third day instead, and bank on the extra publicity you'll
get.'

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

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