Chapter 28 Dangerously Healthy by Malcolm Birkenshaw

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Chapter 28

A family of bats might have run the risk of finding themselves
roosting in my mouth had I let it loll open for very much longer.
Did Lena and Ransley have no shame? Was there no limit to their
impudence? He is no longer headmaster at our village school and yet
they are prepared to treat the education system as though it exists
solely for their convenience.

Worse, our own children were being affected; my mouth dropping
shut, ready to bite, matters had gone far enough. `Even Claire's
being teased on the school bus about you,' I pounced as Lena passed,
blocking her way, this time she would be unable to pretend to walk
through me.

`Rubbish,' her answer intended to brush me aside.

`Still good at repartee, I see.'

`You've not got a job, it looks as though you never will, so if
you don't like things you can get out.'

The swine! She's right, I suppose, yet things might settle now
the charade's over and she knows that I know she is the one who has
been lying. Mind you, he might dump her first, which would solve
the problem, though I am not banking on that, certainly not if it
means running the risk of leaving Claire and John at the mercy of
his machinations.

But logic seems to pass warped through a one-way mirror for
people caught up in entanglements like that of Lena and Ransley
thus, being caught last night, did nothing to inhibit the bubbling
of their cauldron for, after she collected her new lights, which he
immediately fitted, she moved into our spare bedroom, though still
keeping her clothes hanging with mine. That is all except for her
underwear, she hid that in a locked suitcase. `Does she think I'm
going to stoop to sabotaging the elastic in her knickers?'

The spiders that had invaded our house during the autumn did
not know the answer to that one. In fact they were gone, having
disappeared completely, like everything else, leaving the walls
empty and dead. `I don't know why you stick it, Dad?' Claire said,
following yet another of Lena's early morning tantrums.

Though as Christmas drew nearer she became more reasonable, at
least towards the children. Perhaps things were blowing over after
all, so I slipped round to the pub.

`Can tha still get record players?' Stan supped the froth off
his pint as he offered me a drink.

`I don't know, do you want one?'

`Aye, more if they're the right price. One for me, one for my
brother, and another for uncle Granville.'

If you can spare a fourth, remember me,' Bungie, our local
baker, always quick to save even a currant in a tea-cake, signalled
across, raising his voice over the tide of late drinkers, who were
ebbing against the bar, just in case I was unable to lip read.

`Me, as well,' Fixel the accountant from the next village, yet
another man doing his late Christmas shopping, slipped me another
pint. `One of them would be ideal,' he raised his glass in salute,
having at last found something for the wife which he would enjoy
using himself.

`That's five wanted. I'll see what I can do in the morning,' I
returned his salute, and the mat stuck to the base of my glass fell
away without spillage.

Things were looking up. The walls of home also had the air
that we were returning to normality when next morning I remembered
the name of their sales manager. `Good morning,' I telephoned,
clearing my voice, `What's delivery like on audio units?....... Is
it?....... Don't worry about delivery, we can send a man to collect
them....... You're giving extra discounts on quantities of five or
more?....... We'll order five, then, and also take the cash
discount.'

That's a stroke of luck, Lena's always going on about us being
broke. I'll buy three presents as a surprise with the profit, one
for her and one each for the children.

The walls were now in festive spirit, and garlanded by the time
Mary arrived on Christmas Eve, the decorated tree in a tub filling
one corner, its branches reaching out, pretending still to be
growing, sparkling with lights, the fairy on top sitting
uncomfortably after so many Christmases of being rammed up against
the ceiling, this year looking down upon Mary's case which was
packed for a week. Suits me, I thought, Lena becomes a changed
woman when her mother arrives. `Go to sleep, Mary's watching
television,' I called upstairs to the children.

`We stopped believing in Santa Claus years ago.'

`Perhaps you did. But so far as I'm concerned Santa Claus still
refuses to call when he finds children awake, irrespective of age.
It's two o'clock now, in ten minutes' time it'll be too late and
like me he'll be going to bed.'

They stopped talking, calculating their next move, but
tiredness soon outwitted their minds and, as though the world had
ceased working, what remained of the night sank into a panorama of
silence as far as the ears could hear.

`Ho, ho, hoooe! Happy Christmas John, happy Christmas Claire,'
I called out when I got up, exhaustion having made them sleep in.

They bounded downstairs. `Happy Christmas. What's this?'

`Happy Christmas. You're opening my parcel.'

`Who's this one from?'

Torn wrappings were scattered all over the room as fingers
fought their way into selotaped packages.

`Happy Christmas,' Mary shuffled into the room, started
watching, and became strangely silent, her back to the table against
the dining recess, assessing the presents as they emerged from their
packing. Lena became uncomfortable in the shade of this silence.
There was a present from Martin to Lena, where was the one from her
daughter to Martin?

Reading these thoughts she slipped away, her destination our
bedroom going by the rustling of paper which preceded her return
with a parcel, as though it was something she had overlooked in the
haste of last night.

I smiled, knowingly, supposing it had been intended for
somebody else, unless I had suddenly grown. `Thanks, very much, I
needed a new pullover,' I hauled its neck over my head, having to
exhale completely, my arms working their way like moles up the
sleeves until two hands reappeared complete with bare wrists. What
will Ransley's response be when Lena turns up with a parcel of home
woven excuses? My eyes beamed mischievously. Still, that's her
problem for later, forget him whilst Mary is here, she's eager to be
our baby-sitter so we can go out together; and a spider fiddled its
way bleary legged from under the edge of the carpet, wondering what
all the noise was about.

Upon four evenings in succession we accepted invitations to
parties, and next week we were expected at several New Year
celebrations, so it came as a surprise that on the fifth morning
Lena should be up early, together with Mary. What on earth are they
doing out of bed at this hour? I wondered. Better get up just in
case they're intending to slip away to Blackpool again. No, it's
not that, I could see, but there's definitely something going on,
the way they are waiting, standing together.

`There's a letter for you,' Lena pushed a brown window envelope
on the table towards me when I entered the kitchen.

More than the tea had been brewed, I could tell by their eyes.
Perhaps Lena was playing a prank? I glanced at the calendar. Yes,
she must be, it was a Bank Holiday Monday, today there's no delivery
of mail. Besides its postmark is dated two weeks before Christmas.
Is that the joke?

I eased open the envelope, carefully withdrawing its contents,
just in case it was some kind of jack-in-the-box trick. It still
could be a joke, I started to read, and slowly read on. No, it was
not a joke, but I had to laugh at its cheek, it was a genuine
divorce petition. My eyes began to scan the list of complaints: I
was “a man of violent disposition, with only love for his son.”
She claimed that she and her daughter “were terrified.” Then,
referring to our early years, “Sixteen years ago, when we were
living in Whitby, waiting for a mortgage, we slept with our
mattress on the floor for three weeks. This caused me great
distress.”

I broke off, unable to quell my smile as she sheltered behind
Mary to make it look as though any moment now I might be about to
turn savage. Silly woman, I thought, and returned to the
fiction,... “Five years ago she paid for part of our
family holiday in Somerset. She wanted the money back.....
John was also suffering great distress...”

The list went on, events both real and fictional being woven
into a sinister picture. But it was still quite funny, in a black
kind of way. Better say nothing, though, go for a walk, read the
rest of it elsewhere.

I paused by the Brick Pond, the same pond I had strode past
less than four years ago after seeing the specialist, only to end up
leg-less upon the lane over the hill. Then this same pond had seen me
stride past the following year each time I went to cricket, and a
year later ride past before cycling to London, and when I built
those extensions to our house, and climbed Snowdon.... How things
have changed in so short a time for, although the Brick Pond still
looks almost the same, with its coots pedalling their wakes in
amongst reeds now dead for the winter, I was today holding a
petition which failed to make sense. I had to tell someone.

`You're joking,' Stan gasped, finding it hard to believe,
changing out of his working clothes, Christmas or not the pigs had
to be fed. `I know she used to carry on with men in the pub, but I
always assumed she was flirting.'

Brenda was also befuddled, but found time to read it whilst
preparing their lunch. `I should have realised, though,' she
reflected, stirring gravy stock for their cold turkey which began to
thicken like the plot. `When Ransley and his friend took Lena on a
course she sat between them, on the front seat. She couldn't have
got any closer, not without being inside their trouser pockets.'

`Come on, cheer up, stay for a bit of lunch,' Stan started to
carve pieces off what remained of the carcass.

`No, thanks, I better get home.'

`Come on, at least have a drink whilst you're here, help cheer
yourself up. I'm sure there'll be an explanation. You know what
they say about letting sleeping dogs lie.'

`No.'

`Well,' he hesitated, having never previously considered the
answer, `They, er, I suppose, just leave them lying.'

With that piece of advice to sustain me I eventually returned
home, more mellow than when I had left, though soon forgot all about
dogs. Best ignore Lena and her mother, I decided, unable to think of
a suitable phrase safe to use. Well, what could I say when it seemed
that anything I uttered could be misinterpreted and used against me?
Justifying my silence when just a few words, had I scattered them as
though they were a gift of mustard seeds, might have helped. But no,
not for me, not when it was easier to dig in my emotions and leave
them buried in pride.

Mary remained flabbergasted. `Your father and me had many
arguments,' she said, turning to Lena, shaking her head, `But I've
never seen anything like this. It's unnatural, someone refusing to
talk. Is he always the same?' Poor Mary, she probably believed
everything Lena had told her.

Yet another opportunity missed, this time to let slip a few
mustard seeds through open fingers over Mary, but pride still said
why should I? Far easier for me to muse and consider whether Lena
really wanted a divorce, or did she have an ulterior motive? Better
to continue to say nothing, then, I convinced myself, cautious of
making things worse. Better see a solicitor, first thing after the
holidays, he'll know how best to keep the marriage intact.

Infuriated by my continued silence Lena lost her temper. `Say
something,' she demanded, threatening to pour coffee over my head.

`Go on, throw it over him,' Mary blurted, having been dragged
down by the day's acrimony, obviously unaware of the true situation.
`That'll make him talk,' she added in a desperate attempt to loosen
my word jam.

Coffee steamed and soaked into my clothes whilst Lena remained
standing, barring my way, the emptied cup in her right hand, as
though challenging me to strike her in front of a witness. I
dismissed her stare for she was terrified of violence, a coward, and
yet behind that mask she was drawing upon courage from somewhere.

She's wasting her time. Doesn't she know me, after all these
years? Perhaps she is steeling herself for the pain, or is she
banking on the fact that I would never hit a woman? Slivers of
emotion, like darts of lightning, prickled through my mind as I
remembered those jewels of hope from the past, diamond cut, my
determinations that Claire and John would never have miserable
childhoods like mine.

And now this is what things have come to, how things have
actually turned out, a sledgehammer poised over their lives.
But the gem was not yet shattered, I stiffened my resolve, there was
still hope, so I must be sure not to make a mistake.

Upstairs they were playing a game. Did they already know?
Perhaps, but a fog still fell when I told them that their mother
wanted a divorce. They remained silent whilst my words, no matter
how gentle, were lethal, as bullets. All they had been was now dead.
Whoever pulled the trigger was unimportant. `We want everything to
be like it was before Ransley came on the scene,' they said, wishing
for a rainbow, hoping that some heart-to-heart resuscitation could
be administered to their parents.

I was also hoping, hoping that they were not saying this just
to please me. It was going to be difficult, keeping the M.S. under
control, whilst coping with the additional stress. `All right,
then, promise, I really will do my best,' I smiled, disguising my
sorrow. `And I'll exercise even more to keep fit, so we can haul
our family out of this mess,' I went back downstairs.

Where does one turn to without money or a solicitor? I
wondered, floundering, having never been divorced before. That
damned Mytholmroyd pride about one's personal washing and having
failed in a marriage stood in the way of me climbing the steps to
the Citizens' Advice Bureau. Instead I washed up on the private
beach of telling my mother about the petition, hoping she could
suggest someone who would follow my wishes and believe what I said.
`A solicitor, without money? Use mine,' she said, revelling in the
flotsam of my predicament. `I always said Lena was no good, but you
refused to listen.'

`Of course we can help,' invited the siren voice of the
solicitor's secretary. `Tomorrow, at two thirty?'

Up the barren staircase I climbed, with its polished handrails
and glass polished doors, until I reached the one with the name
Gotcha and Gotcha etched in gold onto its surface. `Can I help?'
defended their receptionist, protecting all the partners' offices
and, in my case, that of Mr Hadzik.

`Come in, come in,' he welcomed me into his office as a spider
to its web. `Of course we handle divorces,'

`But I don't want a divorce.'

`Not a divorce,' he put a slow line through his notes and
started again. `Reconciliation. The children's interests are
paramount,' he underlined. But the whirlpool was whirling, sucking
me in, and the longer it whirled the more money he made. If only

someone had told me that a divorce is too often a solicitor's best
friend. `Of course, of course, we'll give it priority treatment.'

Three months later nothing had happened by the time a social
worker called at our house. She was young, married, spoke to us
together, even stayed for a meal. Things were normal again, just one
family chatting round the dinner table like we used to. I felt
relief, there was hope. `I'll see you in two weeks' time,' she said,
having thanked us for an enjoyable time.

I always knew that if I remained patient things would turn out
all right. The air throbbed with hope. I was content, even though
that night we still slept in separate beds.

Next morning things remained bright, especially when Claire
glanced through the window whilst pouring milk over her corn flakes.
`You've got a puncture,' she said, pointing to Lena's car which had
settled one corner.

`I'll change the wheel,' I rushed out, this time grabbing the
chance to sow mustard seeds whilst leaving Lena to finish her
breakfast.

`Can you manage?' she asked.

`I think so,' I smiled, teasing. `I did do a Rolls engine last
year.'

The acid past had evaporated. `Thanks,' she said, collecting
her school books together.

`Leave the wheel with me. I'll get the puncture repaired whilst
you're at school,' I washed the grease off my hands, enthusiastic at
our reconciliation.

`You don't have to bother,' she said, as though acknowledging
kindly, `Ransley will do it for me.'

On second thoughts, I have used a lot of Yorkshire dialect in “Dangerously Healthy” – an autobiography written under my pseudonym because some of the protagonists were still alive at the time, and also in a novel “Don’t You Dearest Me”. If any Themestream reader wants to contact me I should be pleased to translate any puzzling words . In fact, does anyone think I should produce a list of words and phrases for the series? If so, your e-mail would be welcome.

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

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