Chapter 36 Dangerously Healthy by Malcolm Birkenshaw

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Chapter 36.

I might die of old age waiting for the medical establishment to
test whether oxygen works, I thought, having decided to douse my
doctor for hints which would circumnavigate the severe breath of
inertia I was tacking against.

`Good morning, Martin,' he folded his hands on his desk, `What
can I do for you?'

`Should I have my blood pressure checked before starting
to cycle again?' I asked, finding any excuse for being in his
surgery before letting him know what I had been up to.

`Feeling fit?' he queried, watching me roll up my sleeve, his
glance sufficient to size up my health, any wrapping of a blood
pressure cuff for his sphygmomanometer round my biceps merely to
please my request.

`They're experimenting with oxygen under pressure,' I
chatted, casually, whilst he inflated the cuff. The mercury rose.

`Mmm,' he loosened his stethoscope, `I understand there was
something about it in the popular press.'

I waited until he finished. `I saw a chamber in operation last
week.'

`Did you?' he looked up, paused writing.

Do I risk telling him, I wondered? `In fact, I had a dive.'

`A dive, did it help?' he rested his pen.

`Not immediately, but next day I was able to run.'

Aghast, speechless, he almost rose in his chair.

`Don't get excited, I didn't run that far.'

`You'll be having some more, soon, though?' he sparkled, filled
with enthusiasm.

`No, unfortunately,' I disappointed him. `The treatment was a
one off, done by a man whose living comes from making diving
equipment for use in the North Sea,' each arm finding a sleeve as I
put my jacket back on. `Though I did wonder whether breathing
oxygen at ordinary pressure whilst doing exercises at home would
help?' I cast a sprat.

`You could always try,' he lifted his pen ready to sign a
prescription. `As long as you don't do it in front of the fire.'

`Can't afford the coal,' I threw a smile as a decoy, pocketed
the mackerel, and drove straightaway to Middlebeck.

Within minutes of getting home with a cylinder and mask I gave
the oxygen a try and began to feel better. It was as though it
provided me more strength for each exercise. My circulation
improved, and the greater my improvement the stronger the exercise.

`It works,' I reported back to him a few days later, `In fact
cutting my lawns, which last week took three sessions, I was able to
do all in one.'

I could tell by his smile that he approved, and elsewhere in
the health service Claire was declared fit. Thus she had moved to
Middlebeck to share a flat with her friend Sally. `It's got two
rooms plus kitchen and bathroom,' she rang, excited, her telephone
dancing with joy. `I'd like you to call once everything's tidy. My
lungs breathed spring air, perhaps winter was over, for Zena also
lived in Middlebeck.

`I passed your house on the way to see Claire,' I wrote to
Zena, my letter an excuse to see if she would like to go out to
dinner? Days passed, a week passed, a fortnight passed. Nothing,
nothing, except for the postwoman delivering typed letters and
damned window envelopes.

She was also missing from the circle. `Is Zena well?' I cast a
casual enquiry at the next meeting, fearing that it was my letter
which was keeping her away. Sod the dinner, if she returned to the
circle at least I could appreciate her from afar at the bar.

`She's busy, moving home,' replied the secretary.

`Phew,' that's a relief, I thought.

`Pardon?'

`Oh, nothing. It's just hot in here.'

`Seems all right to us,' they looked round the room, as though
its temperature was visible, then fractured into groups discussing
things more consequential. I pretended to listen whilst my mind
searched for something to fill the time now that Zena was fading
beyond reach. Chatter, chatter, chatter, the fractals continued. I
smiled and nodded, having suddenly remembered a notice in our post
office window: “Arkston Bash Badminton Club, members wanted”. Perhaps
that will do, I thought, I'll phone them tomorrow.

`Unfortunately I've got M.S.' I confessed when I rang,
expecting the worst, giving my details to their secretary.

`Doesn't matter, so has my sister-in-law. Mind you, she's no
longer able to get around but, if you want a game, come along.'

That sounded promising, so I borrowed a racquet from Stan's
wife.

`Hello. We spoke on the telephone,' their secretary welcomed
me, one foot angled against the wall in relaxed friendship, casually
tapping his racket on the floor, `Make yourself at home.'

Within the gymnasium there were fifteen players or less,
resting against wall bars, waiting in turns for a game. My chance
eventually came, I managed several strokes, we lost. Next game a
bit better, but my movements remained leaden.

Yet after three Mondays my central nervous system either began
to relearn or had started to remember the game. Time to buy my own
racket. Bugger the rooks, this will be my first new purchase in
years.

Next badminton evening things began to feel good, the racket
was promising to be a sound investment. Best of all, my legs were
recovering, the old sensations of a healthy circulation were
beginning to return. I was excited, next week my nerves will be
tingling. `Just a moment,' a little man took me aside. `You know
what I'm going to say?'

Not the faintest idea, I hesitated, puzzled, shaking my head,
the others had gone.

`You're spoiling everyone's game. It is my duty to ask you not
to come again.' I was stunned. The magnolia walls suddenly looked
bleak. `But, as chairman, I am taking it upon myself to overlook the
games you've already had. Here's your full membership fee, returned
intact.'

Damn, I swore, all the way home. Shit, shit, shit. Serves you bloody-well right, forgetting that mustard seeds need constant
cultivating with faith. It's your own fault, behaving as though
ready to walk on water again. But don't give in, brace yourself,
continue with writers'.

A fat lot of good that did. Zena was still missing, my
telephone remained leaden, and the squeak of our postwoman's cycle
heralded nothing.

Hope had long since died when a letter fluttered from my letter
box like a butterfly, its handwriting whispering to be handled with
care. Pale blue paper, folded longways, twice. `Dear Martin,' it
wrote. I looked away, finding my breakfast to finish, not daring to
let the hand that penned the rejection see my dejection. `I'm sorry
to have been so busy, but yes, I should like to....,' it seemed to
be saying as I accidentally looked though my half shut eyes.

Though my eyes might be mistaken I dared to read more
carefully. Hooray, hooray, she had said yes, she would like to.....
I held up the letter, opened it wide. Its hand was clear, every word
simple, written to me, just me, just me. Some Sunday, she suggests,
perhaps somewhere surprising.

`Some Sunday, all Sunday?' I telephoned.

`Why not?'

`How surprising?'

`Surprise me.' The sweetness of her reply silencing the rooks
in my heart.

Friday came. `Sunday's the day after tomorrow,' I hummed, until
Saturday arrived when I chuckled, `It's less than twenty four hours
away.'

After midnight Saturday one o'clock Sunday arrived, and two
o'clock and three o'clock until a blackbird warned that daybreak
would soon be about. Even a cock started crowing as I lay watching
first light being born when the dim hint of dawn infected an indigo
sky. Who'd be a bird, only aware of today?

After breakfast I set off, all bright tailed and bushy eyed,
having arranged to collect Zena en route, the weekend traffic
thinning and disappearing the further we drove. `Where's this?'
she asked.

`Wharfedale.'

`I've been to Wharfedale, many times, all of it, but never
here.'

`Not many people have.'

`What happens if we meet a car?'

`One of us has to reverse, a long, long way back.'

`Eeek!' a little squeak, she had seen that drop between the
trees. Trees above, trees across, trees below, our track clinging
to the rim of a gorge without sign of a bottom where more trees were
soaked in sounds of a river still in its youth.

Boughs and branches spread everywhere, in whim and whimsy,
unlike the track which, free to wander, obeyed the fells. `Shall we
stop here?' I asked, too late for lunch too soon for dinner. She
smiled, daring not to move until I got out. `Not that way, over
here,' I pointed towards a dry stone wall, its wicket gate opening
onto the moors and a high wide sky.

We meandered over grass, some coarse some grazed, inhaling the
air kissed by bracken and boulder, soothed by the sun. A lone tree,
wedged against a niche, an acorn when the woodlands died, overlooked
a waterfall. `Where's this?' she paused, resting.

`The Valley of Desolation,' I sat on her rock. She raised an
eyebrow in doubt. `Truly,' I reassured, `It was once a valley of oak
trees, until being struck and destroyed by a thunderstorm.'

`How would you know?' she smiled and set off walking again.

`I was at school, six miles from here,' I followed, taking a
lower track so we could walk side by side. The rocks started to
cast long shadows. Time for dinner. `I know a good pub, maybe
fifteen minutes away.'

`I'm sorry, Sir. Bar snacks only, Sunday nights.'

Damn, blown it, first date, last chance? `There's the
Cobblers' Arms, on the way home, not far from Adderton,' I
improvised, still hoping to please her. `They serve even better
meals.'

Good idea, we agreed, twilight setting off before us, ever more
stars laughing, the night blackening as we failed to keep up.

`This looks good,' she rejoiced miles later when our headlights
picked out the inn from the trees.

`Certainly, Sir, a table for two, eleven o'clock, we're booked
until then,' the landlord welcomed, unfolding two menus upon his
bar.

`Only a drink this time, thank you, work in the morning,' we
looked at each other.

`A snack will suffice,' Zena hinted.

`Sorry, Madam, bar meals finish at ten.'

`Not to worry,' I hinted to Zena, there was bound to be
something at home.

`Steak, or chicken, with greens and potatoes?' I threw open my
freezer.

`Something less substantial?'

`Beef-burgers, fish fingers?' I sorted through the junk food
favoured by John.

`Anything healthier?'

I worked my way through the cupboards. `Baked beans on toast?'
I hazarded a dice with the last row of tins.

She nodded.

I did without toast, but we shared out the beans. `Sorry about
this.'

`Never mind,' she smiled, `That's still a dinner you owe me,'
before she got ready to return home.

I guided her mini onto the lane, waving until its lights had
long disappeared. Goodie, good, good, I danced round the kitchen
with mustard dust sparkling under my feet, I'll be seeing her again.

Ten days passed, when my joy became caution and, worse,
Middlebeck Writers were closed for summer. After a few weeks of
hoping even the dust between my toes had fallen away, the
postwoman's bike daily squeaking letterless by. Then the telephone
suddenly burst into blossom. `Tomorrow I shall be passing on my way
back from one of our branches,' her voice shone like the day's
sunshine.

`It's a Bank Holiday, the roads will be murder,' I said,
overtaken with joy, saying the first thing to mind - then cringed,
realising that my thoughtless reply could have well put her off.
`Why not have lunch here,' I panicked, scrambling for another
reply, `And then we can pick somewhere at leisure, without
ending up .......'

`Eating beans?' she laughed.

`No, no. A proper meal, three-course lunch or whatever you
prefer.' Would she say yes, would she say no? Each tick of the
clock death to my ears.

`Sounds like a good idea, shall we say about twelve?'

`Twelve! Twelve o'clock it is,' the surge in my heart silencing
the clock.

`But I guess you're right, about it being Bank Holiday,' she
said.

No, no, why did I open my big mouth, don't say she's going to
cancel?

`The roads will be jammed. Perhaps it might be better if we
were to have a snack or something at your place. Anything will do,
but try not to surprise me with beans,' she giggled.

By twelve o'clock Saturday the starters were out, vegetables
blanched, steak ready to grill, the best cutlery scavenged, making
up two matching sets. Just in time, her car arrived, never late. She
smiled, casually dressed, tasteful as ever, carrying a cool bag. We
exchanged a peck on the doorstep. `Would you like a lunchtime drink
at the Jolly Poacher?' I asked to steady my nerves.

She hesitated, saw all the pans at the ready. `No, later, do
you like a dry white, it's already chilled, where do you keep your
bottle opener?' she zipped open the cool bag.

`In this drawer,' I pointed. `Shall I start the meal?'

`Have a glass first, we can talk whilst it's cooking.'

Speckled sunshine cast shadows of a silver birch upon the table
as we ate overlooking the buttercup meadow. `Shall we finish
the wine?' we smiled at the glasses.

I held up the bottle, not much left. `Half each?'

Drowsily, she nodded. I poured, slid back her glass, wrist
brushed against wrist. No talking, just breathing, my palm turning
slowly, fingers lightly caressing her forearm, hands holding.

Pulses quickened, eyes melted, lids growing even heavier with
wine. `Shall we move?' Somewhere to rest, sleep off the meal, but
in a bungalow, only yards from a bedroom we fell asleep, fully
clothed, front to back, my arm round her waist.

We dozed and turned, just a kiss, and turned again, to ask
questions without answers, giving answers without questions, kissing
again, lasting, lightly embracing, dozing, still embracing,
temperatures rising, needing to sleep between sheets, waking,
wishing to stay.

`Must be going soon,' Zena drew the curtains, switched on the
light, borrowed a dressing gown. `Where's the kettle?'

We made tea, hand in hand, then followed each other back to the
bedroom.

Two or three evenings a week, over the next fortnights or more,
we stayed at Adderton or Middlebeck. Her meals were exquisite, fat
free, with healthy side salads, never terminal greens, but fresh
ones tossed in a dressing to match the food and the moment.

Claire and John were delighted that father had “found” a
glamorous girl friend. `Go out whenever you want, dad,' they seized
the opportunity to marry me off to someone they thought was great.
Wait a minute, I thought, don't be in such a hurry, other things
need to be considered. Mind you, this time, they were not a
negative part of the equation. Besides, being older, they should
soon be making their way.

Several days later at a petrol station I was still smiling to
the world, counting the spinning digits as fuel was pumped into my
car. `How are you keeping?' a young woman asked me, breaking into my
thoughts. Who is she, this woman, also buying cut-price four star in
the next village?

`Fine, thanks,' I replied, unable to remember her face.

`You're certainly looking well. We've been wondering what came
of you?'

`You've been wondering?'..... Then I remembered. She had been
wearing white shorts at Arkston Bash Badminton Club last time I saw
her. `They gave me the sack. Everyone said I was spoiling their
game,' I said, fiddling with my credit cards, trying to remember
whether it was a Mastercard or the Visa time of the month?

`Who told you that?'

`Your chairman.'

`I never heard anyone complaining,' her brow deep in thought.
`In fact the others started asking about you.' Then her expression
changed, `He gave your place to his boss, when you stopped coming.
The short arsed Machiavelli.'

`Well, not to bother, I've ended up making other arrangements.'
Not telling her that now I had Zena there was no room for badminton
in my life.' `But thanks for your concern. It's good to see you
looking so well. You'll have to excuse me, though, I've got my son
to run to the station.'

John was going to spend five summer weeks at his mother's in
Worcestershire. This is where she now lived after marrying a
divorced farmer with two thousand acres.... Not that he had been
divorced when she met him, but that is another book.

Zena continued to turn every day into sunshine, so the manner
of John's return in truculent mood brought a sharp stab of winter.
`You've never, never ever done anything for me,' he sneered.

My lips flopped, gumless, unable to form words, whilst deep in
the bowels of my heart I struggled to think... The ungrateful little
sod. Years of effort wasted. Years of hope shattered. Before me a
black hole of despondency. Yet I still loved both Claire and John,
both equally, both differently.

But in the furnace of conflict my temper wanted to strike back.
Better not, though, so I telephoned Zena for a whinge. `Did you say
you're going on holiday next week?'

`I was hoping to, week after next, probably taking a package
holiday.'

`Where to?'

`You'll only laugh.'

`I won't.'

`Majorca.'

I stifled my guffaw, with hand over the mouthpiece. Not that I
had reason to mock, being ignorant of Mediterranean holidays apart
from music hall jokes. `Who are you going with?' I regained my
composure.

`Nobody. I've not booked yet, but late season bargains should
be easy to find.'

`Going on your own?' I sounded surprised.

`Yes.'

`Would you mind if I came along for the holiday?'

Silence. `I'll have to think.' Longer pause. `I've never done
that kind of thing before.'

`It's the holiday I'm desperate for. Anyway, we're hardly
strangers after the last couple of months.'

More silence. `I'm only planning to lie around and sunbathe.'

`That's all right by me, I'll keep out of your way, if that's
what you want. My problem is that I've never been abroad, by plane,
at least not for a holiday, so don't know what to expect.'

`Flying's no problem. I'll give it a thought, we can talk about
it this weekend.'

Next day John apologised, particularly contrite when I told him
what I was thinking of doing. `Enjoy yourself. I'll be fine, as long
as there is plenty of food in,' he jollied.

Food in? His trouble was too much liquid diet. Any pub, any
town, any time. Still, with this apology there was hope that he
would return to being the John I once knew. Even so, I was not going
to alter my arrangements, not this time. In any case, the holiday
was virtually booked, all being well.... Was I being mean?

`I've told you, enjoy yourself,' John said, having detected my
hesitation. He had suddenly grown up.

Daylight vanished, the plane prepared to land, passengers
battened down, altitude falling, the lights of Palma airport racing
beneath us, bump, engines reversed, we were there. Passengers
shuffled to hurry, boarding Terminal buses, asphalt radiating heat
from the day, the scent of Majorca hanging in the air. Hurry, hurry,
the luggage would follow. To the east a full moon, three quarters
risen, smoky, silhouetting the baked landscape.

Space became time and time became space before the luggage
carouselled back into our lives. Couriers with clipboards, British
and tanned, `This way, please,' they sorted us between three waiting
coaches. `A diesel engine started, just like at home, airport
sodium lights, just like at home, our coach driving into the
unknown, the further it drove along asphalted roads with their dust
trodden edges the more not like at home. Zena slipped her hand into
mine, squeezing evermore tightly each time we came to a stop, hotels
becoming apartments, apartments becoming peel painted villages.
`Parquet Mar.'

`That's us,' we were the last couple aboard.

`Passport, yes, si, passport, passport, si,' a torch danced.
`I give back, you leave, si,' he gave up trying to read my name,
ticked his records instead, then led us along a path, his torch
flashing glimpses of mock Moorish apartments. `Please, yes,' he
unlocked our door, switched on the lights, expecting our approval.
`Si, yes,' he demonstrated both beds with a prod of his fingers.
`This kitchen, OK?' he insisted on opening each cupboard, the
fridge, the cooker, the...

`OK, OK,' we assured him. `Buenas noches, no problem, OK,
buenas noches,' pushing the apartment door shut to encourage his
heels to depart. `Shall we have a drink before going to bed?' we
smiled, at last on our own. Why not? There were two weeks ahead,
this was the honeymoon our marriages had been too tepid to savour.

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

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