Chapter 35 Dangerously Healthy by Malcolm Birkenshaw

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Chapter 35.

`Every other Wednesday we meet at Goby's in Middlebeck,' their
secretary was enthusiastic about my enquiry, then started to
describe how to get there. `Better still, we'll put a map in the
mail.'

Goby's! It sounds like an aquarist club instead of the writers'
circle I was wanting to join. On the other hand it might be an
archaeological society studying finds in the Gobi Desert, or even
for mounting expeditions. Whichever, at least it will be an excuse
for me to get out. Besides, I even once lectured to Middlebeck
Aquarist Club. It's probably them. If not, after being in Egypt,
studying a different desert should be quite interesting.

I replaced my telephone, content to leave it to the mustard
seeds as rays from a setting sun rippled through the cloisters of
our weeping willow tree, its autumn leaves and trailing branches
shimmering in the breeze.

When Wednesday arrived I set off, only to be plagued by
uncertainty whilst driving along. `Every other Wednesday is what
their secretary said. But is this the right Wednesday, the correct
other Wednesday?' I mused, at the same time recalling that this was
the road along which I had chased Ransley and Lena just four years
ago. A fragmented family was not the outcome I had anticipated, yet
Father seemed to have been guiding me that time. Is tonight's sigh
on my cheek a slight draught from the window? Or is it the
whispering of hints?

`One pound, pound entrance fee, fee to non-members, non-members
to Gobys',' said a man at the desk guarding the door, barring the
way into his club.

`Oh, you're Mr Goby?'

`Of course, of course. What else, what else, else?'

`Nothing, I, er, was, er, not sure if I'd got the right place,'
I shuffled, trying to stare away from his Adam's apple as it rose
and fell whilst he spoke, the turtle neck of his long baggy pullover
acted as a lens which focused my eyes.

`You weren't thinking, weren't thinking of, thinking of fish,
of fish?' he threw back his head.

`No,' I replied, now diverting my eyes to the bridge of his
spectacles which was held together with elastoplast.

`Through, through there, there right, right past the bar.'

`Thanks,' I pocketed my change without counting and edged
towards the arched doorway, a doorway decorated as though stage
scenery.

`That's Tuesday, Tuesday night's, night's drama society,
society that made that.'

`Oh,' I nodded, opening the door, quick to pass under the arch
of Arabian nights before he could repeat anything else half twice.

A broad room opened out, scenery from last night having been
stacked to one side, leaving fifty chairs directed in rows around a
fireplace heaped high with blazing coals. This was at the far end
where heads kept talking, whilst bagging seats, ready for the
speaker to turn up, only curiosity noticing me. But I was not the
last, other members still arriving, including a woman, designer
spectacles parked back on her head. She was stunning. Not my type,
stunning, far too beautiful of course, except for dreams where
I could fly and miracles happened.

A hush passed from ear to ear when tonight's speaker entered,
an author with more published works than many of those present. `On
the grounds that there are those amongst you writing historical
novels, though you're clearly not several hundred years old, I am
happy to confess that I write westerns about red Indians and
cowboys, even though I've never been to America,' he began.

After the meeting everyone ended up in the bar. The gorgeous
woman was laughing, surrounded by admirers. I remained standing,
far away, as though drinking, glancing over my glass, whilst talking
to others. She was leaving, with an extravagant wave to the room.
I smiled, in case she might notice, then she was gone. Funny how my
walk improves after having a drink, I mused, or was it the beautiful
woman? But no alcohol say the diets. Yet my circulation seems to
benefit, and it's not the first time, so it's not just imagination.
I remained puzzled. If it has anything to do with getting blood to
the tissues what would happen if I breathed pure oxygen?

`Where's tha been, dirty stop out,' Stan shouted, waving me
down as I drove back into the village. He was gossiping with his
uncle Neville under the only lamp the Parish Council had agreed to
keep lit after midnight. `Tha'll have seen that article in today's
newspaper,' he rested his chin upon the window I wound down. `I've
already been to your house with a bag of potatoes on the way to the
pub.'

`You've never carried them?'

`Nay..... Delivered it on't way tu t'Jolly Poacher, but wi' all
this drink and driving business I've left t'van in t'pub's car
park.'

`That's another field of hoeing I owe you,' I smiled in
gratitude. `But no, I didn't. Can't afford papers. Want to jump in,
come for a coffee?.... Then I'll run you home.'

`No thanks, I'm up early in t'morning, but tha should read
t'article. It's by a man what's been working wi' deep sea divers.
`Ee reckons that similar treatment with oxygen can cure your
disease.'

`Oxygen! That's a coincidence, I've just been thinking about
oxygen on the way home. Seriously, though, how much do I owe for the
spuds?'

`Repair me record player next time it breaks,' he pushed
himself back, removing his chin from my window, steadying himself as
he came to attention before wandering at a gentle slalom between
footpath and road uphill to his farm.

Funny how things turn up, yet I remained uncertain as to
whether he had misread the article, so next day I got in touch with
my old university. `Good morning, Pat, I'm seeking information
again, this time about oxygen.'

`Oh, how did you know? It's only this morning when I heard it
on local radio.' she laughed.

`Why, doesn't it work?'

`Ah, it's not that, it's just that the bod on the broadcast
sounded to be a bit of a character. He's a Hull diving engineer.
Just a minute, I'll find his address.' I waited whilst pages were
turned. `Here we are, and his telephone number.'

`Wait a minute, my pen's running out,' I said, using the burnt
end of a match to finish writing when its ball ran dry. `Thanks,
I'll let you know how I get on,' I quickly replaced the receiver,
anxious to contact him straight away. On second thoughts - I
hesitated - why was Pat chuckling? Better send him a letter rather
than phone, less chance of being humiliated if it's a load of old
codswallop.

My thoughts in bed that night were knots of trepidation tied
with hope. Could have been worse, darkness ironically having
silenced the rooks, though perhaps my hopes were merely
fly-by-nights.

Was it an omen, that fly, a buzzing torment when night swapped
for dawn, a torment which flitted with un-swottable speed,
persistently returning to land on my head?

Ignore it, ignore it. Best get up and find something to do - a
watched letter never arrives. Paint the kitchen, good idea, climbing
and stretching always helped my walking each time in the past.

`Trouble is I can't really afford any paint,' I talked aloud
after breakfast, opening the steps, at the same time trying to lull
that fly into a sense of abandoned security. `Mind you, the garage
is littered with tins of emulsion left over from previous jobs.
They'll do. Maybe won't suit the kitchen but there's plenty neutral
enough, particularly since the bathroom is usually littered with
boots which John leaves scattered about.'

BANG!

`That's got the little bugger.'

Yet no sooner had I started emulsioning the ceiling, leaning
against the top step, when the telephone started to ring. `Damn,
wait for me,' I chuntered, balancing the roller whilst trying to
climb down without shaking the steps. `Adderton 672658.'

`Walt Khitley, your letter arrived here this morning,' an
unfamiliar voice caught my hearing off balance.

`Who?' I said, still gasping for breath, trying to make sense,
hindered by someone at Telecom who seemed to be frying eggs on the
line.

`Khitley Marine. Did you noo write me about a dive?'

`Dive?' I puzzled, believing that was what he had said.
Perhaps, being Scottish, he might be ringing from somewhere distant
like the Outer Isles. `Sorry, you must have dialled the wrong
number.'

`I've nay misdialled. There's a letter here in my hands asking
about hyperbaric oxygen. Is your name noo Mytholmroyd?'

`Yes, er, yes... Oh! Oxygen, yes,' my voice lit up. But what
was hyperbaric oxygen? It was treatment under pressure I had written
about. Still, ask no questions receive no answers, `I've been told
you know something about it.'

`Aye, ye can say that. Come and try it for yourself, we're
having a dive this afternoon,' he boomed, a boom demanding that I
turn up rather than waste his time talking.

`I can't get there before three o'clock,' I clutched at the
first excuse I could think of, anxious to avoid taking a dive in a
submarine.

`That's nay problem. Three o'clock, then, and we'll squeeze ye
in, .... and I'll have a couple of strong lads waiting if ye need a
hand with your wheelchair,' his booming making it clear that if I
wanted to know more I would have to turn up and see it for myself.

`All right, three o'clock,' I succumbed, intending to invent a
reason to avoid going under the sea before I got there, even though
he had said that he got wheelchairs on board.

Beyond Howden the road looped gently from straight to straight
across the plain, easy upon the car's faulty steering and over-aged
engine. Even when we reached where the Wolds poured down to the
Humber and the road started to climb its engine continued to purr,
enjoying the cool October sunshine, aloof to autumn's greens and the
haze which hung broad upon the mud flats.

End of the world, it looked, nothing but, nothing but, nothing
but.... That's a thought, Jim Khitley will be waiting for the tide.
Low tide! It's impossible, you can't dive at low tide, though he
never actually used the word submarine. Must be using a kind of
underwater simulator.

Ten minutes later, once past the Humber bridge, Hull spread as
a working siesta before me. I glanced at the map, lying crumpled
after neglect upon the passenger seat, and took a left turn over
lands dank, dyked, reclaimed, passing a few scattered factory units,
their asbestos roofs and prefabricated walls a record of their mixed
fortunes and recession blighted balance sheets. Which one is Khitley
Marine? I drove slowly, looking for signs. That's it, with a giant
blue tower, full of water. If he thinks I'm diving in that bloody
thing I'm turning back, I braked, feeling for reverse gear.

`You for oxygen?' a hand thumped the roof of my car.

I jumped in my seat, foot slipping off the brake, the car
started inching forwards again. The roof thumper followed, muscled
armed, with a nautical sway. He was huge, strength with a capital S
in jeans and naval blue sweater. Ahead was a building, with no room
to turn, no further to go. `My name's Mytholmroyd,' was the
quickest I could think of before I wound down the window. `My name's
Mytholmroyd, rang your mister Khitley yesterday,' I tried again once
fresh air flooded in.

`That's me,' he boomed, his fist wrenching open the door.
`Just in time for the next dive,' he grabbed hold of my hand and
shook it until the shaking reached to my shoulder.

`I'm sorry I'm late,' I lied, trying to let go. `I don't mind,
it's all right starting without me,' now I was telling the truth. `In
any case, I don't like heights.'

`Heights?' he mulled. `You're going down, not up.'

`I know, I know, I know,' I repeated, anxious to keep him
becalmed. `But there's still that stairway to climb.'

`Stairway?' he puzzled, realising that I was looking up at his
blue tower with a blue metal ladder bolted to its outside. `That's
a thing of the past,' he laughed, a laugh which led me to suppose
that it might be a military secret. `Through that door there,' his
thumb motioned towards a hanger. `You'll find two others waiting,
I'll be with you in a minute,' he swivelled to leave. `Do you need a
hand?' he noticed me hesitating.

Hell, this was like my first day in the army, my eyes free to
dart but there was no way of escape, no turning back, not with that
bloody great prefabricated building barring all exits before me.
`No, just wondering where to park my car.'

`Leave it there, there where it is, nobody pinches stuff from
me.'

`I bet they don't,' I mumbled silently, stepping through the
wicket door, not knowing what to expect, slamming it twice before it
agreed to stay shut. The floor inside was of concrete, and before me
a large empty space, except for a pressure chamber, cylinder shaped,
lying on its side.

Once I moved closer there were three people huddled around a
blower heater behind it. `Good afternoon,' I cleared my throat,
breaking the silence, wondering where were the divers.

`Come in, shut that blasted door, keep out the cold,' their
teeth chattered.

`I've shut it,' I looked round, but the door had opened again.
This time I slammed it like into extinction.

One of the shiverers, a crisp man in civvies, held out his
hand. `I'm Rupert, what do you do?'

`Not a lot, my name's Martin, I presume you're in the
airforce?' I assessed his moustache.

`Right first time, how did you guess?' he preened. `Grounded
last week by the M.O.,' he did a tap dance to demonstrate that the
doctor was wrong.

`We also heard about this place on the radio, when we were
visiting his Auntie,' piped up a woman, tidying her son's hair as
he drew his head. He was aged about twenty, sitting on a stool by
her side, fidgeting. `Don't do that, Melvin, go to the toilet,' she
prickled, then proudly watched his walk to the green door. `He does
very well, been like this for over a year.'

`Right then, let's get us moving,' the wicket door opposite
burst open and Joe and one of his men thundered in. `There's
somebody noo here.'

`My Melvin, he's gone to the toilet.'

`Bloody hell, not again. Has the lad noo got something wrong
with his wee bladder?'

`No, he certainly hasn't,' she retaliated. `We only had a few
coffees, that's all, in Hull, whilst you were having your lunch.'

`Chuffin' hell, I'm not doing this for the good of ma health.
Once the dive starts it stays bloody down. He's noo coming up for a
pee,' Joe's patience had slipped yet another fathom. `Better keep
him in the airlock, on his own, ... and give him a bloody empty milk
bottle,' Joe started to work off his anger by hauling an oxygen
cylinder from one side of the hanger to the other. `Silly buggers,'
he muttered, then shouted to the mother, `How many coffees did your
laddie have?'

`I'm not sure,' she found the conversation unnecessary and
indelicate.

`He better take two milk bottles, then ... EMPTY ONES,' he
yelled, connecting oxygen pipes to the pressure chamber. How much
more would he have bellowed had he known that I had been expecting
the dive to take place in some kind of submarine? It was only the
knowledge that people had done it before, without coming to harm,
that persuaded me to yield meekly as this rough matlow prepared to
seal me into a cylinder one meter wide by two meters long. Soon it
was touching my skin, cold, the sort of chamber used by divers in
films, made of chunky steel, with a circular entry hatch in one end
and a tiny port hole next to some dials on one side.

`Come on, let's have ye, mind ye head,' Joe shoved me through
the hatch, millimetre by millimetre, like a reluctant tree dead to
the circular saw. I rubbed my eyes, trying to get used to the
dimness. `Lie here,' he unhooked a narrow bunk, supported on
chains, before shuffling backwards into the airlock. `This lad `ul
show ye what ta do and how to put on ye mask. He's dived before,'
Joe was referring to someone who crawled in as soon as his backside
was out of the way.

It was Rupert. He wriggled onto the other bunk, helped with my
mask, the airlock slamming shut, sealing us in, followed by another
metallic clang. Was that one the outer door closing? I dared not
ask in the silence which entombed us, except for the tsshhh, tsshhh,
tsshhh as we breathed through our oxygen masks in random staccato.
Someone hammered on the side, demanding our attention. Two eyes
peeped through the port hole, inferring were we all right?

We nodded, our masks like two wasps shaking their heads as we
each gave a thumbs up sign. The face disappeared, unblocking the
port hole letting a dim light re-enter. A pump started up, air
hissed into our chamber, building up pressure.

Alone, as though isolated in space or a deep ocean trench, our
oxygen valves continued to wheeze one strained breath at a time. I
breathed deeply, determined to make the most of my dive.

`What pressure did you take us to?' I asked when we climbed
out, ninety minutes later.

`Twenty four foot of sea water. Do ye no feel any better?'

`Just the same, except a bit stiffer.'

He looked disappointed. `It's only ye first treatment. They
say ye'll need a few dives to give it a chance.'

“They” might be right, but “they” are not buying my petrol.
`Sorry, but I'll have to rely on doing exercises at home until the
National Health Service opens a treatment centre nearer Adderton.'

`Ye must be bloody joking. The N.H.S. can noo afford spare
beds let alone a decompression chamber, not to mention the extra
staff needed ta run it,' he switched off his blower heater. `It's
all down to bloody politics, and ye know politicians. They're like
effing measles, irritable spots on the face of the world that make
the rest of humanity sick.'

The telephone greeted my arrival home. It was Claire, she was
bored, staying in, still taking tablets, but her palpitations were
improving. `Would you like to go out in the car?' I jollied.

`No, thanks. Just felt like talking to somebody. I'll phone
tomorrow. Cheerio.'

`Cheerio,' but the phone had gone dead. I was helpless, unable
to comfort her. Best try to bury the stress, I decided, had a glass
of shandy at the pub. Tomorrow I'll walk to the farm.

It was a grey, cool morning, with rooks laughing all over the
place. Damn them, they knew I was late setting off, Stan will be
having coffee any moment. I checked my watch and, without thinking,
broke into a trot. `Bloody hell!' I laughed back at the rooks,
`It's not just a trot, but a run. A RUN, I WAS RUNNING. THE OXYGEN
WORKS!' my spirits surging. Perhaps not yet a proper sprint, it only
lasted a few strides, but I was definitely running.

After coffee I returned home, still euphoric, determined to
walk further, but to somewhere more adventurous. My map showed a
track, now unused. I drove to where this green lane began, a
neglected way between hawthorn hedges grown wild and high which I
had always intended to walk along.

A blackbird chattered warning of my presence, dry leaves
rustling out of sight as it hopped along beneath the autumn hedge.
`No wonder it's called Long Lane. Better turn back,' my legs
decided. `Idiot,' I cursed, ready to collapse long before reaching
my car. The rooks were gloating as though the blackbird had seen me
off. `Never mind, I've done it once, someday I'll have oxygen and
do it again.' So far as the rest of the day was concerned I was
determined to rest, recover my legs, for on Saturday it was the
writers' buffet dance.

She was there, that gorgeous writer. `I'm Zena,' she said as
we were jostled together queuing for turkey. Her arm brushed against
mine, soft and thrilling. Nobody was moving, her shoulders were
beautiful, my peripheral vision aware of her curves. `Might as well
leave it until the queue-jam starts moving.'

`Good idea, shall we dance?' I said, braving in hope.

Her eyes smiled, we shelved our virgin plates, out of reach, my
height, and shuffled to the record player, our steps deep in the
carpet. `Sorry,' did I stand on her foot?

`It's all right.'

The record stopped, I slackened my hold. `The queue's still
not moving. Shall we keep dancing?' Our thighs moving together with
the rhythm as one until the record ran out.

`Do you think we should try the buffet again?'

`Sure,' I reached down the plates. We helped each other, sat
eating together. `I must have lived on the next road to you. Can't
remember seeing you, unfortunately, but then you're so much younger
than me.'

Food finished, we carried on dancing, carried on talking,
discovering that as teenagers we went to the same hops, same
cinemas, same theatres, yet never meeting before joining Middlebeck
writers' circle. The rook crowed three, damn it, the party was over,
time to go home.

I must get some more oxygen, I want to dance with Zena again.

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

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