Chapter 23 Dangerously Healthy by Malcolm Birkenshaw

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Chapter 23.

Father was delighted with the photographs and newspaper
cuttings when I visited him on Monday. `I bet you raised a lot of
money,' he smiled with the warmth of a last-night's-fire which still
had a long way to burn. Mother was there, elsewhere in the ward,
talking to strangers, doing her visiting dignitary act.

`Where's Mummy?'

`Stop nagging, Edward, I'm here. What do you want, you've
already had one cup of tea. Do you already want another?' she
demanded.

Ted's lips said yes without daring to risk emitting a sound,
for tea was one thing the ward already provided plenty of without
her bothering to bring a thermos small enough to fit in her handbag.

`Come here,' she pulled the empty plastic cup from his fingers.
`Wait, you haven't got milk yet.'

`I can see,' he shrank smaller. `But when am I coming home?'

`Next week,' she snapped, not mentioning the fact that she had
sold the house that he built. I cringed, doesn't he know yet what
that flat's all about?

`You're managing all right, with our garden?' he asked.

`Of course I'm managing. Hurry up with that cup, Martin wants
to be home before dark,' she screwed it back onto the thermos.

`Dark? It's almost midsummer, you lying old cow,' I chuntered
under my breath, unable to avoid this unforgivable stress. I'll
make up for this next week, Dad, I silently vowed, for Lena's been
talking about seeing you when the school holidays arrive.

Claire also had said she wanted to see Pop, as she and John
called him, so when next weekend arrived we set off for the yellow
brick buildings. `Edna,' he squeezed her fingers, his eyes full.
Had he really forgotten her name, or was Edna a memory popping up
from his youth? Claire must have been sad, seeing Pop in this
state, but she succeeded in disguising her emotions.

All too soon, after what seemed a long time, a bell rang three
times.

`Bye Pop.'

`See you on Monday,' I said.

`Bye,' Lena gave a faint kiss to his cheek, intending never to
visit again, for as soon as we got home she claimed not to like
seeing people in hospital.

That's strange, I thought, things seem to be getting on top of
her. `How about us going to Wales, with the children, like last
year?'

`Wales? My bank account's permanently in the red,' she
retaliated.

I turned away, over-familiar with this perennial whinge.

`Please, Mum.'

`Please.'

`All right,' she yielded. `But the best I can afford is a
weekend at Freda's.'

`Freda's!' they jumped with excitement.

`We've been invited to see her new house, near Blackpool, so
perhaps, but only perhaps, we might fit it in, somehow,' she started
to turn pages, calculating her way through her diary.

What a cheek, I thought, for Freda was divorced, and Lena was
thick with her husband before the end came. Spent that bloody
weekend with him at the Saint Lucifer in Scarborough, she did.
Still, Claire and John had grown up with their children, so why
should this kiss of conflict be brought into their lives. Besides,
the mortgage, and electricity, and other bills spoke for the whole
of my pension so I was unable to fund an alternative.

`Can we go to the pleasure beach, we've got our own money?'

`Mary gave us some.'

`Money? Mary?' - Lena's mother. Lena's ears pricked up.
`Provided we go when the season is over.'

It was October, half-term, before her diary had saved up enough
money for our summer holiday. Hooray! hooray! they danced into the
car. But this year's trip over the Pennines, along the M.62, was
shrouded like autumn, even the rare sheep seemed to have sunk into
the peat .... Claire and John would not have noticed, could they?
I wondered. Yet experts do say that children attempt to hold their
parents together. But no, not us, for things were not as bad as all
that.

`It's Freda,' Lena threw open both arms when we pulled up
outside 221 B, Corsica Road, Blackpool, her smile radiant, one as
genuine as that of a crocodile whilst I unloaded the car and the
children raced in.

`Can we go to the pleasure beach, tomorrow?' they raced back.

`Why not?' I agreed, happy, like in the old days, for a chance
to take all the kids out together, this time to a different sea
front, round the House of Laughs, in fact anywhere cheap whilst Lena
stayed with Freda... Women's talk, I guessed, whilst she assists
Freda with lunch, giving her chance to ensure that anything
compromising said over the weekend would have been rubbished well in
advance, for whilst we were walking along the beach they would be
speaking of many things, of oysters, of cockle shells, and of how
does your garden grow?

`You're walking too fast,' Claire complained when we set off
next morning.

`Will you race me, like last year?' John threw down a
challenge now there was chance he could win.

`No,' I smiled, shaking my head.

`You better start doing your exercises again, then,' Claire
teased.

She's right, I thought, deciding that when we got home I would
take out my bike for the first time since London.

Eventually our holiday was over, but not before Lena and Freda
had walked along the beach. Who knows about their cockle shells and
oysters?

But never mind cycling. Next day after getting home I went to
see Father and called at Mother's on the way back. `Don't say
anything to Lena,' mother's hushed voice stemmed me at the entrance
to her flat, `But the answer is no.'

`No,... no to what?'

`Keep your voice down.'

`No to what?' I repeated one chorus quieter.

`About the money.'

`What money?'

`Of course, I forget, you don't know.'

`Know what?'

`Promise you won't say anything,' she said, bursting to tell
all. `But Lena's asked me to transfer a lump sum of cash, to assure
your future, for when you succumb to the disease.'

`Cheeky bugger,' my indignation returned fortissimo, swelling
her lounge.

`Keep your voice down,' she put a finger to her lips. `They
were Lena's words, not mine. Although I did agree to leave this flat
and move into a smaller house so as to tie up some capital for you.'

`Move! After I nearly crippled myself rushing to fit these
bloody carpets when you said Father was coming to live here?' the
brass, woodwind, strings and percussion exploded.

`You said you wouldn't be angry.'

`I didn't. I only said I wouldn't tell Lena,' I angrily snapped
back.

After storming out of her flat, the stairs reverberating to the
temper of my feet, I leapt onto the bike and pedalled towards
Adderton. `Bugger!' the chain snapped. `Sod it,' I permed a
thesaurus of profanities, determined to complete the rest of the
journey on foot, but reason got the better of valour and I walked
the cycle back up the drive to the Hall, leant it against the stone
dog, and timorously rang on her doorbell. `Can I use your telephone,
please?'

`Oh, it's you, I wondered who it was,' she tried to look
surprised. `I'll put the kettle on whilst you telephone,' she busied
herself, unhappy to have been left on her own now that Peter was
banished. It will be solicitor time yet again, I thought, their
doors always open for legal costs to help relieve her of Father's
money. This time it will be Peter's turn to be out of her will.

`Lena's out,' I replaced the receiver.

`Oh dear, what can you eat without flour?' she pondered. `I
know, we'll warm a tin of beans. Then I'll ask one of the Hall staff
to run you home.'

`There's no rush,' I said, so as not to overexcite my stomach
whilst she was searching for a tin-opener, her kitchen cupboards
having the means but not any wherewithal since she had continued to
live on bread and lentil soup since moving in. `Never mind, there's
a screwdriver in my saddlebag,' I left her opening the drawers for
the umpteenth time.

`Here,' I returned, waving a suitable tool.

Several near injuries later a jagged hole had been brutalised
and the beans shaken into a pan splattered with sauce. `I'll do
that,' she grabbed, putting it on to simmer at frugal low heat.

`Have another cup of tea.'

`No thanks.'

`What about a slice of bread to help fill you up?'

`I don't eat flour.'

`Of course, I will keep forgetting.... How about another cup of
tea?'

And so it went on until daylight was fading, when she
considered the time right for summoning his Lordship's gardener to
give me a lift home in a horse-box. `Sorry about not backing up to
collect your bike,' the gardener said, glancing nervously at his
watch. `Bit short of time, my rear lights aren't working, not
waiting to be stopped by highway police.'

More likely you're not wanting his Lordship to know.

`Pardon?'

`Um?... Oh, just thinking we better not end up needing a tow.'

`Engine's all right, it's just the lights I'm bothered about.
Thing is, if we only had our local bobby to bother about we'd be
all right.'

`Does that make a difference?'

`It better do, otherwise he won't get his usual perks when the
game is in season,' he remained gentle with the accelerator until we
were out of hearing.

Then he really put his foot down, adding more wear and tear to
a vehicle that looked almost as old as his Lordship's estate. `Here
will be all right,' I thanked him, jumping down from the cab as he
steered full lock round Adderton green, anxious to double back to
the Hall before today's vanishing shadows vanished completely.

`Where've you been?' Lena asked.

`To see Father.'

`In a horse-box?'

`No. I got a puncture on the way back after calling to see
Mother.'

`Did she say anything?'

`About what?'

`Nothing, in particular,... it's just that you, er, seem to be
late.'

`Oh, that. She gave me some food and didn't have a tin opener.'

`Typical,' she tutted. Did I spot a glimmer of relief as she
thought hard and long about collecting my bike?

Several long weeks later she was still thinking. `If I had a
bloody beard like that hairy git of a headmaster it might be
different,' I shouted, slamming the door, setting off to walk to
Otterlake Hall.

Soon this temper was pounding my heels into the asphalt fast
past the Brickpond, then up and over Adderton Hump and on towards
Otterlake Hall seven miles away, the extra tools for repairing my
bike bulging to escape from my track-suit pocket. Yet within three
miles that old strange sensation began to appear in my legs, causing
a hic in their rhythm. It was nowhere near as bad as that evening
three years ago when I got stuck on Adderton Hump, and yet not what
I should expect when last year Snowdon had been climbed with such
ease. Is this what my doctor had meant when he warned me against
cycling to London?

I rested against a gatepost. No gate, no hedge, just an old
stump, all that was left of history to mark where one ploughed field
began and another one ended. I looked up, not in search of mustard
seeds, but attracted by the shrill call of martins, wheeling as
though catching insects, taking turn in turn to congregate along
telephone wires, preparing for migration across Africa once the
winds and weather and time was right.

Good news for that spider with a web in the corner of the
specialist's consulting room, throughout winter it will have all
the insects left over for itself. But then, on the other hand, it
will not, for when the frosts arrive they will hibernate or die.
Mind you, despite this unexpected return of bad legs I was neither
going to hibernate nor get into the specialist's wheelchair. `You
stick to your wings, little birds, just see what cycling has done to
my legs.'

Better get moving, I returned from the clouds, and this time
pace yourself. Walk a bit, rest a bit, walk a bit,... damn, things
were not right. `And to you,' I returned an expansive gesture to a
driver who, driving fiercely, had just missed me as I limped and
staggered round a bend where the lane narrowed between hedges which
reached for the light.

That's a thought, here I was entering where his Lordship held
fiefdom, fields and hedgerows kept unchanged for his hunting and
shooting. After trying several short cuts to the Hall I discovered
a gap where an old gate was only half mended. Trouble was, the
length of the grass caused me to stumble over the meadow before
tumbling into a ditch. Damn, this must be his Lordship's ha-ha, one
of those grassy dry moats intended to divide cattle from his garden
without spoiling the view,.... and at the same time keep his
tenants' herds safe so they could keep paying their rents.

Brown-eyed cows nodded, watching me, chewing their cud as I
crawled out, my numb legs locked in a tangle. `If anyone's watching
they'll think I'm drunk,' I chuckled, imagining Mother's face if any
of her posh friends had seen me weave across the courtyard before
reaching her flat.

`Is that you, making that noise?' she opened the door. `Come
in, come in,' she harried me, domineering her staircase, not knowing
whether I had put her reputation at risk. `I've got nothing in for
you to eat,' she locked all doors behind her and started to search
through her cupboards. `Wait a minute, can you have beans?'

After this snack and a couple of hours' rest I fixed the chain
on my bike and did a test ride. Amazing! I had recovered so soon
and could ride home, things feeling good, muscles strengthened from
cycling to London. Today's interference with my walking would be
temporary, of course, I persuaded myself, and discovered that even
better news waiting in Adderton - Ransley had been offered a
non-teaching headship miles away. `Non-teaching, that figures, he
never taught John anything, at least nothing worthwhile,' I
muttered.

`I beg your pardon?' Lena snapped, refusing to see it that way,
throughout the following weeks grouching about her lot in life, what
with the children and me to contend with.

Things continued to deteriorate so far as she was concerned,
culminating in her burning the gravy for our Christmas turkey.
`Don't cry, mum,' the children pleaded, trying to make everyone
happy.

Like the Christmas tree I remained prickly and joyous, knowing
the subtext to this state of affairs. `Smile,' I said, `Like all the
other villagers. They're celebrating, partying and dancing now that
Ransley, the deadly nightshade in our community has gone.'

They were dancing, all right, but Lena danced elsewhere once
Boxing Day was over to spend the rest of her holiday preparing
teaching schemes in Norby for his new school. Will she never learn
that he's only making use of her, I despaired? It's time for me to
send him a letter.

“Dear Ransley,
Please leave us alone. We want to be a family, again, etc..”

I thought this was reasonable, under the circumstances, but was
wasting my time. He outmanoeuvred me by showing my note to his wife,
making it look as though I was some kind of nut. Convinced, she
telephoned Lena.

`Oh dear, I'm so sorry,' Lena turned pale, whispering, as
though in sympathy. `I'll come up and see you right away,' she
opened a new packet of cigarettes.

I did not believe it, the brazen gall, is this the woman with
whom I had been building a family throughout all these years? Or is
this really what she has always been like?

Things continued to go from bad to worse. I fought to ignore
them, keeping things suppressed, leaving them silently grinding
inside as winter tightened its grip, hoping that with him building a
new empire at Norby School he would soon jettison Lena before the
cold added even more to the numbness of my M.S.

At first it looked as though things might stand a chance for,
cut off by the snows, Mother took Lena's advice and agreed to leave
her flat in Otterlake Hall for a new house. `It's convenient, isn't
it,' Lena said, `Having your mother in the next village?'

`Convenient! Convenient, when it's barely two years since I
risked my condition by fitting those huge carpets in her flat, a
task which few men fully fit would have attempted single handed.'

`Don't be so small minded. Just think of how she'll be able to
take over family duties whenever you become ill,' she started to
fill in a form, a form applying for a job at Ransley's new school.

Bloody marvellous, she'll never be home if she gets that damned
job, I stormed out of the room, taking refuge in the extension. Time
to write a letter to the Chief Education Officer. I'll ask him if
having my wife working so late with her former headmaster is because
of local government cutbacks?

It snowed knee depth that night, but the roads had thawed to
dirty macadam by the time she got the interview Ransley wanted, his
School Governors refusing to appoint her. Furious, Ransley bypassed
them and dialled County Headquarters direct. He argued his case,
bankrupting the county's telephone bill, but his plan to appoint her
had been blocked.

Goody, good, good. Things were going to be all right after all,
and I went for a quick ride in the frost round the lanes.

That evening I was in the garage, nose still red, removing salt
from my bike, when our telephone rang. I answered it. `Lena,' I
called from the passage which linked garage and house, `That creep
Rasputin wants to speak to you.'

She took the call in the living room and I returned to carry on
working.

`Are you free to talk?' his words floated crisp and clear from
the extension before I was able to reach and replace it back on its
hook.

Suddenly in slow motion my hand hovered whilst my mind raced as
I heard Lena's reply. `Wait a minute, Ransley, I'll send the
children to bed.'

The children to bed? My bile rose. If they're playing secret
games then it's reasonable for me to find out what are their rules
and what are they up to? I listened, and fifteen minutes later
Ransley was still talking. `I hope things will remain the same
between us, despite you not getting the job. Do you think we can
meet in the usual place?'

The usual place? My pulse raced. `Serves you right for
listening,' my considered reaction, only to relieve the tension by
making rude gestures in silence. `Why the hell should it serve me
right?' stress was beginning to make itself felt. `Whether it serves
you right or not, put things to the back of your mind, keep yourself
fit,' in silence I ranted away to a spider. There you are, in
danger of losing your mind, what the hell am I doing speaking to a
spider, it doesn't even look like that one at the specialist's? `Get
off my bloody fresh paint,' I set about smashing its web, relieving
my tension. `This affair will die a natural death,' I slung it
outside into the cold. `He has other women, can't leave them alone,'
I kept repeatedly telling myself.

But over the weeks Lena and Ransley waved two metaphorical
fingers towards me and the education authority. They even arranged
to take a holiday at Easter with our village school.

`He can't, he's left, he's headmaster at.....?'

`So?' Lena's lips pursed defiantly.

`You look like Mussolini,' I lost my temper.

`Rubbish,' she sneered. `Anyway, Claire will be in France this
Easter, so Ransley and I are taking John with the school.'

Damn them, they were trying to isolate me. Then I remembered,
`John's class is going in summer.'

`So?'

`Put your lips back, mind you don't get spaghetti down your
front,' I substituted insult for reason, searching my mind
desperately for a solution. What about if I left a letter to the
Chief Education Officer lying around? That should at least stir
things up.

Stir things up! Such was their conceit they were able to stir
things up to a syllabus very different to mine: Lena told Ransley
and Ransley wrote to County Hall. What was in his letter I never
discovered, but he defended himself in great detail, perhaps
inferring that the multiple sclerosis has addled my brain, so
determined was he to put his side of the story to pre-empt the
arrival of mine. They did nothing, just sat on their hands,
waiting, eyebrows raised in anticipation.

But I am a simple soul, so their eyebrows probably raised even
further when nothing turned up since I never posted my letter. In
fact I had never intended to, for it only contained blank sheets of
paper. That's a stop put to his hanky-panky.

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

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