Chapter 20 Dangerously Healthy by Malcolm Birkenshaw

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Chapter 20.

He's right, I suppose, but it will mean the end of me being
able to play cricket this year. Still, I won't have much time for
many games, not now that Lena's away most weekends on courses and
then working over at school almost every other night of the week.

Mind you, despite what the P.R.O. says, I'm not going to cycle
over all those bloody mountains and run the risk of bringing on an
attack of M.S. I'll plan an alternative route which still takes in
those cities but approaches them along valleys instead.

The portents felt good when summer broke through, going on to
break new records, the hottest for two hundred years, obviously my
rooks had flown away to torment some other poor sod. All I had to
do was make sure I kept fit and, since I was running out of
sunflower oil, use this as an opportunity to test cycling in the
heat and collect my prescription from the hospital in Wakefield.

`What if you get knocked down, it's bad in the cities?' the
new M.S. Research Committee were alarmed when they heard what I was
intending to do.

`Bad for me, perhaps, but just think of the extra publicity and
money you'll raise,' I jested, intending to give the impression of
not being worried, having taken all major risks into account, though
not daring to let them know I would be mainly relying upon faith and
a handful of mustard seeds.

Mind you, just in case the rooks had not gone away (perhaps
they were nesting high this year, biding their time, creating a
false sense of security whilst the summer remained good), I better
ring up the brewery and make sure they are supplying a set of
brightly-coloured clothing to make me visible when perched on the
bike.

`Good idea,' said the P.R.O. `I'll give the suppliers a prod.'

I continued to train along all-too-familiar circuits, watching
the same front wheel turning and turning, the monotony freeing my
thoughts which increasingly returned to Father, especially since
Mother's visits had become less frequent. She now claimed to have
so much extra to do - socially of course, after moving into
Otterlake Hall. And on top of all this there was the extra time it
was taking to sue Peter and sell one of Father's factories. `I need
the money to pay for that private hospital. Your father just
wouldn't fit in around here, all the people are so top drawer.'

Won't fit in! I cursed and slammed down the phone. Won't fit
in! We'll see about that, so I cycled to see him.

He was now incarcerated in a yellow brick block near to the
hospital from which I got my sunflower oil. `Martin,' he dissolved,
immediately recognising me... So much for mother's bogus reports!

We held hands, something we had never done since I was a child.
With my words refusing to speak I looked about him. The staff were
doing their best, but confined to a system which was dismantling the
patients whilst senior whatever-they-weres strode about filling in
paperwork, feeding the government's need to survive on statistics,
numbers which could be measured unlike compassion which could not.

Like all the others, Father's private possessions had been
removed for "safe keeping" which included his dentures.

`Your dentures?' As though these old folk were likely to run
riot eating each other.

Even his spectacles were being "looked after", leaving him
restricted to reading banner headlines and having to imagine the
rest. Then there was the shock of seeing what they had done to his
hair, all those long strands which religiously had combed across his
baldness since long before I was born. They too were missing, shorn
without finesse, his last token of dignity gone.

`What's happened to your hair?' I eventually asked.

`I had bushy hair when I was young,' he said, thinking we were
talking about long, long ago. `In those days I had wanted it to go
straight, so the barber told me to wash it in soda..... I thought he
meant washing soda,' he lamented, his eyes glazed, `Instead of
baking soda. It went straight, all right. Straight down the plug
hole.'

Poor Father. Already his present was fading into the past as
he hung on, waiting to go home. `I'll see you again, as soon as I
get back from London.' I said, making no mention of the fact that my
journey might be dangerous.

I cycled straight to Otterlake Hall whilst on my way home,
leaning my bike against the doorway to Mother's flat. `Why have you
stopped visiting him?' I limped into her kitchen passing the shut
door to her lounge, now restricted for special visitors.

`Stopped visiting your father? Oh, it's only temporary,' she
shuffled, making excuses.

Better not argue, I thought, otherwise Father will be the
loser. Besides, I had to get home early because tomorrow was half
term and the children were hoping to collect a new kitten. They had
been ticking off all the weeks and the days waiting for this time to
arrive.

A feverish scent of anticipation filled the air that evening
and after long, long wakeful hours tomorrow arrived. We set off
early, the car bursting and straining with excitement by the time we
pulled up at the address on the card. `This is it, this is it!' they
leapt out, haste tussling with manners.

`Can I ring the bell?'

`Can I?'

The door opened. Their Siamese was waiting. `It's a
seal-point,' their hearts danced, picking the most daring. It was
inquisitive, too, until the car journey to Adderton commenced. `But
it IS house-trained,` Claire held it so tightly whilst John stroked
the fur of soft silk, both trying to comfort their kitten.

`Look,' they held it up to Lena when we got home. At a loss, it
mewed, sniffing round our kitchen, timidly searching each corner,
looking for all that it knew, adventuring into the lounge. But
there was nothing, all was gone, except to grieve and keep
searching.

By the third day its grieving was over, encouraged by helpings
of familiar food. It had also learned the word `No.' Good, we
thought, our furnishings now safe. It could be trusted, left on its
own, a fully-integrated part of the family.

Claire and John took photographs, saved up, bought a new film
for the cine camera, and were still playing with their feline sister
on Thursday, trying to think of a name. I was upstairs, hurrying to
decorate Claire's room before her school exchange friend arrived.
`There's just a scrap of emulsion left over,' I muttered to the
roller, trying to think of any outstanding job elsewhere in the
house as I climbed down the steps. `Damn,' paint splashed over the
carpet. I hurried downstairs to get a wet cloth and on my way back
the kitten pounced. It had been doing this all morning with the
children. But my feet were tired, dead to the world, leaden and
numb.

A screech and convulsions before its cries faded, her stare
pleading for friendship, `What has happened? What have I done wrong?
Please help me, please help me?' her eyes seemed to be asking of
mine, sharing the same inheritance of life. I knelt, trying to
comfort her, what nerves were damaged within that sad little head,
beneath that soft gorgeous coat? She settled, breathing quietly,
perhaps her agony passed. Would she recover? the trust in her gaze
forever tormenting me.

Why the hell hadn't I thrown away that bloody scrap of
paint?.... Why the devil did I work until my legs were too
tired?.... My bloody M.S..... My bloody M.S.....

`She will be all right, won't she?' Claire sobbed, tears
streaming down her face.

`I don't know, I don't know,' I gave her a hug but she pulled
forever away. `Let's hope so, I'll carry her into the car, we'll
take her straight to the vet's.'

Next morning I picked up the telephone, long wires of hope.
Claire looked away, trying to delay the vet's news so as not to
tempt fate, hoping to improve the kitten's chance of recovery. `I'm
sorry, Claire. Terribly sorry, I'll get you another.'

`I don't want one, I don't want one, you'll only stand on it.'
Another wedge of childhood lost.

`I won't, I promise. I'll walk round in stocks until it's grown
big enough.' But she had already gone, upstairs, to pour her
desolation into the pillows, all hope in her life dead.

To punish the M.S. I got on my bike and aimed south along the
A.1., stopping off at the Jolly Poacher on the way back just for
someone to talk to. But it was a weekday lunch-time, I should have
known, with only five customers, three in the tap room and two in
the lounge. `Shandy please,' I propped myself against a shelf next
to the bar, welcoming the rest. Lofty Cartwright the landlord
remained on his stool, lame in one leg, his long arms serving both
bars without him having to shift.

He leant forwards, `Where's tha been?' and picked up my money.
`Riding on the A.1! I'm not surprised you found it risky,' he passed
me the change. `A cyclist died there last week, and he were the
second what's got killed this year. What the hell got into your
mind to go riding on that suicide stretch?'

`Training, for a sponsored ride.'

`Training?' he looked over the bar at my legs. `What kind of
person's sponsoring you?'

`You should know, it's your brewery.'

`Is tha sure? It's first time I've `eard about it,' he leaned
back, his arm snaking out to push open the door to their kitchen.
`Ma, does tha know owt about any sponsorship forms?"

Doris appeared, drying both hands down her apron, looking
bemused, leaving behind a frying pan and blue clouds of smoke. `We
ain't received nothing in't mail.'

`Nothing, nowt at all? Tha doesn't think postman's shoved it
too `ard and got it stuck under our door mat?'

`No, you know very well I sweep under there twice a week.'

That's strange, I thought, my forms had arrived. Better go home
and give the brewery a ring. `Can I speak to your Public Relations
Officer?'

`I'm afraid he's out. Is it urgent?' his secretary answered.

`Very. We've still to finalise the plans for my journey. Also,
the special clothing he's getting has not yet arrived.'

`Are you still waiting?' she expressed with genuine surprise.
`When he gets in I'll give him a prod.'

Prod? That must be the in-word because he also said he was
going to give someone a prod. Perhaps it's company jargon. `Whilst
I'm on, our village pub's not had any sponsorship forms. Give him a
prod about that.'

Prod or no prod the next week was memorable for what did not
happen, and with only a few days to go I was still waiting for
something to happen. `Still waiting?' Ken said when I cycled into
our drive. `Don't go away,' he switched off his hedge trimmer and
scurried indoors, returning within a couple of minutes. `You're
right, I've rung a few pubs, none of them have received sponsorship
forms,' he scrambled back up his steps ready to start trimming away,
`I'll chase things up first thing in the morning.'

`Thanks,' I relaxed, with him involved things should start
moving - Bionic man Lena and I called him, `Tomorrow I'll tell my
doctor that the trip is definitely on,' I said, but my words were
lost beneath the noise of twigs being shorn.

Next day a third of the seats which lined the waiting room's
walls had patient patients in various states of ill and well-being at
random upon them. Sometimes the sign which buzzed and illuminated a
doctor's name seemed to have died.

`She must have a lot wrong with her, that patient what went in
last.'

`Maybe the doctor's gone home.'

`Perhaps we ought to ask, in case they've forgotten we're
here?'

`Aye, maybe we should.'

`Who's fittest, they'll be best able to ask?'

Nobody moved. `No, you're wrong there. It'd look best if them
what's worst was to enquire.'

They sized each other up, some itching to volunteer except for
several what ifs? By which time the buzzer had recovered.

`He'll have been having a cup of coffee.'

Eventually it was my turn. The doctor stared in disbelief, at
first muttering semi-audible words when I said what I intended to
do. `I'd better write you a prescription for a pain-killing spray,'
is part of what I think he was saying as he wrote down “to be used as
required.” `I don't suppose there is anything I can say to dissuade
you?' he paused with his pen before signing.

`I'm sorry, but not this time.'

`You'll never recover,' he shook his head, then opened his
drawer and passed me a sponsorship form, one of my sponsorship forms
already completed by every doctor and member of staff in the
practice.

`Thank you,' I smiled, taken aback, my spirits lifted.

Ken slipped through a gap in our hedge to intercept me upon my
return. `I've been in touch with our brewery,' he said. `There's no
sign of your cycling clothes, nor of our P.R.O.'

Suddenly the rooks' nests were not as high as I thought. Their
public relations officer was obviously a right P.R.O.D., more
bothered about his company magazine, using my project just to
further his future.

`But I've managed to get some more sponsorship forms,' Ken
waved a bundle. `I'm going round all the pubs in the area tonight
whilst Lofty Cartwright takes some to the Victuallers' meeting.'

The rooks moved back up a few branches. Mind you, I'd tried to
think of everything, but it suddenly occurred to me that Prod might
be assuming the heat wave would continue like the weather
forecasters predicted. The rooks flapped down a branch when I saw
the Atlantic weather chart showing that there was a blip just south
of Greenland. `But this will not affect us,' said the weatherman.

`Aye, maybe,' I thought, feeling the rooks dropping yet another
branch lower, `But just my luck if it comes this way. Better get my
own track suit.'

`I'll buy it,' mother insisted, as soon as she heard, adding,
`Actually, it's from Peter, although I'm lending him the money until
he gets back on his feet.' This brought a smile to my face, he had
worked the oracle again, for the taller Peter's yarns the more she
believed them. `And you'll need something waterproof for your legs.
You don't want to catch a chill.'

I returned home in a quandary, feeling somewhat bought at the
expense of poor Father.... But the track suit was extremely good,
with a bright orange top, yet really bought with his money, although
he would want me to have it, wouldn't he? - the toehold of
conscience in perilous danger upon my steep slope of ego. I should
have visited him, though, to ask him and give him the chance?.....
But these worries confettied free from my mind when I drove past the
Brick Pond for there was a Ford Escort estate parked outside our
house. It must be P.R.O.D., at last, and he was delivering two
bikes.

But they were specialised racing machines! `They're too
small,' I exclaimed.

`They're adjustable,' he spun them round, trying to enthuse me,
sliding the saddles up and down, fixing them past the mark DO NOT
ADJUST BEYOND THIS POINT after matching the frames against the
length of my legs.

`They're intended for short fat muscular Frenchmen,' I derided.
`Besides, I've never ridden a bike with toe clips on its pedals.'
`You'll get used to them,' he leapt on one and did a
demonstration ride up our lane. `Give them a try.'

`It's all right for you,' I held onto the kitchen window ledge
as he fastened my feet into the clips, `But I've already told you,
the bike's too small,' my knees hitting the handlebars when I set
off wobbling, unable to turn along the length of our drive.

`All right,' he conceded, `You can use a different model, so long as you're photographed on one of these racers outside Leeds Town Hall with the manufacturer's name and our brewery banner in the background.'

`Leeds Town Hall?'

`You bet, the Lord Mayor's starting you off.'

`Oy! Wait a minute,' I chased after him, waving a map. `This
is the route I planned. You said nothing about starting from Leeds.'

`Don't worry, ask Ken to give you a lift to the start, the
distance you cycle will be roughly the same.'

`But what about the hills? And what do I do for a bike? Mine's
at the cycle shop being fitted with saddle bags and a dynamo,
intended for shopping, so now it's too heavy.'

`You'll just have to go slower. It's too late for me to get
another machine,' he started his engine.

`It's too late for me, as well. The shops are all shut.'

`See you in the morning,' he peeped his horn,

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

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