Chapter 32 Dangerously Healthy by Malcolm Birkenshaw

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Chapter 32.

Hadzik's assistant walked me back to their office, dodging
across roads strangled with traffic, drivers angrily frustrated in
their rush to get home. Thank goodness she had been with me in
court. She was much better than Hadzik, relying upon ability rather
than the old school tie. Trouble was, his prejudices reckoned that
ties failed to rest well against bosomed breasts, a woman's place
and all that, that is why she was the “Indian” and he was the
“Chief”.

I followed her up their staircase, its polished brass rails now
cold to the touch as I wondered what to tell John: just what should
one say to an eleven year old boy when he sees which of his parents
has come through the door? I felt as though I had been to an auction
for slaves and I was his new owner.

`Hello, John,' I said, struggling for words.

`Hello,' he replied, not needing to be told. Was this his sole
let's-get-on-with-my-new-world response as he clicked his suitcase
of games shut? `Will you buy me some fireworks on the way home?' he
asked as he stood up.

Oh, dear, was materialism now to displace family love? `Of
course, if we hurry, before the shops shut,' I said, smiling, as
though trapped into this new contract, though something was telling
me that it was the correct thing to do. Was it Father, still there,
like on the night when I was trailing Ransley and Lena? Not that I
ever heard him speak during the whole of that chase, but somehow he
had always shown me the right turn.

If only I had given Lena a bouquet of flowers, or a ribboned
box of chocolates, or just a simple embrace perhaps things now would
have been different. Trouble is, Father had never been much good at
things like that when he was alive, that is why I never learned such
skills. Mind you, perhaps Lena's mind was already made up, what with
me having M.S. Probably I shall never know, even though we are still
married, but better have faith, do the right things, and maybe
Father will continue to guide me.

Thus within a couple of weeks Claire had changed jobs, made a
new friend on the bus home after work. `Will you pick me up from
Miranda's tonight?' her eyes twinkled.

`Miranda, who's that? Where does she live?'

`Ouseby. She's the girl on the bus.'

`Ouseby?' I was hoping to keep my car off the road, saving on
petrol whilst using the bike to keep myself fit. `Ouseby....
All right, since it's not many miles away,' I calculated, intending
to balance the needs and requests for both Claire and John.

`Tha wants to get thyself a smaller car, something more
economical,' Stan said a couple days later when he saw I had been
driving my limousine.

`I ask you, Stan, how can I afford a new car?'

`My wife might be selling hers. I tell thee what, I'll tell her
after tea if tha's interested,' he scratched the patch on his
jacket, not knowing whether it had been caught by dung or a stain.
`I reckon she'll be happy with fifty pounds. Pay her when tha can
afford it.'

`Fifty pounds! What's wrong with it?'

`Bloody pigs,' he looked up, the scratching having cut through
a crust. `Yon steering's a bit stiff, and it might not pass its
next M.O.T., but other than that nothing at all,' he lifted up the
door to his garage.

Inside there was a small Fiat. It looked all right, having been
dark blue all over before its age got at it, being about the size of
a suitcase, its test not due for another nine months. `Why do you
keep hers under cover whilst leaving your new one outside?'

`Because I run a diesel.'

`Brenda's is a bad starter, then?'

`Nay, it's not. But tha knows what petrol's like. Anyhow,
what more does tha want, she's only asking fifty pounds?'

`Sorry,' I apologised, and started its engine, ignoring the
acres of rust. `Funnily, I've just been offered a coaching job in
Harrogate, two mornings a week, and I'd been wondering how to get
there. Can I pay the fifty pounds at four pounds a week?'

`Of course tha can. It's yours, drive it home, I'll tell her,
she needs the garage,' we shook hands.

`What for?'

`Because she's getting a new car tomorrow.'

`A new car! Your potatoes fetched a good price this year,
then?'

`It were the barley. The barley tha helped me stook,' he
laughed.

I drove round the village a few times, learning the quirks of
its steering. It was only stiff until both axles warmed up, then the
wheels pointed in the same direction together instead of wherever
their dangerously-worn parts permitted them to wander.

`Can I have another lift, Dad?' Claire dashed into the drive,
all wrapped up for winter, grabbing the opportunity offered by me
arriving home with an economic motor.

`Ouseby?' I guessed, unfolding myself, opening its door.

She smiled. `I only need a lift back. Miranda's father will
call for me on his way home.'

`Miranda's...What time?'

`Ten o'clock. Try not to be late, Dad, my lift's here already,'
her parting instruction as she ran down the drive, scarf trailing,
hastily wrapped round her neck with snow falling.

Not yet another powdering on top of iced snow, I cursed. It
was turning out to be the worst winter on record. No wonder Brenda
had bought a new car, one that would start without jump leads,
whether or not it was kept in a garage.

With frozen fingers I arrived late, despite having warmed the
ignition plugs in front of our fire before the old Fiat would start.
Still, in this weather, better late than never, I hunched, feet
crunching over the frost encrusted snow which twinkled uneven on
their path. I guess it was Miranda's mother who tugged to open the
door until the icicles cracked, warm air escaping through the inch
grudged gap. `They've gone round to Isabel's, number twenty,' she
repeated, her voice muffled behind scarves.

`Who's Isabel?' I opened my mouth but the door shut out its
inch before my frozen breath could ask. `Oh, well, there can't be
many number twenty's in Ouseby,' I crunched back to the car, its
engine still running, and started to reverse. `Sixteen, eighteen,
twenty.' At least this time, being on a hill for a push start, I
could switch off the engine.

Upon the door to number two with a missing nought I knocked
hard, hard enough to crack any icicles lest it might also jam when
ajar. `Someone for Claire. Come in, keep out the cold,' a woman
chivvied me out of the frost and led me past a sinkful of pots, past
a dying rubber plant, past a pile of ironing. `Claire, I think your
father's here?'

I nodded. `I'm sorry about being late, but....'

`By the way, my name's Isabel,' she said as soon as we reached
the warmth of their lounge off which sprouted a dining room recess.
She was younger than me, ten years, perhaps, under the coats.
`Coffee?'

`Two sugars, please.'

`I know. We don't use it, but Claire told me about you.'

`Oh dear.'

`It's not that bad. Quite good, in fact,' she tipped a pile of
Guardian newspapers off one end of the settee, making room for us to sit down to talk, huddled, sharing the fireplace with five youngsters.

`Excuse the washing up, but it's too cold tonight,' she passed me a
poker, `Here, see what you can do. The kettle's boiling, who wants
another coffee?”

`Did you see my mother?' asked Miranda.

`I think so, somewhere under the scarves.'

They laughed. `She's an artist.'

`I'm also an artist,' Isabel returned, nudging open the door
with one elbow whilst balancing a trayful of cups.

`Not a proper artist,' scoffed Winifred, her daughter.

`Get your own coffee, little sod.'

`Swearing. That's proof she's an artist,' contradicted Miranda
just as a clock above the fireplace started winking the hour.

`Awful, isn't it?' Isabel apologised.

`Well, it......'

`Awful, awful, I know it is. Winifred got it in a jumble sale, but
it's the only one in the house which works.'

`Mother! I bought it at the village school, and was only six
at the time. Besides, what about that old clockwork alarm in your
bedroom? That still works.'

`Take no notice of Winifred. You're not in a hurry, are you?'
Isabel started pouring more coffee.

`No, there's no need to rush, John is staying with friends,' I
stirred in old sugar which had gone lumpy. `On second thoughts, we
had better get home before our pipes freeze up,' I quickly emptied
my cup.

`Come again, any time,' Isabel rose just as quickly, wrapping
herself up for the door.

`Why not take some water in case you are frozen?' Winifred
suggested, having to stand on her tiptoes to whisper into my ear in
case her idea was daft.

`We've got a spare kettle,' Isabel interrupted, having
overheard whilst standing shivering in their doorway. `You can bring
it back next time.'

`No thanks, we'll manage,' I edged past and skated back to the
car. Best give it a push off, I decided, before jumping in to let
it freewheel down the hill. `Doing without water for tea never
bothers me,' I muttered under my breath which condensed on the
windscreen as we gathered up speed. `It's having our toilet frozen
up that's the real inconvenience.'

`Dad. That's an awful joke,' Claire clung onto her seat whilst
I engaged gear, the car's engine starting as we slithered onto the
main road at the foot of the hill.

`Bloody government cutbacks,' I swore, cursing the highways
department for having used up its ration of grit, wondering how
Claire had overheard my thoughts. Maybe, like my breath, they had
condensed on the windscreen?

`Someone's been whilst we were out,' Claire strained her neck
when we oversteered past our drive. She had spotted three dead men
or plastic sacks lying exhausted on the ice against our kitchen
door.

`Stan's been,' I switched off the engine after succeeding to
spin the wheels back to the house.

`Stan? How do you know?' she refused to get out.

`They're old feed bags, from his pigs,' I guessed, getting out
to open the first one. `He's brought us some coal!' I opened her
door.

`There's something else, over there, in the dark,' she refused
to get out, her finger pointing, shaking.

There was something else, I shone my torch, something strange,
something yellow, my feet brushing shin deep into the footprints
crossing our lawn. `There's no need to worry,' I called back.
`It's new insulation where our pipes cross the dike.' Probably Stan
had done it, after delivering the coal. `Isn't that good of him?' I
reopened Claire's door. `I only mentioned about our pipes freezing
up last...'

`Hurry up, Dad, let's get indoors.'

She was shivering violently, obviously a measure of how severe
was the cold. I gave her the key, wondering what made her so
anxious? She never used to be like this. Probably due to the
divorce, I followed her into the house, dismissing any worries about
her health when she revealed she was planning yet another Saturday
at Miranda's.

`I suppose you'll be wanting another lift?' I emptied my
pockets.

`Yes, please.'

`Where to this time, Isabel's again?'

`Why Isabel's?' her eyes twinkled, she was warming up, `Are you
interested?'

`No, of course not.'

`I bet you are. Is it because she's also divorced?' Claire
sought to embarrass me until my promise of a lift was secure.

`Just wondered,' I switched on the television.

By the time next Saturday arrived fresh westerly winds were
winning the tussle and winter's domain was being loosened, the
council had found some salt for the roads, and I arrived at
Miranda's fresh and early. `They're round at Isabel's,' her mother
opened the door wide and warmer this time. `Do you want to wait
here?'

`No, thanks,' I smiled, stretching my back. `Whilst the
weather's like this I think I'll go for a stroll. Might as well,
knowing Claire, she won't be ready until she sees me turn up.'

I meandered slowly, until round the corner, then strode out
arms swinging up to the gate for number two with its nought missing.
`Come in, you're early,' Isabel opened the door, engulfed in
billowing steam. `You're just in time for a meal.'

`A meal?' I hesitated, wondering how best to decline.

`Don't worry, Claire's told me about your diet,' a kettle
started to whistle and she disappeared back into the clouds. `Come
in, come in.'

Beam me in, Scottie, I thought, taking a deep breath before
following her into the cauldron. `Don't put yourself out, mine's not
an easy diet, I'll be all right....,' I said, my words being lost
amongst the turbulent waters she had begun draining from pan into
sink.

Volcanoes of steam erupted to the ceiling as Isabel's forearm
wiped strands of dank hair from her eyes. `Winifred, set a place for
Martin,' she again disappeared, draining an even bigger pan. `We're
having plenty of greens, nothing with glutin, and I can make a
separate gravy using cornflour.'

`No, really, I'm...'

`If you're feeling guilty go through and help set the table,'
she set me at ease. I had no need to pretend any more. `Then you can
sit down and enjoy food cooked by somebody else.'

A fly flew round the ceiling during the meal, circling the
tilted light shade. `Don't kill it, a fly in winter is a sign of
good luck,' Winifred shrieked, then carried on helping to spoon out
seconds for those wanting more food.

I sat down, unfolding my swotter back into a newspaper, leaving
the fly to do victory rolls in celebration of the absence of
spiders. `Make the best of it,' I thought, `When the warm weather
returns they'll be back, together with an armada of martins to
vacuum the air if you get back outside.'

`Never mind arguing about a fly's right to live, there's
someone knocking at the door, Winifred,' Isabel hurriedly started
clearing the plates whilst, with almost prearranged timing,
Miranda's parents entered carrying flagons of cider.

`I'd better not, thanks,' I leant back, replete.

`You can't tell me that this is also on your diet,' they
started to pour but ran out of glasses.

`All right, that's enough,' I held up my hand as, like a tide,
cider flowed until it lapped over the rim of my beaker whilst,
preoccupied, they spoke of art and science and of many things.

They were laughing and joking, I was funny again. Yes, after a
gap of ten years I was funny again, that loss of humour not being
irreversible, not due to M.S., everything was now feeling so good.

`You better have some coffee before driving home,' Isabel found
another beaker.

`I'm not drunk.'

`What about the breathalyser, Dad?'

`Better stay here for the night, then.'

`I've told you, I'm not drunk.'

`I know that, it's just to warm you,' Isabel slid her arms
inside her coat. `This damned house starts getting cold once the
fire dies down. The night storage radiator's to blame.'

`Which, this one over here?' I bent down to check the power
supply. `Its thermal fuse has probably blown.'

`Do you know how to repair them?' she passed the sugar basin.

`Not with sugar, I can't, but in daylight, yes, when I can work
with the electricity off,' I smiled.

`Could you do it tomorrow?' she stirred in a couple of
spoonfuls. `You can stay for lunch whilst you're here.'

Strike whilst the radiator's cold, I mused, and that was the
start of me cycling for meals whilst the children were out.

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

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