Chapter 30 Dangerously Healthy by Malcolm Birkenshaw

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Chapter 30.

Was Claire keeping well? How was she managing? After three
weeks of relying for news via John, fourth hand; I had to find out,
and picked up the telephone upon the seventeenth attempt. Half way
through dialling my courage failed yet again, leaving me doing
meaningless jobs round the house before I brewed up the courage to
ring the number yet again. `She's fine,' answered a woman's voice,
sounded to be the mother of the girl where Claire was staying, `I
told you last night.'

`Last night?' I nibbled, wondering if I was phoning the wrong
number.

`That's right. When you and your wife called.'

I submerged under silence, as overwhelmed by surf, trying to
make sense of what she was saying.

`You are Claire's father?' she queried, presumably my silence
emitting vibes.

`Yes, but I'm afraid I've never met you,' I paused for what to
say next. `Did the man last night have a beard?'

It was her turn to suffer in a maze of confusion before
cautiously replying, `Yes.'

`That's the man who's having an affair with my wife,' I
gritted my toes before they kicked through a window.

`Oh, dear me,' she again hesitated, her direction wrenched off
course before she gabbled, `I thought he looked odd. We've never
been involved in anything like this before. Don't blame Claire, she
didn't know.'

`Don't worry,' I gabbled back to put her at ease. `As long as
she's all right, that's all I want to know. Give her my love, and
thank you again.'

Our home, little more than a warehouse for a man and his son,
now echoed in silence to the joy that was gone. Seeking company,
John started to play cricket with the boys' team. I struggled to
remain in touch by umpiring, imagining the day when he might play
for the men's side. Would he and I open the batting together? Would
we have become a family again?

`How about a drink at your local?' Peter called to see me.

`The Jolly Poacher?.. Besides, I can't leave John.'

`What's in a name? So long as they sell a decent pint.'

`It's all right, Dad, you go with uncle Peter, I'm off to
cricket practice.'

`See you when you get back.'

`Come and watch me practice after you've had a drink, if you
want, uncle Peter.'

`Sure, sure,' we dropped him at the ground ringed by trees and
a rookery on our way to the Jolly Poacher.

Peter parked his car whilst I went in to order. `Eh, I want
thee,' Lofty Cartwright pointed a long finger at me as soon as I
entered his pub.

`Me?'

`Aye. Tha's the silly bugger what showed that bloody Norman the
way 'ere.'

`Norman?'

`Aye, bloody Norfolk Norman.'

`Oh, him. I thought Doris said...?'

`It were a wedding, weren't it? She were drunk at the time.'

`Carter!' Doris hoisted her bust.

`Sorry, ma, but tha was.'

`I didn't know, I could have cycled home, Norman never told
me.'

`Take them on holiday,' Peter joined in, despite missing the
start, having now entered the bar.

`Who?'

`The kids, Claire and John. Where's the pint you came in to
order?'

`Holiday?'

`Of course, take them on holiday.'

`Aye, thee take 'em on 'oliday,' Lofty nodded, having started
drawing the beer, not knowing what we were on about but all ears to
what we were on about.

`I'm not buying his love,' I muttered for Peter's hearing alone
from behind my cupped hand.

`I didn't mean that,' Peter supped the froth off his pint.
`It's also you, you could do with a break,' he pulled a handkerchief
from his breast pocket and dabbed his moustache dry. `Besides, John
deserves a holiday, and it will provide Claire with an opportunity
to return home without losing face.'

Getting her back into the family? That's worth considering, I
thought, before asking, `What kind of a holiday?'

`There are hundreds to choose from. Every one cancelled and
cheap.'

`Why cancelled? How cheap?'

`Don't concern yourself about that, just take your pick from
this list,' he un-concertinaed a print-out of cancellations.

`They're all at the same place. It must be a bum hotel,' I
laughed.

`Are they?' he grabbed back his list. `Damned computer, it's
always going wrong,' and attempted to stuff the sheets down into his
overcoat. `It's the best hotel on the island, but there'll be
nothing to pay.'

`Thanks, but,. I can't...,' I scratched the back of my neck as
I searched for excuses.

`There'll come a time, one day, when you can pay me back. Take
the holiday now, they won't be children for very much longer.'

I suppose he has a point there, I thought, finishing my drink
before wishing him a safe journey, the car park full of empty spaces
now that the dribble of lunch-time customers had gone home.

`Cheerio.'

`Cheerio,' and I strolled to the cricket ground from where
sounds of leather on willow punctuated the silence with commas and
full stops and the occasional asterisk hit for six.

`I've had my turn, Dad. Where's uncle Peter?'

`He's gone somewhere on business, but we're fixed us up with a
holiday.'

`Who's paying?'

`He is.'

`Where are we going?' he unfastened his pads, head bowed,
somebody having warned him about tug-of-love children.

`Anywhere we want, provided it's at the Hotel Resplendix,' I
grinned.

`Is it posh?'

`I don't know. Uncle Peter said it was supposed to be one of
the best,' I hoped to encourage him, wondering myself whether the
lawyers would think of this as being bribery. Well, think what they
may, they'd be wrong. Whether they accepted the truth or not this
might be my last chance to give them a holiday to make up for those
they had missed whilst Lena was secretly stashing our money away.
`Uncle Peter's going to see Claire. He's going to try to persuade
her to go. Tell your mother she can also come,' I added, hoping the
invitation might work as we turned left onto our drive, like that
time when the social worker had stayed for dinner.

`She has something arranged,' John returned from the phone,
his thoughts distant. `But she'll be phoning you later tonight.'

`I bet she has,' I muttered, wondering why she was ringing
instead of seizing the initiative by sending her a bouquet of
flowers. I was too proud, no longer trusted her.

After tea John and I cleared the dishes and mats to make room
for a game of smash table tennis, he learning his shots and me
recovering my reflexes. `Home-work time,' I said when we had
beaten each other.

`Oh! Do I have to?'

`What do your teachers say? Besides, your mother will be
phoning tonight.'

The telephone rang when John was in bed. `I've made
arrangements for us to see a marriage consultant,' she announced.

`Where?' I asked, taken off guard.

`Number 24B, Abadabar Street.'

`Whose car will we....'

`Eight-thirty, Thursday evening, and I'll make my own way
there.'

Will she? I thought, smelling a sprat. `I'll have to refer to
my solicitor.' She was not going to make a mackerel out of me.

`Your solicitor!' she snapped. `Well, I shall be there,' she
slammed down the phone.

Come Thursday evening I turned up early and hid in the shadows
of Abadabar Yard until she arrived. `Cheeky sod, she's come with
Ransley, and in his bloody car,' I swore, watching them drive down
the main road. `I knew it was a sodding trap,' I swore, stamping in
the puddle where the moon was reflected; unleashing my temper upon
the wet cobble stones instead of entering the marriage consultant's
office with a greeting on my face and a present in my hands.

Right, then, `Aba-daba-dab said the monkey to the chimp,' I
sang to the steering wheel on my drive home. She can go on an
Aba-daba honeymoon, we're off to the Hotel Resplendix.

Washing, ironing, packing, I prepared cases for John and me,
hoping against hope that Claire would go with us, but three weeks
passed without any message.

Should I pack something for her? No, better not tempt fate, so
John and I set off for the coach station alone, going through the
motions of setting off on holiday. Peter's right, I suppose, they
are only young once, I should not have humiliated her that night in
our village.

`Dad, dad! Claire's there, with her case,' John pointed
excitedly. So she was, I smiled, and Claire smiled back, at least
one of my prayers had been answered. Perhaps everything was going to
be all right in the end, especially when Peter hurried out from
Fantabulous Holidays main office.

`Here, enjoy yourselves,' he slipped some cash into my pocket.

`No, I can't,...'

`Nudge, nudge. Remember, you're travelling under the names upon
these cancelled tickets,' he tapped his nose knowingly. `There'll
come a day when you can pay me back,' he placed a hand on my
shoulder, then disappeared towards the coach.

Funny, he was not on the coach as it reversed into the bay
where our gaggle of holidaymakers were waiting. Still, I'll see him
when we get home.

`Bring your luggage round to the back, please,' its driver
unlocked the baggage doors. At least he looked like a driver,
despite his baggy brown suit, he was wearing an orange-coloured
company peeked cap. His mumbling suggested that he was a corporation
bus driver moonlighting on weekends.

`These are your seats,' the driver directed us towards the
rear, then climbed in behind the steering wheel and hissed the doors
shut.

Why the special treatment, I wondered? Claire and John assumed
it was because uncle Peter was a boss. But I was five years away,
recalling the self-same journey over the Pennines when we had gone
on holiday to Wales. It was there, by the stream from the mill, that
I had sensed that it might be the last time they would play together
as children. What a sad prophecy, yet perhaps they could still have
a flurry of fun during our stay at the Resplendix.

`Here we are,' the coach driver announced over his crackling
P.A. `Liverpool Pier-head.'

`Where are we going?' panicked John as we followed the other
passengers off the coach onto the road.

`The Isle of Man, all being well,' I guessed. `You've never
been on a ferry before.'

`We have, on the Humber.'

`Oh, not that kind of a ferry. This one will be much bigger,
with dining rooms and games and things.'

`Do we need passports?' John's mind dashed back to his fears of
being a tug-of-love child.

`No, it's not really going abroad. The Isle of Man is part of
the British Isles.'

`Have you got tickets?' Claire now became anxious.

`Uncle Peter said their driver would give them to us when we
got off.'

As though moved by the same spirit which was troubling the
children the driver leaned out. `Here you are, mate,' he called,
thrusting a large envelope into my hand before immediately slamming
his door and driving off. Everyone looked my way, wondering, what
happens next?

Might as well open the envelope whilst they're finding a
company representative, I thought.

`What is it, Dad?' Claire asked, seeing the despair leaping out
of my face.

`Bloody Uncle Peter. This is a passenger list, with a bundle of
boat tickets. He's put me down as being the courier.'

I could see the Ferry, funnels smouldering as though ready to
sail. `This way,' I waved the passengers to follow, each lugging
their own luggage. I should not really be doing this, I thought
whilst leading them down a steep roadway onto Prince's Landing stage
which was floating at low tide height. I should have been following
at my own pace, taking care of the M.S.

`Oy!... Oy!' chased a little man in an oversize uniform and a
limp leg. `What you doin' down 'ere?'

`Come to get on that ferry, before it sets off for the...'

`Oh no you're not.'

`...Isle of Man.'

`I've got the tickets.... Here,' I waved the Fantabulous
Holiday's envelope.

`You might have Moses' bloody tablets but you've come down the
wrong way.'

`That's the right ship.'

`That's got nothing to do with it. You lot came down the
roadway reserved for vehicles.'

`It's not a car ferry.'

`Are you bloody arguing with me?'

`No, no,' I hastened, finding it impossible to reason with an
unreasonable man.

`Well, bloody get back and wait until you're led down the right
way.'

`What about our luggage?'

`Us porters will carry the lot down,' he griped, as though we
were doing his men out of a job.

`I've nearly buggered myself, lugging it here. I'm not going to
cart the faggin stuff back,' one of my brood joined in.

`Aye, neither am I.'

`Nor me,' chorused the others.

`My husband's got a bad heart. We thought we were coming for a
rest.'

`Did you hear that? I've a good mind to stove your faggin head
in,' loomed one of my holidaymakers a foot higher than everyone
else.

`All right, then,' oversized uniform sagged a little baggier.
`Leave it there, to one side, whilst you come the proper way,
escorted by registered porters.'

`We were not born in bloody Lancashire. I'm not leaving my
faggin cases unguarded.'

`Having considered the matter as it stands, at this moment in
time, in the interests of security and in our tradition of deploring
the social consequences of crime, I am prepared to negotiate with my
rank and file porters for you to stay as a designated guard, upon
the explicit agreement that your wife and the others comply with
regulation 462 and are accompanied in the prescribed manner,' baggy
suit swelled as he negotiated this compromise with seven foot-one
from Luddenfoot.

Two bronzes of vultures or something smirked down from the
Royal Liver building as two gulls took off from the mast and pea
green soup lapped under the landing stage.

This was only the start of a holiday best left forgotten, save
to mention the least of the many complaints from my charges, `Why do
we only get boiled eggs when other companies' holidaymakers get a
full English breakfast?'

Two weeks later we returned home, wiser for the experience,
having abandoned our mutinous holidaymakers in Leeds. Never again,
not a cancelled holiday from uncle Peter.

`What's this?' I muttered, opening our door over a tumbled pile
of mail. `Two thick manila envelopes. Not more trouble from the
solicitors?' I ripped the first one open and started to read it
aloud. `Witness in the case of Mytholmroyd v Mytholmroyd.' Mother
was suing brother Peter, claiming the money for his car was a loan!'

I tore open the second one. `Peter's also citing me in his
defence, claiming that I could testify that it was only a gift!' How
the hell should I know, I was not even there. No wonder he had given
us a free holiday. “There'll come a time, one day, when you can pay
me back,” his words haunted `We'll soon see about that, brother
Peter. I've enough on my legs to worry about without being involved
in this petty dispute.'

Following a couple of telephone calls both solicitors were
horrified, neither calling me lest I said the wrong thing, leaving
the court to do a Solomon and financially divide the car down the
middle. `Someone had to teach him a lesson,' Mother said with
missionary zeal, back straight, moral victory claimed.

`She won't get a penny, the tax man will take her share,' Peter
laughed, paying his half with a smile, the other half of his car
having still cost him nothing.

But the solicitors remained silent, they had nothing to say,
each client's loss their partnership's gain.

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

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