Chapter 39 Dangerously Healthy by Malcolm Birkenshaw

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Chapter 39.

A grey pony, with eyes frisky behind its fringe, having escaped
from Adderton long meadow, was trotting unbridled past my house.
Possibly it had forced its way through a gap started during last
February's great storm and, having eaten its larder bare, had now
set off to banquet upon pastures fresh. On the other hand, I
thought, there could be a horse thief or cattle rustler inside that
Ford Transit van with its polluted exhaust which was billowing blue
fumes along our lane.

But the van came to a spluttering stop, unable to follow the
pony? Damn, the driver's got out, leaving his creaking door rustily
swinging open. Oh, no, he is coming my way. Yet another cowboy to
insist that my drive needs resurfacing who will "just happen to have
a load of cheap tarmacadam for sale!"

Maybe not, for I had seen that neglected designer stubble
before, even recognised the jeans, torn and cemented, supported by
twine. It was Harry Hodger, wearing a disintegrating baseball cap
backwards way front.

`Nah, then. What you want doing?' he drew deeply on a
cigarette which was already down to its but.

`These window frames, they're rotten. Especially this one, with
its cracked....'

`No bother,' he lit another cigarette from his smouldering
butt, casting a watering eye over my woodwork, that eye which was
not already smarting from nicotine, and coughed, `You'll get a grant
to cover the cost of new window frames from the DHHS,' and coughed
again, `-you are on social security, aren't you?.'

I nodded whilst he began another bout of nicotinic coughing.
`If you are,' he spluttered, `I can cut out the rot and make your
old ones look like new for a fraction of the cost.'

`Can you?'

`Nah, then. When I've painted them over nobody will tell, and
we can share out the difference,' he wiped his mouth along his
sleeve, sucked upon a fresh cigarette, and started sucking until
sparks flew off its end.

`Maybe,' I paused, having backed away from his splutter. He
was wrong, it could not be that easy. Besides, it was against the
law. On the other hand, I was broke, my pension had been cut whilst
my expenses had not. `OK' I agreed to give it a try, hoping that
the ends would justify the means.

What a surprise, the social security sent a cheque for three
hundred pounds together with a note, “Do as much as you can. Reapply
when the money runs out.”

`Harry, you were right,' I cycled top speed to tell him, with
the cheque in my pocket.

`Nah, then, I told you you'd get it. So long as they keep on
sending you the money I'll keep on finding the jobs,' he coughed,
rubbing his hands, lips rolling a fresh cigarette from one side of
his mouth to the other whilst his tongue played with the next
cigarette to be lit.

The suggestion was tempting, providing me with chance to escape
from the siege economy which had dogged me ever since the divorce.
`Sounds very interesting, Harry, but will you get everything done
before next winter arrives?'

`Next winter! Leave it to me,' he loosened my fingers from the
social security cheque, stuffed it into his back pocket. `You take a
holiday, I'll deal with everything whilst you're away,' his coughing
continued whilst he inked a few measurements on the back of his
hand.

`All right,' I agreed, though there was no chance of a holiday,
not without Zena. Still, I had to tell someone of how my problems
about the window frames had been resolved so I called to see Tom.

`You've never given him the cheque before the job's done?' he
looked up from his weeding, alarmed at what I had said.

`Had to, that's what the DHHS told me to do. Anyway, it should
be all right, he lives near our village. I pass not far from his
house every day.'

`It's your decision,' he shrugged, standing up from his flower
bed, straightening each shoulder, one after the other. `Come inside
for a coffee. Ola, is the kettle hot?' he realised it was too late
for me to undo what had already been done.

`I've got to occupy myself, doing something, instead of going
on holiday,' I attempted to justify my actions. `At least I'll be
able to do exercises, go cycling, and test myself whilst Zena's in
Italy.'

`She's in Italy?'

`I've already told you. Convalescing with her sister in
Tuscany.'

`How long for?'

`I don't know,' my melancholy returned, the black rook round my
neck now my life was again in the Doldrums.

And there it remained, peck, peck, peck, tormenting my
memories, even whilst I was busy testing new regimes. Peck, peck,
peck, the weeks became lumpy, increasingly lumpy and Spring and hope
faded. `Where's Harry?' I asked around the village. All he had done
so far for the three hundred pounds was to fit a second hand door
frame.

`Building himself a pig sty with the money you paid him,' Lofty
muttered through the corner of his mouth whilst pulling a pint,
leaning knowingly across the full width of his bar.

Damn Harry Hodger. Tom had been right after all. Spider, spider
on the wall, who's the daftest customer of them all? What has all
this to do with spiders? - a spider can do only what a spider has to
do, and humans don't have to eat flies. Use your brain, Mytholmroyd,
get in touch with the Social Security, they'll soon sort him out.

Did they sort him out? Did they sort him out!? The best they
could manage was a reply by return of post, followed by a visit from
a senior official who called to see me several weeks after my
postlady had delivered their letter. Still, at last things seemed to
be working out fine. I relaxed. He sat with his files engulfing the
full width of my settee. `The cheque we sent was a mistake, you
were not entitled to it,' he dug into his brief case for yet another
document.

`Mistake?' my jaw sagged, with voice almost gone. I swallowed,
tried again, and then spoke too loud. `But the money's probably
spent, he'll have already used it. Goodness knows how I'll be able
to repay the three hundred pounds.'

`Ah,' he raised his voice, as though assuming I must be deaf.
`I thought you might have that problem,' he burrowed further through
more acres of pages, struggling to make sense of each new
regulations, hoping for a sub-clause to provide a way out. `It can't
be done, strictly you must hand back the cheque right away,' he
continued to shout.

`But it was your office that instructed me to pass him the
payment,' I squirmed, voice back to normal, hoping this would have
them sue Harry rather than me.

`Have you any savings?' he unfolded a catch-all form, so
familiar he was able to find it without having to look.

`Savings? No, none, none at all, no, nothing.'

`Mmm, and no additional income,' he struck out section after
section before reading back my declaration which he had composed.
`Sign here, if you agree with the statement.'

I did, I did, I definitely did, presuming it best not to argue
with a boss from the DHHS. `But what about the money he owes you.'

`Technically, actually, he doesn't owe us any money. It is you
to whom we gave the cheque,' he struggled to squeeze his dunes of
documents back into the brief case. `However, all being well, we
won't have to prosecute, in this instance.'

Not prosecute, in this instance? It doesn't make sense, no, it
does not make sense: not unless it is their mistake and, with it
being Government money, he intends to save a stitch in time and lose
the error somewhere amongst their files.

Yes, perhaps he has come here just to cover it up. If that is
the case, I'll test him, whilst his Achilles’ heel remains undarned.
`Before you go, about my windows, what shall I do?'

`You might try taking legal action against the builder,' he
hastily squeezed his brief case shut before the ladder could run
nearer to his naughty bits.

`If you won't take action what chance have I got?' I threw open
my arms, deciding to play my disability card. `Hodger might have
everything in his wife's name, but my doctor says I'm supposed to
avoid stress.'

`Ah, yes,' the Social Security boss itched, clearing his
throat, shuffling the cards in his mind for an ace whilst edging to
the door. `Try getting a second mortgage, that's a way out, I'm
sure we could pay the interest charges on a loan if you can make
arrangements with a building society.'

`It's all right for him, he can deal from a new pack whenever
he pleases,' I stamped back into the room, talking to a cat which
had followed me in after I waved off the DHSS man, a concrete
grin still set on my face. Bloody cat, hoping for fish, smelling
tuna on the pots I was yet to wash up. `And it's all right for you,
too,' a splash of water put paid to its purring. `All you have to do
is wander from house to home whilst me, even if I did find someone
prepared to make me a loan, I'd still have to end up paying an
administrative charge.'

I threw a handful of scraps onto the drive. The cat bolted,
beating the birds. `On the other hand,' I said, having been left
speaking to where the cat had been sitting, `A second mortgage might
not be such a bad idea after all. At least I'll end up with a
sizeable profit if I do all the work for myself,' a stratagem which
would also alleviate my brooding whilst Zena was convalescing in
Italy.

`Take a seat,' said the manager of a bank which never liked to
say no.

`The D.H.H.S. will guarantee all interest payments on my
loan.'

`No.'

`But..'

`No.'

The response was the same, everywhere else, even from shark
money lenders. The stone wall which had helped bring on my first
attack was again blocking every move.

`A Mr Cuttle is waiting to receive a call from you.'

`Who?'

`Mr Cuttle.'

`Who are you?' I grumped, obviously someone was taking the
piss.

`Radio Middlebeck. You contacted our help-line a few weeks
ago.'

`Oh! Yes, yes I did. Who is, is this Mr....?'

`Cuttle. The local branch manager of the Eastern and Humber
Building Society.'

It must be a joke, I really must be a joke, but I telephoned
all the same.

It was not a joke, and within weeks a second mortgage had been
arranged.

Now for the job. The pain of missing Zena disappeared as I
wrenched with hammer and chisel to rip out rotten woodwork. A
different kind of pain began to worm its way into my muscles, even
new window frames were weighing much more than when I was forty - or
was it the M.S.? Yes, it must be the M.S. which was making me
weaker, and by the time it came to fitting the double glazing I was
disfiguringly knackered. `Bugger this,' I said to a packing case
which had cushioned my fall.

`Take your time, Mytholmroyd, just like when you got better
before,' it answered me back, or at least something did,
communicating directly with my brain. `Do a bit, rest a bit, then
climb up and down those steps every now and again.'

It worked, I should have known that it would, and steadily my
walking improved. A bit slower than last time but I ended up
fantasising about playing cricket and tennis when summer arrived,
forgetting how ill I had been over Christmas.

`What the hell is tha dressed like that for?' a voice bellowed
over the roar of a diesel. It was Stan, in his tractor, guffawing at
my duffel coat's fur-lined hood. `Who does thee think thee is,
Hillary, Tenzing, or a ruddy Eskimo?' his tractor stalled to a stop.

`Just taking a break.'

`It's only a ladder tha's got to climb, not a mountain.'

`It's too cold to rest for more than a few minutes. I don't
have a cab with a heater.'

`At this time of't year?' he stopped laughing, wet his finger,
held it out to the sky. `Aye, maybe tha's right, perhaps Spring and
Summer might be come and gone before tha gets up if tha stays
sitting down. Don't forget nineteen seventy-six, Winter started
early.....,' he leaned forward, shouting, pressing his starter. The
engine roared into life, his voice lost amongst a mushroom of fumes.

He could be right, I counted the window frames still to be
changed. Better redouble my efforts if the job is to be finished in
time.

By working myself to a standstill the job was complete weeks
and weeks before Autumn had sent the leaves spiralling into Winter.
Trouble was, I had ended up pushing my M.S. to the limit. `Damn
you, Harry Hodger, damn you,' I was bitter that because of him I
would have to start my recovery all over again.

`Dad.' It was Claire on the phone. She had been to her doctor.
Her thyroid was overactive again. After much soul-searching she
had opted to have the operation.

`Oh, dear. Is there anything I can do?'

`No, no, nothing,' she rang off, crying again.

Good thing Zena was in Italy, Claire would need all my support.
I must get better, help with her worries. Where can I find somewhere
peaceful, free from stress, to bolster my recovery?

In the back of my mind something said Quakers. Don't know why,
no blinding flash, or burning bush, nor roll of heavenly thunder,
not even a hint of revelation, but somehow I imagined they were
peaceful affairs, just somewhere to sit, let the mind drift and
perhaps body heal.

It was not without a touch of nerves that I drove to the
nearest Meeting House of the Society of Friends. Last night I had
hesitated, and again this morning, afraid that they would be far too
good and, even worse, feared my inferiority would show. After all,
did not Quakers included people who had worked for prison reform,
better housing, abolition of slavery, of poverty, and for many other
worthy causes?

I was wearing my best suit, like folk often do when going to
church, and was immediately made welcome. Not fussed over, just a
smiling friendly handshake from the nearest person just inside the
door. Funny little building for a church.

She was quietly dressed. I glanced, with no more than a flick
of an eye, there were perhaps half-a-dozen others, standing
exchanging conversation. `Good morning. My name's Freda. Have you
been to a meeting before?'

`No,' I cleared my throat. `Martin,.. Martin Mytholmroyd.'

She appeared concerned, gathering leaflets, lest I should feel
ill at ease. `Quaker meetings are not like traditional church
services,' she explained, saying how they always met in silence, in
a simple room. `Out of this silence one Friend or another might
speak, sharing with other Friends what is on their mind, or in their
heart.

I smiled, nodded my head, wondering what I was letting myself
in for.

`On some occasions meetings might be completely silent.
Newcomers understandably find this most strange,' she searched the
table for even more leaflets. `You might like to study these during
the meeting.'

I slipped them into my pocket, for when I got home. All this
time others were arriving, greeting each other, shaking hands. They
put me at ease without forceful attention. The fact that I was the
only one wearing an expensive suit never crossed their eyes.

The conversation lulled upon a silent message from nowhere.
They made their way into another room, almost as if the spirit moved
them. A young man wearing jeans took it upon himself to guide me.

This room was simple, also, with chairs forming a semi-circle,
two or three rows deep. Several people were already sitting, silent.
I tried to edge into a seat without making a noise.

Without looking I was aware of some having their eyes closed,
several with head bowed, a few stared straight ahead. I gazed down
at the plain carpet, twist pile, olive green, my mind upon many
things before my eyelids shut.

The silence deepened. Strange, different, a bit like being
alone on top of a mountain. There were many things to think about,
yet I just let things drift, new perspectives, then a man stood up
and spoke. His words were gentle, spontaneous, yet chosen carefully,
although I can't remember what, except it was concern about a recent
case of child abuse.

Silence returned, lasting until the door opened. Children
entered, quietly, shuffling between us, two coloured, one a three
year old, some teenage, until each found somewhere to sit. Later I
was told that they always joined the adults for the last ten
minutes, following their meeting in a separate building.

But the silence had barely been disturbed, I slipped back into
my thoughts. But gradually a sense of the atmosphere was changing.
A rustle of movement. I looked up, the meeting was over. The man in
the next seat was holding out his hand, smiling, palm happy to shake
mine. Everyone else was greeting their neighbour.

One or two announcements followed by hands up for coffee, hands
up for tea, then we engaged in light conversation.

I did not believe it, as I got into my car, my M.S. symptoms
had improved. Why was I better? Or is that a question not to ask,
sort of like putting God to the test?

_

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

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