Chapter 29 Dangerously Healthy by Malcolm Birkenshaw

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Chapter 29.

`Bloody Ransley,' my temper exploded. Lena had been wasting my
time, the seed having fallen on stony ground. Nothing had changed,
last night was probably just an act to impress the social worker. I
must know what she is up to if there is to be any chance of keeping
my promise to Claire and John.

That's a thought, I wonder if she keeps anything else besides
knickers in that red suitcase, that sacred red suitcase she clicks
open every morning in the room she's moved into? Perhaps that's
where the divorce petition was hidden before Christmas after she had
intercepted it in the mail. I'll make a key, use a bent hair grip,
or anything to unlock it and find out whilst she's at school.

`The swine,' I exclaimed, examining its contents, handling them
carefully, leaving them appearing as though undisturbed. It had been
an old key from a toy chemistry set which had opened its locks.
One, two, three building society accounts in her name, two dating
from the time I was diagnosed as having M.S., and one from even
earlier, perhaps almost as old as our marriage. `The rotten swine,'
I repeated, my attention briefly diverted by noises outside, `She's
been stashing money away, pretending to be broke, making the
children do without holidays.'

I looked through the window, wondering what to do next, the
noises being of house martins screeching as they wheeled round our
house, reoccupying last year's nests, having only just arrived.
`The sod,' she had even intercepted my business mail. Suddenly I
understood her modus operandi. Everything she falsely accused me of
doing, like opening her mail, she was actually doing herself. I had
broken her code, from now on I would know exactly what she was
thinking and doing.

I wonder how many are the same birds I saw on the telephone
wires last year before they left for Africa?.... Before Father
died?.... Before,.. my thoughts were diverted by the numbers
swirling and shrieking. Where do the ones without nests go? And
that's another thought, where does Lena expect me to go? I know she
thinks I was left money in Father's will, hence the divorce, and
Ransley's keen interest, their plan being to drive me out, forcing
me to find somewhere else to live, thus forcing my inheritance into
the open.

Well, what they do not know, and what they will never believe,
because of the way their minds work, is that I never got a penny
after Mother forged his signature - thank goodness for that. But
since they are so devious there is something else I can do, feed
them with loads of innocent facts so their brains will have to work
overtime. All being well they will end up convincing themselves that
everything is going according to plan. I turned over another
envelope, `The devious sods,' it was a letter addressed to me from
Claire's school.

I see, trying to make it look as though I'm not interested the
children's well-being. Right then, how about this for a start? I
shall go to her school, but not let it be known, so that both you
and Ransley can sit night after night huddled in his car, pleased
with yourselves, dreaming up ever more schemes and perhaps making
further mistakes.

`I'm pleased you were able to come,' the senior mistress
welcomed me. `Take a seat. I know about your M.S., and the problems
at home, and ...'

`Problems! From Claire?'

`Oh, no, no. Not from Claire, but from village talk,' she
opened my daughter's school file.

`From village talk?'

`Oh, yes, yes. But shall we discuss your daughter's problems,
and how best we can help her?'

It soon became evident that Claire had probably known for
years. `But, you see, you're the rock to which she clings,' the
senior mistress said, whilst closing the file. `A shaky rock,
admittedly, but still her rock.'

`That means I'll have to remain healthy,' I looked through the
window, across empty playing fields white lined for grass games
nobody was playing. `Thank you very much for your help,' I stood up
as though two hundred percent fit, closed her door and strode
smartly away, leaving the school by its main entrance, striding away
from the glass walls and concrete until I reached where my cycle was
hidden.

The ride home, straight into an easterly wind, soon sorted out
this exhibition of pride, reducing me to a shambles, exhausted,
pedalling bowlegged, trousers of my best suit now protected against
chain oil by knee-length tartan socks which had previously been
hidden. `How do I dodge the stress, though, with Lena and Ransley
going out of their way to make me ill?' thoughts churned round in my
mind as the wheels turned.

A juggernaut overtook, started to slow, and then heaved into
the gutter, its air brakes snorting as it lurched to a halt like a
beached whale. `Pin-minded pillock' I grunted, my demeanour having
turned meaner as I struggled to pass it whilst being shunted by
cross-winds.

`Oi, oi say there, Jock,' its driver shouted before I was level
with his cab.

Jock? Obviously not me.

`Oi, oi Jock,' he repeated, sounding like someone from Somerset or
somewhere, his tanned elbow sticking out above head height.

I slowed down, trick cycling, wobbling at just short of falling
off speed, glancing up at his porky elbow and stubble chin. Not me?
Not for swearing back there? Surely not? He could never have heard
me over the noise of his engine? I hoped, fearing that inside that
cab his might be a leather-belted beer-belly ready to leap down and
add weight to the argument.

`Jock. Eee with `is knees wrapped in `ighland bandage,' he
laughed an agricultural laugh, the sort that is supposed to grow on
you.

`Me?'

`That's right, boy. Oi'm just wanting to know if this 'ere road
is the right road for Adderton?'

`Well, sort of, but it's a bit complicated,' I hesitated,
seeing rooks from the fields being swirled up and away by the gusts,
and risked grounding a foot. `You've some complicated turns onto
narrow lanes before you get there,' I gestured with a luxurious
swathe of the arm which had let go of my handlebars.

`Complicated? `Ow complicated be it then?'

He sounded quite harmless, perhaps Norfolk in fact. `You can
follow me, if you like, it's only three miles, I'm going there
myself.'

`At your speed, Oi'd be falling asleep?' he opened his door.
`Let's `ave that there bike up `ere whilst you be climbing in the
other side,' his hands shovelled my cycle behind the back of his
head onto what looked to be like a bunk for overnight stops. `You be
looking knackered, and you'll look even more knackered if Oi don't
give ee a lift there.'

`Thanks,' I gasped, `What's the address you're looking for?'

`Know the Jolly Poacher, do ee?'

`The Jolly Poacher, delivering, with a vehicle this size?' I
remained short of breath, my legs still aching. Was the stress of a
possible divorce beginning to affect my M.S. already?

`No,' he laughed, in amongst another outburst of agricultural
mirth, `Moi daughter married Lofty Cartwright's lad last month, and
`is missus suggested Oi stay next time when Oi'm up `ere in the
North.'

`Doris! You're sure it was Doris who invited you?'

`That's right, boy.'

`There's not much room,' I said, cautiously, averting my eyes
from his paunch. `Until the last century it was just a couple of
cottages. Are you sure Doris said...Do you come up North often?‘ I
don't know how she finds space for Lofty, let alone..,' I glanced at
his bunk where my bike was now resting, `... I've never known her
accommodate guests. When their Virginia creeper dies back you can
still see where they knocked two cottages together to make a pub.'

`Don't forget there'll be space for one now their lad's gone.'

`It's not quite that simple. I understand he shared that room
with his brother.'

`I don't be minding sharing.'

`Not the room. I think they shared the same bed. It's there,
the pub.'

`Where do ee want to be...'

`Here will be fine.'

He stamped on his brakes, the cab jumped, his juggernaut
dancing to an emergency stop just in time to drop me off at the end
of our lane. `Thanks,' I half caught my bike as he let go of it into
my outstretched arms. `If the pub's shut you'll have to wait until

opening time. Lofty always goes for a kip in the afternoons,' I
called out as Norwich Norman re-engaged gear, leaving me to push the
bike home since he had dislodged its chain against the back of his
neck. Yet his lift had done me a bigger favour than he could
possibly have imagined, each of my strides were celebrating that my
legs had recovered as a result of the rest.

Lena gave me a where've-you-been look when I entered the
kitchen, all joy falling away from my face. Maybe she had seen me
climb down from the truck, our lane end being visible from the
window through which she had been watching. Suits me, I thought,
for it would give Ransley and her something extra to think about,
especially if I remained silent until I had a better idea of what
they were up to. In any case, the more I made them think the more
likely they were to arrive at the wrong solutions.

I did not have to wait long, within days she started to buy her
own food. Doubtless this move would have a machiavelian motive but,
in the short term, it suited me, my invalidity pension being already
well over-stretched, what with having to settle the bill for her
telephone calls on top of feeding the children and paying the rates.

Her next move was to buy Claire and John presents and clothes.
That's a help, I had to admit, for it was also doing something to
break up their misery. Doubtless it was meant to strengthen her
case. My only response was to scatter a few seeds in my silence,
hoping that something would turn up. I was puzzled, though, by the
way she kept her food separate. Was this another tactic? Did she
think I might steal it? If so, she was wasting her time. Besides,
she can keep her bloody pilchards, geriatric sardines more like
mutton than lamb, I hate the damned things.

`John,' she called from her bedroom after school on Wednesday.
`I'm having a salad, would you like to join me for tea?'

What a sick mind you've got, Lena, playing with the children's
minds. Doubtless one of Ransley's warped suggestions, I thought.
More his style, though I suppose the salad is your idea, trying to
make your figure more marketable.

Claire looked terribly hurt, ignored and penalised for not
supporting her mother. This was a punishment in addition to Mary
having verbally disowned her for not abandoning me.

`What about paying for the electricity you use,' I started to
reel off a list, my silence having finally cracked, `And for all
those telephone calls to your mother? My pension's intended for
keeping the children.'

`Grow up,' she sneered, opening her door to stick out her
tongue.

I winced. Is this the genuine Lena? Or am I the scratch on her
skin which is letting all that was good turn to this? Or is she
being schooled in Ransley's mean ways? I suppose in his brave new
world divorce is to be routine, where people prepared to put up a
fight are to be looked upon as Luddite, reactionary, uncivilised.

How do our children cope whilst their lives are torn apart?
They never say. Is the joy from their pasts now buried beneath
winter's drifts? They never reveal. Are former certainties being
transmuted like ice floes? They drift and break up, their
destinations uncertain. Do they sleep? Do they dream? Do they
hope? On and on my mind gyroscoped, spinning yet trapped until the
morning mail arrived with its familiar clop.

Another brown window envelope? This one from the Social
Security. Bloody hell! “It has come to our attention that your wife
is now working.” The buggers, they're reducing my pension. I bet
Lena's reported the situation, probably anonymously, yet another
machiavellian plot that met the light of night upon the back of
Ransley's car.

Well, there is no alternative - not if I am to prove I am
capable of running this house, from now on it will have to be a
siege economy. But how, without the perks that have kept us going
since Christmas? Cast more mustard seeds, have faith, keep trying in
the hope that something will turn up. For a start, cancel the
papers, take your car off the road, cycle to the cheapest
supermarket for the main shopping, the fifteen mile journey will
help keep you fit, I persuaded myself.

The sun climbed into the high months, brother Peter called to
see how I was coping. `Are you doing all this yourself?' he looked
round, seeing that Lena was out.

`Yes,' I wiped my hands dry.

`All of it?'

`Mmm.'

`Don't wear yourself out,' he said, switching on the kettle.
`Would you prefer to go to the Jolly Poacher?'

`Not this time. Tea will do, thanks.'

Steam fogged his spectacles as he fumbled around the kettle for
the switch. `How about taking the kids on a holiday, then?'

`To the pub?'

`Daft bat, you know what I mean.'

`You must be joking. I can't.'

`Why not?'

`For a start, I'm broke, on top of which the social worker is
coming again in the next week or so.'

`All right, then. After he's been,' he wiped his lenses with a
handkerchief and checked his watch for steam damage.

`He's a she.'

`What difference does that make? Just let me know when she's
been,' he dabbed round his mouth with the handkerchief, even his
moustache had become damp whilst he struggled as the kettle had done
its best to boil dry. `Good gracious, is that the time?' he used his
watch as an alibi. `I'll be late for my next customer,' he excused,
having decided to leave for the heated environment of his car before
the creases in his suit turned limp. `Don't forget, I'll be
reminding you,' he started his engine. `Remember, it won't cost you
a penny.'

`Why not?'

`We get plenty of cancelled holidays at Fantabulous Travel,' he
bragged, running his fingers down his creases to ensure they
remained sharp.

`What difference does that make, your customers get their money
back, don't they?'

`Not when they cancel late,'

`Isn't that to cover Fantabulous Holidays' expenses?'

`Sometimes, although we never lose as much as they pay, and if
we at Fantabulous resell their holiday it adds even more to our
profits. You having one free won't send us bust.'

A magpie, at the end of our drive, distrustful of movement,
took off and flapped archaeopteryx-like low into the trees, its
raucous cry a solo above the cawing concerto of rooks that were
circling over the trees to the rear of our house.

No wonder they were gloating, three days later the social
worker had returned. `Come in,' I welcomed her. But this time she
held back, not being here for a friendly family dinner on this
occasion.

`I'll interview your wife first, if you don't mind,' her eyes
ushered me politely out of the room.

`Fine,' I said, attempting to maintain a good impression,
though fine is not what I felt like. `I'll wait in the extension,
shall I?' turning to leave with a smile of bonhomie.

`The extension?'

`I'll direct you,' Lena cut in, assuming her throne of mythical
superiority.

The extension was tinged with bright sunlight, much of which
was reflected off a recent growth of verdant grass. I pretended to
myself to be busy. How much longer was she going to be? Lena must be
reciting all she and Ransley had schemed up over the months. Spider,
spider on the wall, spin a web to prevent my fall.

Time went by, and by went time, then footsteps. `Ah, come in,'
I said, looking up from what I was in the middle of not doing. `Sit
down, wherever you wish,' I gestured towards the choice of two
chairs.

She ignored the rocking chair, preferring an upright posture,
and only asked a few questions. `Is there anything else you'd like
to say?' she had suddenly completed her notes.

Hell, she had spent ages with Lena, obviously I was on a hiding
to nothing. `Only that neither the children nor I want a divorce.'

`Your wife says that if she doesn't get custody she'll move
out. What will you do if the children are awarded to her?' was her
reply.

I was trapped, thoughts racing past going nowhere, what could I
say but the truth? Who had planned that idea, Ransley, Lena, or
both? `Move, I suppose. Don't want to, of course, because of the
children. Can you suggest an alternative?'

She continued writing her notes, never replied, deaf to
questions served out of court. Nightmare visions agitated my mind,
of being stuck in a caravan, perhaps seeing unhappy children once a
week, their visits a duty, destructive of love. Everything was
slipping away as the social services woman left.

No wonder spiders look neither happy nor sad, with heavy hearts
their webs would snap. Better go for a walk, get out, let honest air
get to my lungs, but Lena had gone.

Several days later she was still away most of the time, so I
got out my bike and rode to Ola and Tom's whilst the children were
out. `What makes it worse,' I said, when they were making the
coffee, `We've hardly seen her since the social worker made her
final visit.'

`She's been at Ransley's,' Tom replied. `Our friends say she's
playing at being auntie Lena to his children.'

`Auntie Lena?' I exploded. `I'm anti-Lena at the moment.'

He laughed.

I had intended the joke, but not to be that funny. `His wife
must be thick.'

Tom became serious. `She's been in hospital, having a
hysterectomy.'

`Oh,' my anger evaporated, `Is his wife all right?'

`I suppose so. She was discharged on Friday. He sent Lena to
pick her up in his car.'

`Lena picked her up!' I went wild. `Ransley sent the other
bloody woman to the hospital to pick up his wife after an operation
like that?' Right then, that's it, I drank down my caffeine and left
to race back to Adderton, my wheels in a fury. From now on my
silence at home was to become an active disgust.

Within a few days Lena moved out, officially to her mother's,
another tactic doubtless engineered with Ransley, particularly since
she stopped outside our house daily, pretending to be a responsible
parent, watching for my slightest mistake, despite it disturbing the
children.

`Be damned if I'll fail,' I cursed the cupboards which she had
left empty. Worse was to come, my pension remained reduced,
assuming a contribution from her income, on top of which she still
kept the children's allowances. But a mustard seed germinated before
Claire and John could see how worried I was about us ending up
unable to survive - brother Peter found me a Saturday job at
Fantabulous Holidays' head office. Each week I cycled the thirty
miles, saving on bus fares, leaving the children sleeping, to earn
cash for three hours as a temporary filing clerk.

How sad the ride, the same fields, the same hedges, the same
road along which I used to pedal when we all went to Elsie's for
Sunday lunch. And now the same road, the same hedges, the same
fields on the way back. Perhaps things will turn out well again if I
persevere, I mused to myself as I freewheeled into our drive.

But there was someone bent at the kitchen door. It was Stan, I
had not recognised him at first, not another new suit, must have had
a good harvest last year. `Can you make use of these?' he said,
propping a bag of potatoes against our steps on his way to the pub.
`They're earlies. Best if you don't peel them,.... which is another
job saved,' he chuckled. `And you get all the goodness in the
skins, so they'll grow hairs on your chest.'

`That's great,' I beamed, digging into my pockets, hardly able
to believe our luck.

`You can put that away,' he stuffed my cash back before it
entered his hand, precious cash I had just earned at Fantabulous
Holidays'.

`Thanks. Are you sure?' I said, keeping my fingers crossed as
I lifted the bag out of his way, also not wishing his ale in the
Jolly Poacher to go flat.

`Hang on a minute,' he stopped my door before it lazily swung
half shut. `There's a tray of eggs on the back seat.'

Funny how seeds were continuing to germinate in ways least
expected. Perhaps things with Lena would end up normal again, on
top of which we were solvent again, at least for a week. How could I
thank him? `Can I give you a hand with the harvest?'

`You can, if you want,' he hitched up his trousers and
tightened his broad leather belt. `You don't have to, unless you
fancy stooking a few bales,' he grinned.

I did, I did. The chance to repay him in at least part, leaving
me feeling a little less indebted and, when the time came, it would
also help keep me fit whilst the sun shone.

`A few bales?' I muttered to the stubble when the time came,
straightening the aches in my back, one field joining up with
another, and the one after that, my knees numb, no longer able to
tell how much they were wilting.

`Stop complaining,' he laughed. `Next year we're pulling out
more hedges, it'll be even bigger.'

`What for? Hedgerows are home to animals that help control
pest.'

`Bollocks!'

`Tell that to the environment,' I smiled.

`We've enough with bloody Greenpeace without you starting.
Anyway, you look knackered, bugger off home. See you in the
morning.'

I pushed my bike down the lane, arriving just in time to answer
the phone. `Can you coach biology for university entrance?' asked a
voice I failed to recognise. `You don't know me, but Percy
Farrington recommended you.'

`Percy Farrington, from Arkston Bash?'

`That's right, I work with him, it's for my son.'

Percy Farrington, I had taught his daughter before I left
education for business, a move made because I thought my hint of a
limp was due to the stress of reorganisation. Talk about out of the
frying pan into the fire. `Yes, I should like to. When would you
like me to call to make convenient arrangements?'

Thus another job had germinated, though until its fruit began
to ripen my pockets were again like Mother Hubbard's cupboard. `Do
you still fit carpets?' the phone rang almost immediately.

`This weekend? Friday? Of course.'

Thus week after week, always down to the last penny, I never
worried, faith would see us through, as it did without fail. `Will
you repair our record player?' ... and `Any good at
chemistry?'... or `Will you give us a hand picking potatoes?'
...

Eventually I knew we were bound to succeed, yet it is against
such attitudes that Saint Sod lurks ready to guard, particularly
when one has a sixteen year old daughter. She had worked out how to
avoid failing her exams by leaving school, getting a job, and not
bothering to take them.

Three days later I caught sight of her riding pillion without
a crash helmet. `Claire,' I bellowed across the village green.
`Where the hell have you been until two o'clock in the morning?'
almost chasing her home.

In the pain of this conflict I woke early, listening for
her footsteps descending the stairs as she left for work. But
silence, she was already gone, moved to Wattlefield, lodging with a
girl from the office. It was as though John had lost another limb,
`Will this affect your divorce, dad?'

`I don't know, it might do, but if it saves her having an
accident,....' I gazed at the wall, imagining her misery, wishing
her well, hoping she would be happy again. One day would they
forgive 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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