Dangerously Healthy  - Copyright © Malcolm Birkenshaw [List all 43 Chapters]

1  

1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9   10   11   12   13   14   15   16   17   18   19   20   21   22   23   24   25   26   27   28   29   30   31   32   33   34   35   36   37   38   39   40   41   42   43  

Chapter 31.

Too late, numb sensations were beginning to return to my legs -
just as they were eight years ago for example, like after the fire.
Bloody marvellous, this time other people's trivial disputes.
Better get Hasdik moving before it's too late, before my health has
deteriorated even further.

`Who?' the solicitors' telephonist queried with a tone in her
voice suggesting she had trod in something nasty.

`I'd like to speak to mister Hasdik or his secretary.'

`Do you mean mister Hadzik?'

`Sorry, yes, mister Hadzik.'

`Hold the line, then, please, I'll see if mister Hadzik is free
to accept your call.'

A black hole of silence swallowed up the phone in my hand,
would I ever be heard of again? If I'm still waiting in nine month's
time will this have been a pregnant silen....? `Mister Hadzik's
busy with a client, he'll contact you tomorrow,' she cut short my
fantasising. `I'll make a note in his diary. How are you spelling
your name?'


`Same way as yesterday, M y t h o l m r o y d.'

Midsummer sultered past. My limp began to creep back, unseen to
the casual onlooker. But there was no mistaking its drag so far as I
was concerned. Yet despite my daily calls I was still waiting for
Hadzik to ring back. This is just what Lena was waiting for, a
bubbling broth of stress simmering, reducing me into becoming a
cripple, scuppering what slim chances I had in this case. Sod it,
I'll walk round to the pub for a glass of beer and some soup. At
least that might lift my spirits and give the M.S. a run for its
money.

`Soup's off,' Lofty leaned on his pump handle, more concerned
with pulling my beer, ensuring a creamy head. `We're doing
shepherd's pie, special, this lunch-time,' he sniffed and rubbed his
nose on his cuff.

`Oh, pity,' I looked disappointed, rearranging my small pile of
coins, `It's probably got flour in it.'

`Ma.... `as tha' put flour in't yon pie?' he peeled back on his 
stool, nudging their kitchen door open.

`Who wants it in?'

`Nobody.'

`Well, it hasn't got it, then, has it?'

`I've had some, and I'm ordering another helping. Let me get
yours,' a stranger three stools away shoved forward his wallet,
there being nobody else for him to speak to.

`Oh, thanks, thanks very much. Moving into the village?' I
moved a stool closer.

He was young, or at least youngish, with a bonhomie repose.
`No, just passing through. I'm a sub-editor with the Sunday
Disgust,' he passed me his card.

`Sub-editor of the Sunday Disgust?' my eyebrows raised. Unlike
many other newspaper men I had met in bars there was no greasy
raincoat, I was very impressed.

`It's not that grand, just a fancy name for being a reporter,'
he grinned.

Never mind, this is a chance too good to miss, I thought. `Are
you interested in a headmaster who is having an affair with a
teacher and takes photographs of pupils in the nude?'

`Another drink? We can take it to that table in the corner,'
his eyes motioned.

Good. This will make Lena panic, get her into court, I smiled.

`Now, where can I find the pair of them?' he took out his note
book, scenting a scoop. `I'll interview them this afternoon, at
their schools, before they can co-ordinate alibis.'

I had not expected him to act so quickly. Just what have I
done? I wondered, thinking over and over as I returned home, and
thinking even harder that Saturday morning when I could hear
shooting. No, stop worrying, it can't be Ransley, not going by the
bangs. They sounded like twelve bores, firing away somewhere beyond
the Brick Pond. That's it, definitely twelve bores, just not a good
weekend for rooks, particularly when all this was on top of the
reporter from the Sunday Disgust.

`Don't worry, I can get the hearing delayed,' Hadzik said, when
he telephoned Monday morning, concerned that things were beginning
to move. 

`I don't want the hearing delayed.'

`Don't want it delayed?' he exclaimed, realising that his
client did not understand the consequences of such an impetuous act.
Clearly he could see my case sinking. `I must strongly urge you to
hold back until the tide turns in your favour.'

`If you wait much longer it won't matter. Before this tide
turns my health will have drowned under stress.'

`If that's your instruction,' he grudgingly ceded, seeing his
charges being stemmed. `Low key, no barristers, minimum costs,
children kept out of court,' he repeated my instructions. `A
reconciliation at the eleventh hour still on the cards,' his tone
progressively depressed as he saw even the prospect of maximum legal
aid charges floating away. `My secretary will write to you,
confirming all this, before the hearing on November the fourth.'

The fourth! Not the Ides of November? I referred to my
dictionary. Thank goodness, Julius Caesar rest in peace, the ides
of each month are nearer the middle. Mind you, it could still be an
omen, was the fourth not the date when Guy Fawkes had been getting
ready to blow up the Houses of Parliament? No, no, forget it,
forget about the threat of being thrown out of your house. Sow some
more mustard seeds, leave it to faith.

November was its seasonal yellow by the time the telephone rang
from the solicitors' office: so late and yellow, with the corn
harvested and the frosts now upon us, that a field mouse had
scratted a nest in our loft. `I'm putting you through to mister
Hadzik,' said the operator, the line resorting to its black hole
mode.

Leaves swirled and tussled on the lawn, brief gusts tossing
them about before winter arrived to reclaim them. I waited, perhaps
rain was on the way? The wind disappeared, it had been only
practising for when it would bite from the east. Idly, I scratched
a spot on my nose. It had not been there before, but now its size
was proportional to the length of my wait. `Hello!' Was I still
connected? `HELLO!' I shouted even louder......

`Pardon?'

`Arhum,' I pretended to have been clearing my throat, Sod's
Law contriving to have someone come onto the line that very moment. 

`Hadzik here,' he sounded displeased. `What do you want?'

I paused, puzzled. `Want?.... I think you phoned me.'

`Did I, just a minute?' he broke off. I could hear in the
background that somebody was talking. `Oh, yes. We've received
papers from your wife's solicitors,' he continued. `She has
instructed a barrister.'

`A barrister? We agreed to minimum costs.'

`So we did, so we did,' I could hear the noise of papers being
turned. `Yes, that's what we requested.'

`And they never answered, until now?... What do I do?'

`It's up to you. You can hire a QC, or fight the case
without,' his voice almost disinterestedly bleak.

`Which do you recommend?' I was hoping for an improbable
answer.

`Of course, your chances might be increased if you're fully
represented.'

Damn, I knew he would say that. `Can I hire a QC and have
his costs covered by legal aid?'

`I don't think you quite understand, you don't have sufficient
time, the hearing's tomorrow, that's why they kept their decision
secret until now.'

`If I can manage to borrow the money do I then have a chance?'
I was desperate.

`I only said your chances might be increased.'

He was obviously stonewalling. `Are you saying it would be a
waste of money?' I tried to get him to commit himself.

`I didn't infer that. However, I must admit your prospects
would be improved but, of course, I cannot say more than that, nor
promise in which way the court will find.'

That was it, there was nothing more I could do. His building's
polished brass rails and marbled stairway having little use for
paupers like me.

I telephoned Mother, I had to give someone the depressing news.

`You're supposed to be on legal aid,' she interrupted my story.

`I know, but...'

`Well, I can't afford it.'

`I'm not asking you, I'm just letting you know what she's 
done.'

`I always told you she was no use, but you refused to listen.'

I put my hand over the mouthpiece, `Stupid old.....'

`Did you say something? Are you still there?'

`Yes. I am.'

`Well, get yourself moving, apply for legal aid to pay for a
barrister.'

`That's what I've already told you...'

`You should have asked Hadzik when you were there.'

`I did, I did, that's what I've told you. He said Lena's
solicitors delayed informing him, virtually guaranteeing I won't get
one.'

`You're useless. You didn't ask him.'

`I damnwell did.'

`Don't you swear at me. Just give me ten minutes, I'll soon
sort him out, what's his telephone number. I've read in the Daily
Indigo that any Tom, Dick and Harry can get legal aid. I bet if you
were coloured you'd get it.'

God forgive her, I thought, and the heavens turned darker,
too heavy to rain. Ten minutes, twenty minutes, thirty minutes
passed. I looked round the room. This time tomorrow I might be
walking the streets, with Claire and John sitting right here, the
same room where we once laughed as a family, the same emulsion which
I had painted the wall with, the same the marks where John and I
played table tennis, the same.... The telephone rang.

`Is that you, Martin?'

`Of course it is,' I snapped, despite having prepared myself
for the bad news her call would confirm.

`Mister Hadzik and I have sorted things out. You've to be at
his office in the morning, nine o'clock sharp.'

`What for?' What did she mean?

`Never you mind. Just turn up on time, and remember to wear a
clean shirt.'

That evening I grilled lamb chops, extra big, blue smoke
filling our kitchen. Nothing frozen tonight, only the best leg
chops for our last supper, with broccoli and chips. We were dining
in no-man's-land, the three of us joking together, yet everyone too 
hollow for pudding.

`Good night, Dad.'

`Good night, Dad.' Both managing to sound as though it was just
another good night.

`Good night, sleep well.'

The scratch, scratch, scratching from our loft kept me awake.
That bloody mouse must be breeding. Ah, well, it will give bloody
Ransley something useful to do for the first time in his life, what
with him being a regular crawler, crawling about in our loft on a
wildlife safari.

The three of us said very little next morning, Claire setting
off to stay with a friend in Bridlington whilst John came with me to
the solicitors with his battered suitcase of games unstitched at the
corners.

`Mister Hadzik is waiting to see you in chambers,' his
Receptionist leant bosomly over her typewriter, passing me the
address. `I think it's better if your son stays here with me.'

`The chambers?'

`Yes. It's not a two-minute walk, if you hurry.'

I hurried, it took three minutes forty-nine seconds and an
embryo limp.

`This is Mister Casewangle. He will be representing you,'
Hadzik introduced me to the QC

`Good morning,' I shook Casewangle's slack hand.

Without a word he cast an eye over me, nodded to a chair. I sat
down with hands on knees, ready for the first question.

Brushing aside piles of documents, many tied with ribbons, he
made space upon the leather top of his aged desk. Was that my file
he was opening? `Mumble, mumble, mumble,' Hadzik and he got down to
business. I pretended not to listen. Paint was peeling from the
ceiling, was the woodwork painted peat when new? He muttered
another phrase, sounded like Latin. `What does that mean?' I spoke
for the first time.

Hadzik's head turned, intercepting my question, `She's using
custody of the children to gain possession of the home,' he
said, maintaining the legal decorum of “you scratch a cheque for me
and I'll scratch a cheque for him” which existed between solicitor 
and barrister.

But how had the QC worked out in so short a time that Lena
was after the house? I wondered. He had only made a cursory glance
at the papers.

`We'll see you outside court number one at two o'clock,' Hadzik
continued, dismissing my presence before I endangered his existence
by my becoming involved.

To fill in time I went for a walk round the Leeds Art Gallery
where staring into the middle distance, with thoughts on my mind,
would not look out of place. Was it court two at one o'clock, or
court one at two o'clock, I wondered, when the clock crawled past
mid-day and I set off down the steps into the world of disinterested
people.

Perhaps it was one o'clock, I worried, the clocks suddenly
having raced. I was hurrying behind time, crossing the road, having
dawdled too long rehearsing my burden. Quick, quick. Ahead three
wide steps to mahogany doors, newly replaced, intending to give a
more welcoming air to the atmosphere of gloom once inside the
courthouse. My hair tingled, which of the arrows painted on the
wall? `Along there,' a stranger, with the drill of a regular,
directed me. Various wigs, clutching briefs, whether representing
defendant or plaintiff, all best friends. Which was mine?

`Yours are upstairs,' thumbed yet another regular. Tradition
was daubed thick and heavy upon where there might have been dust.
The staircase to my court was narrow. Though its Victorian railings
were painted a fresh apple green the landing was musty. I swallowed
and looked around. There seemed to be wigs everywhere, wigs and wigs
huddled in groups. Oh my goodness, Lena and Mary were there, as
though glued to cane-back chairs,... and with my mother opposite,
aggression filling the air.

`Your case will be starting soon,' someone touched my arm. It
was a woman, Hadzik's junior, or whatever they call them. `Your
wife's counsel will try to stare you out, it's her technique. Don't
be put off, say as little as possible, let your own counsel do the
talking.'

In so cramped a landing where does one look to avoid eye
contact? At last we went in, each escorted by a solicitor, the 
court benches separating Lena and me, each barrister sitting in
front. The case began. `That's a lie,' I whispered to my
solicitor.

`I know,' she whispered back.

`That's another lie.'

She smiled a frown of �don't disturb the court.‘ `The
registrar's heard them all before.'

Then Lena's side challenged our family doctor's evidence. He
was furious. He would not have come had they accepted his letter in
the first place, so they were not going to get any change now he was
here. That's one point to the good guys, I thought.

Next to be called was Nelly, the lady who had formerly cleaned
our house. `Misses Mytholmroyd dismissed you six months ago,' Lena's
counsel read from her notes. `Is that correct?' she stared through
those bloody glasses.

Nelly shuffled, her lips parched.

`Speak up, please.'

`Yes.'

`Quite so.'

Oh dear, I thought, but at least only a small point to the bad
guys.

`You say mister Mytholmroyd does a lot of the housework?' the
registrar intervened, his voice smiling and gentle.

Nelly brightened up. `Yes, sir.'

`Can you give the court an example?'

Nelly's nerves flooded back, she was struggling, anxious to do
right, her mind in a panic. `He switches the washing machine on.'

I looked down, forehead between thumb and finger. `It's your
turn,' my solicitor jogged my elbow, prompting me. `Keep calm, it's
going well, you'll be fine.'

How the hell can it be? I thought. Poor Nelly, she does not
know what she has just done. Oh, well, here goes, I took a deep
breath, too late to pray, God already knew, and I concentrated on
walking to disguise any sign of multiple sclerosis.

Despite this, Lena's counsel opened with questions assuming I
would soon be in a wheelchair. Silly woman, she kept on staring,
trying to bully me, reminding me of a television personality I could 
not stand. Besides, after a lifetime of battling with my mother her
challenge was like a bull to a red rag. Keep charging, I thought, my
adrenaline flowing. She was the enemy, this was life or death, I was
fighting to keep our children free of the corruption of Ransley.

`What do you mean, your wife and the Headmaster?' she mocked.

`I know what they have been up to.'

`That's what you say,' she nodded to the court.

`That is what I say,' I raised my voice. `How many witnesses do
you want? I can subpoena the whole village if you like. Everybody
knows.'

She smiled, knowingly, dismissing my statement with a wave.
`Shall we come to the matter of your children?'

`If you like.'

`Where's your daughter?'

`Staying in Bridlington.'

`Oh, how convenient,' she continued with that damned stupid
stare.

`She's there because I sent her there. I don't want her in
court, being cross-questioned, forced to give evidence against
either of her parents.'

`That's what you would have us believe,' she tugged at her
gown, playing games with my evidence. `Well then, where've you
hidden your son?' she smiled, her prey cornered.

Bristling, I turned and addressed the recorder. `He's in my
solicitor's office, by mutual consent,' then returned to my wife's
counsel. `But he'd rather be with his mother, at the moment, if
that's what you want me to say,' my voice clear, declaring, `So you
can leave him alone, I still don't want him in court.'

The registrar decided to leave things as they were, the
children with me, sentence suspended. Lena was shattered, I hated
that moment. She left by a side door.

Outside it was dark, the hearing must have lasted for hour upon
hour. Above the streetlights there was nothing, nothing but
blackness, a blackness like rooks as though a hole had been spread
when Father had witnessed his family being broken still further.

But Mother was rejoicing, lying in wait as Lena and Mary passed
in the street. `Mary turned to Lena and wanted to know what she was
going to do now,' she gloated to me when I appeared. `Lena never
dreamt you would win.'

`I didn't win, and Lena didn't win,' I lost my temper. `It's
the children who lost.'


I have used a lot of Yorkshire dialect in “Dangerously Healthy” – an autobiography written under my pseudonym because some of the protagonists were still alive at the time, and also in a novel “Don’t You Dearest Me”. If any Themestream reader wants to contact me I should be pleased to translate any puzzling words . In fact, does anyone think I should produce a list of words and phrases for the series? If so, your e-mail would be welcome.

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.

Chapter 33.

The radiators began to warm up. All those years wedded to
Lena with sex as jolly as being on the dole, sort of once a
fortnight if one applied in good time except that, like a political
party once the election is over, all promises were subject to
cutbacks.

Other things were different too. Isabel was open, gave without
counting the cost or keeping a tally. Perhaps this is what women are
really like. Would I have known more about girls had my childhood
been different? Would a mixed school have helped?

`I don't see why everyone else should have Yorkshire pudding,'
she said one day after lunch. `I'll get some gluten-free flour next
time I'm in town.'

`It's very expensive.'

`Not if you know somebody who used to use it, like I do.'

Her parents were similarly generous, always welcoming often
with a bottle of wine waiting. We went there for lunch once a week,
though before we ate it was politic to tour the garden, see where
the vegetables and herbs for the lunch had been grown, and admire
the herbaceous borders about which I knew nothing. He had spent his
best years killing the enemy by the score. Now he was creating
life, though was more comfortable with plants which could be trained
to remain upright, especially when their rows were planted in
platoons.

Finally there was the pond, that was more me. `My movement
seems to have scared your fish,' I apologised.

`I do not have any fish.'

`Oh.' What do I say next?

`Damned heron. I got up early one morning, early as usual, and
caught the bounder stamping up and down on the water lilies until it
panicked them into escaping, which is the last thing the poor
blighters did. Ate the damned lot, blast it.'

`A kind of condemned fishes' last meal, from a bird's point of
view,' I muttered.

`What, what?'

`Just wondering how to hide the fish from its view.' 

`Can't be done, can't be done.'

`You could, of course, get a plastic heron.'

`A plastic heron!' his back straightened until steel girder
rigid.

`Well, it would keep the real herons away, and you could again
have fish.'

`Plastic herons! They're worse than garden gnomes,' he towered,
though I could tell by the ripples running through his moustache
that a heron, perhaps one of concrete, was an idea he could think up
for himself once we had gone.

`Oh,' I looked up, deciding it safer to find something to
divert the conversation, just as a gaggle of house martins swooped
round the old stables, claiming last year's homes. They were back,
they were back, the house martins had returned. Would they or the
spiders get that fly which had spent its winter circling Isabel's
ceiling?

By summer there were flies everywhere so it was impossible to
know. `Probably great, great grandchildren of that fly I was
forbidden to kill.'

`Martin, don't be cruel,' Isabel laughed, whilst Claire took
her side, the children having become an extended family for much of
the time.

`Do you think you could put up with someone having M.S.?' I
asked Isabel one late Saturday night. `Permanently, that is?'

She smiled, thinking a discrete time before whispering, `Only
if I go to university for some qualifications in case you become
ill?'

`I won't, but you should,' I agreed, dismissing thoughts of my
health failing as we pushed the settee nearer the fire.

`Everything seems to be a very good idea,' we both agreed, many
times that night, following which I cycled home, pedalling on air,
butterflies at dawn rising over my shoulders, just like a teenager
again.

Across distant fields, through the slumbering mist, carried the
sounds of rooks cawing. They were wasting their beaks, their black
days were past, today was inviolate and fresh whilst forgotten
emotions blossomed. Would I ever sleep again? 

`This is Mrs Mytholmroyd,' Isabel introduced my mother to her
parents, my prospective in-laws, several weeks later.

`How do you do,' Mother held out her hand, resisting the
temptation to curtsy. `You were an officer, in the guards? How
nice, how very interesting.' I could see her eyes swelling, his
picture centre position on the Welsh dresser. `At Buckingham
Palace? Only a small sherry, thank you, I don't really drink,' she
was beginning to worry about royal etiquette and as to whether she
should remove her hat for the meal. `Oh, you've got a dog, how
nice,' she hid her ankles in case it had fleas.

I never noticed anyone pressing for the date to be fixed, not
unless it was brought up during one of those conversations between
mother and mother or mother and daughter in the kitchen, that
Masonic lodge of womanhood where their legs were bared and secrets
shared. Perhaps our parents knew their children too well.

Isabel and I left it for fate to direct us, filling in time at
parties and friends whilst fortune, which had served me so well in
the past, secretly began to build up a backlog of problems.

During that cycle ride at daybreak those rooks had been feeding
their fledglings. Now the first fledgling flew from its nest and I
was fined for parking in Ponteby.

`Idiots,' I swore when the summons arrived, `They've fined me
for parking in the Princess after I had started driving the Fiat.'

But the fledgling returned with a bigger fine for my refusing
to tell them who was driving the Princess.

`Dear sirs, you tell me who was driving it. I'd like to know
how they did it. I couldn't get the damned thing to start, that's
why I'm now driving an old Fiat.'

The fledgling's wings were now strong and its papers were
accompanied with copy of a sworn affidavit from a traffic warden,
together with an even larger fine for still refusing to tell them
who was driving the Princess.

Be buggered if I was going to be beaten by a rook. But it came
back a fourth time, together with a statement from the D.V.L.C.
Swansea, plus a much, much bigger fine for being the registered owner
of the Princess and for still refusing to tell them who was driving
it. 

Then one of the other fledglings took to the air, bringing a
letter from Hadzik. `Your wife wants her half of the house. She is
not prepared to wait. She also refers to your health.'

`She already knows I'd pay her if I had it. This pressure is
intended to get me out of the house, in a wheelchair,' I said,
having rushed to see him.

`She does not believe you. If the children are persuaded to
leave she can have you evicted.'

That hurt, using the children as pawns. `Can't she wait a bit
longer, she's already bought a new house using the money she's been
stashing away.'

`Your wife was compelled to borrow the deposit from her
mother.'

`That's to make it look good. I've seen her bank and building
society books.'

`She denies it. She's instructing her solicitor to press for
possession of the house. Surely you must have some source of money?
An interim offer might get them off my back,' he swung round in his
chair, dealing with other papers whilst I made up my mind.

I winced. The rooks had got me pecked up against the wall. This
was like a crook's charter, an old boys' network, obviously Hadzik
did not believe me.

I left his office furious at being disbelieved, and also
desolate that a solution did not exist, only for a third rook to
have struck whilst I was up in his office, my Fiat being booked for
being parked on a single yellow line.

“Dear Chief Constable,
The car that I left was displaying my orange Mobility badge
and was parked correctly in an area reserved for disabled.”

The police ignored this letter. You're not going to catch me
that way, I thought, as I saw time running out. I'll telephone them
tomorrow. The rooks must have been crowing when the desk sergeant
recommended that I should pay the money or risk an even bigger fine
plus administration costs.

Next, rook number four, an instalment for my household rates 
was not paid on time. The Council ignored my letter, returned my
cheque, and issued a distress warrant for their bailiff to distrain
on my goods and chattels for the full amount demanded plus costs.

`The rest of the year's rates all in one? All I've got is a
disabled pension,' I explained when I called at their thick-carpeted
offices.

`That's your problem, sir.'

It was a problem, and so was the return of rook number one with
another non-payment of fine in respect of the Princess, plus notice
that a warrant for my arrest would be issued within seven days.

Ah, I thought, smiling confidently as I wrote another letter,
that is where the rooks have finally come unstuck,

“Dear Social Security,

They are intending to arrest me over an incorrect parking
fine despite the fact that I am looking after my children.”

The rooks must have preened their ragged rotten feathers when a
social security officer sent the reply: �Let us know when they
arrive to arrest you and we'll arrange for your children to be taken
into care.‘

Bloody hell. That was the final blow, the casting of mustard
seeds having repeatedly failed to bear fruit. There was no way out,
even my health might start to crumble if I did not take care.

`What can we do?' Isabel asked.

`I don't know,' I shrugged my shoulders, then decided to take
personal control over matters instead of relying solely in faith.
`At least fitness is one problem I know how to deal with. I'll go
cycling, just like I did after being in hospital.'

Against the winds I fought, and sixteen miles later I limped
back into the kitchen. Isabel smiled, she had often seen me return
in that state. `Do you feel any better?' she asked, expecting me to
recover whilst she was preparing the meal.

`No,' I shook my head, a shaft of darkness escaping whilst
rooks circled. `Damn,' I gripped my fists, refusing to let the 
light be blocked from my spirit, determined to smash myself back to
full health, `I'll try going swimming this evening, on the way
back to Adderton after giving you a lift home. That should do the
trick.'

But that black bolt of lightning struck again after the
swimming tired me out. Even a night's sleep did little to help and
next morning I was still in bed when the telephone rang, `Wait,
don't stop ringing,' I held out my hand, staggering to reach it.

`How are you now?' It was Isabel, cheerful as ever, wondering
if my legs had improved. `Will I be seeing you later this morning?'

`I'm sorry,' I answered, hesitating a while before telling her
the truth. `The only way I can get around is by walking along the
walls.'

`Walking along walls!' she exclaimed, her voice showing
panic. `What's wrong, have you fallen?'

`No. I'm just too weak. Feels a bit like flu, very bad flu, but
not exactly. I suppose it might be M.S., although I've never been
as poorly as this before.' The line fell silent, there was nothing
more we could say.

Tractors put put putted along the lane, heading late for the
fields. I made a beaker of tea and returned to the bedroom, all
having become silent, except for the whine of a gearbox as a bus
wormed its way through the village. `Hi,' the door opened, it was
Isabel, she had caught the next bus to Adderton. `What would you
like to eat?' she wedged onto the edge of my bed, leaned across,
opened her arms, gave me a kiss.

`Nothing, thanks,' I mumbled, hanging onto the kiss. `Don't
take offence, but I'm not hungry. In fact I'd rather stay like
this,' my arms tightening weakly about her whilst I felt too poorly
for food.

`I'll phone the doctor,' she whispered, making an effort to
wriggle away.

`He'll be busy, give him another minute,' I pulled her back, my
spirits lifting, and ran my hands over her shoulders, following the
curves of her back. `Just checking.'

She snuggled closer. `I... think... the... doctor... should...
be... called,' punctuating each word with a kiss. 

`Never, mind, the, doctor. They're, coming, to, arrest, me,
in,....'

`What!' she thrust her head back, pushing away with her arms,
parting our chests.

`They're coming to arrest me in a couple of days for not paying
that fine,' my grip slackened, feeling the shape of her arms.

`You're too greedy. Doctor first,' she brushed the creases out
of her skirt.

First call after surgery the doctor arrived, stethoscope poking
out of his pocket. `Yes, definitely,' he confirmed, `It is your
multiple sclerosis,' closing his bag, unable to prescribe anything.
`Just rest, that's the best thing to do.'

Damn him, I held my breath, furious that he had finally proved
me wrong. I'll show him, I'll show him I'm right, I'll recover
again.

Isabel accompanied him to the door, exchanging words in the
kitchen like doctors do. Why the hell is the patient not told, they
are the one who is having to battle?

`It's sunny outside,' Isabel returned and blew me a kiss. `He's
told you to rest. I'll help you into the garden. Try relaxing on
your sunbed until Claire gets home,' she tidied the bed to save me a
job. `I'd like to stay, but the new term has started, Zena will be
wondering where I've gone. When I get home I'll ring the social
services,' she left me with a parting embrace and ran for the bus.

The air was still, I settled down, watching a blackbird hopping in
and out beneath the hedge with a beak filled with food for the chicks.
It was the kind of weather sun worshippers thrive upon, I thought,
remembering how I loved heat. Then I thought again, realising that I
must be ill, the sun was not helping, in fact I was becoming worse.
I crawled back to the house, hauling myself like a walrus onto the
bed.

Next morning Claire made breakfast before leaving for work.
`I'm setting off now. John,' she called up the stairs, `Your
scrambled egg will be cold if you don't get up soon.'

`Cheerio,' I raised my head.

`Cheerio, Dad,' she raced for the bus.

John, left to his own devices, surprisingly was soon ready for 
school. `Bye,' he spluttered, gulping down the rest of his egg.

Strange, I thought, him following Claire's instructions. `Just
a minute, let's have a look at that bulge in your pocket,' I called
him back. He grimaced, pulling a tennis ball free. `Leave that
here,' I dangled my hand from the bed, `I don't want you playing
football in the road.'

Good lad, not complaining, obviously he realised that I was
ill. `Just a minute,' I shouted after his shadow when I saw the
speed with which he was escaping, his undeclared pocket also having
a bulge.

Too late, damn, he had raced into the village where the first
boys to arrive crammed into a telephone box, waiting for the school
bus to arrive, whilst the girls sheltered opposite inside the Jolly
Poacher's urinals.

Damn, damn, damn I struggled along the wall hoping to be in
time to call him back when there was a tap, tap, tap and a `Hello,'
as a woman's voice poked round the kitchen door. She was a social
worker. `We've received an urgent telephone call, so I've come to
see what help you require.'

She stayed an hour, making notes, filling in forms, copying
details of the legal actions which were eating into my health. `You
should be receiving mobility benefit,' she said, sifting through the
files in her brief case for an application form. `Send this off
before next time I see you.'

I never discovered what happened in her office. She might have
waved a fairy wand because every summons was scrapped now that I had
been accepted into the security system. My health lifted a notch, no
longer under black stress.

Isabel still came to Adderton, but not as often whilst I was
unable to give her a lift. `I'm starting university next month,' she
showed me her papers and looked slightly worried, `Are the social
services providing a home help? I won't be able to cook for you once
term begins.

`They've already been, although I've told them things won't
recover unless I get myself moving. I've got this book of exercises
for people with multiple sclerosis from ARMS.'

`ARMS?'

`Yes, the charity for which I cycled to London to raise funds.'

`Do you think it will work?'

`WHAT will?'

`The book of exercises.'

`Stand back, just watch, look at the way I'm walking again.'

By the time Isabel started at Hull university - where I had
graduated despite those attacks of M.S. twenty years earlier - I was
well enough to drive her the fifty miles there, and walk round my
old haunts with but a slight limp.

`We're all having trouble with the work that's been set,'
Isabel said on the way home.

`Let's have a look,' I said when we arrived at her house and
dug out my spectacles to read the fine print. From now on she was
intending to travel each day on the train.

`You didn't do philosophy.'

`No, but I've read logic and scientific method of thinking,'
I said, dictating my reasoning in detail. She impressed the
lecturers, leaving the other students struggling.

We continued to spend weekends together, and evenings whenever
possible, but friction was growing over Claire. Two women under the
same roof syndrome. Is that what it is? I remained puzzled, for
Claire was still but a youngster, obviously suffering from nerves
going by the way her hands shook on occasions, whilst Isabel was an
adult who was issuing hints to tempt about a large sum of wealth she
had in the pipeline.

`There was no talk about money being involved when we started,'
I snapped, refusing to take sides. `We've struggled this far,
salvaging a family. I'm not going to sell my daughter for thirty
pieces of silver.' Besides, having been freed from one rookery of
stress, I was not prepared to go nesting if that meant starting with
trouble all over again.

Claire left home again, this time permanently, at least for the
time being, I suspect in the hope that Isabel and I should come
together again. It meant that I was alone again, but this is the way
it just had to be. Besides, Isabel was now established on her way
to a degree, there were plenty of suitors waiting to take care of
her wealth.

Not for me, all that money she had coming. There were other
things in life, like urgently finding out what went wrong last
August, if I were to become fit again.

Chapter 34.

`Daft article, doesn't tha know what cordon bleu cooking is?'
Stan chuckled as he carried two pints to our table. `I know it's tha
round, but I weren't `aving thee slopping best ale over customers'
heads. It's a waste of good beer,' he targeted his barb at the
darts team from the next village.

`Of course I do,' I paused, thinking. `It's French cooking.'

`So's bully beef if tha's in't foreign legion,' he giggled and
his overfilled pint ran froth down his chin.

`It's rich food, like what the French aristocracy ate,' Lofty
Wainwright joined in whilst Stan was re-pocketing his handkerchief.
`Cooked in butter and cream and wine and that kind of stuff, isn't
it Ma?'

`How do you know that? I can't see that on your menus.'

`Went on a package holiday.'

`Stan's never been abroad.'

`No, but he'll have had it at one of their Young Farmers'
dinners.'

`Stupid wuzzuck. They have proper food, like beef and Yorkshire
pudding,' Stan stood up, patting his paunch, ready for another pint.
`Nay, it's my sister what's married an estate agent what likes fancy
food. Doesn't suit me, though,' he again patted his paunch. `I'm fat
enough already.'

`I still don't see what you mean. I've eaten in French
restaurants, years ago, and liked it. Bit expensive, though, and
with lots of sauces, but not the kind of stuff you're talking
about,' I ran my finger down the condensation on the side of my
glass, watching the bubbles make meaningless patterns.

`That's what cordon bleu cooking is. The sauces are so tha
can't taste the fat. We had it on that holiday, didn't we Ma?'

Can't taste the fat? I thought, remembering those greasy stews
I had in digs at the University, and how that was the year when I
had all those headaches and attacks of what must have been M.S.,
everything beginning to make sense.

The ARMS diet was right, no animal fats, no dairy products, no
saturated fats of any kind. During the year of Isabel's cordon bleu 
cooking I must have been filled up with fat, leaving me vulnerable
to serious damage during a bout of M.S. Perhaps bubbles of fat had
prevented oxygenated blood from getting to the parts of my brain
which were under attack, an attack brought on by that stress when
they were going to send me to prison.

Poor Isabel, she even bought gluten free flour to cook
Yorkshire puddings, not realising the fat she was cooking it in was
poisoning me. And that's why my gluten-free diet cured me, but for
the wrong reason. True, I am allergic to gluten, but by cutting out
flour I had also been avoiding the fat in Christmas puddings,
pastry, suet, sausages and much, much more. All foods which I had
disliked as a child when I used to hide them on a ledge under the
table.... that is until the day when Father's French polisher came
to repair some scratches and he turned our table up on its edge.
Thereafter the aspidistra came in handy until Mother wondered why it
was not thriving.

`Aye, and maybe all that alcohol last year didn't do thee much
good.'

`Keep thee gob shut, Stan. He spends little enough in my pub as
it is.'

`True, true, Lofty, but I never did drink a lot, except for all
that wine at Isabel's. Perhaps alcohol interferes with the
metabolism of essential fatty acids or something, and that's why
heavy drinkers end up with a beer belly.'

`Take thee bloody eyes off me,' Stan breathed in as he downed
another pint. `And you can buy your own drinks,' his face cracked
into a smile.

`Don't worry, I'm going. I've got to be home early lest John's
left on his own now that Claire's living elsewhere,' I said, not
letting them know that she was staying at her mother's because of
torn loyalties. Or was it because the house Lena had bought with her
secret accounts was convenient for the nightlife in Leeds?

I suppose my drinking very little was of help to my health. Not
that I was ever to recover fully, at least not to what I had been
before that last big attack, but spending more time doing my
exercises and playing table tennis with John certainly made me feel
good, my walking much better. 

Also to make it easier for me to forget Isabel I sometimes
caught a train to Leeds in the mornings, taking my bike, before
cycling to Mother's new flat from the station. Yes, she had moved
yet again, which this time was convenient for me because on the way
home I could call to see Claire who, besides living at Lena's, was
now out of work. `How are you doing, Sally's always asking?' I
asked when we met in a corner cafe, its single unshaded light bulb
reflecting dimly a price list which was stuck to its walls: a list
advertising teacake, sausage and beans, and spotty Dick with jug of
tea for less than a pound.

`All right, thanks,' she replied, sounding depressed, her
nervous shake showing more than before.

`Sally wonders if she could come to see you?'

`Does she?' Claire brightened a little. They had been friends
since childhood.

`How's Isabel?'

`I don't see her now. She's busy at university.'

`Is it because of me?'

`No, of course not. Actually, to be selfish, my health's much
better now that we've finished.'

`Finished?' Claire mused, twisting her cup, as though reading
the coffee stains. `Dad, we can't sit here chatting all day after
only buying coffee.'

`Do you want another, or buttered crumpet, or something... or
go somewhere else.'

`No, thanks. I'm just feeling cold.'

`Like to leave, then?'

`You don't mind, do you?'

`No, no, as long as it's what you want and there's nothing else
I can do.'

`This is fine, thanks. I've enjoyed it, but you won't forget to
tell Sally I'd love her to call.'

Back to Claire's present station, just in time for the four
thirty from Leeds to Arkston Bash. `Ticket,' the guard fell upon me
as the commuters alighted leaving me the only passenger to board.
`What's this? '

`My concessionary ticket.' 

`Disabled? Not when you've got a bike, you don't. That's....,'
he got out his compendium of rules, regulations, timetables and odd
appendices to find the surcharge he was empowered to demand.

`I can't ride it. Just use its saddle bag for pushing my
shopping home.'

`What's supposed to be wrong with you?' he inhaled, more
determined than ever to nail me.

`Multiple sclerosis. Some days I'm paralysed, some days I'm
not.'

He wound the elastic band back round his regulation book,
having found himself half way up a locomotion ladder the rungs of
which were now insecure. Besides, by the way the brakes were now
running, slowing us down for Arkston Bash station, he had his
knocking off time agitating beneath the Third Reich of his cap.

Damn Lena, damn Ransley, damn Vincent I cursed and started to
freewheel my bike down the ramp from the station until the guard and
his train shrank out of sight. Today I passed the same dandelions
that smiled at random between lolling railings, and passed the same
abandoned sidings until the ramp, the same temporary ramp of
slippery sleepers we had walked up as a family less than three years
ago, was behind me. We had been taking an excursion to the coast, a
change from being cooped up in a car, using the family rail tokens
we had collected from Carters' Crunchy Cornflake packet tops. In
fact that temporary ramp had been erected as a stopgap after one of
Hitler's bombs missed the wide tracks and left an inconvenient hole
where the station's toilets had been.

I called in at Sally's before turning left into Brick Pond
Lane. Three days later she went out with Claire, `I'm worried,' she
told me when she got back. `Claire's always tired. She doesn't feel
well, so she's spending next weekend at our house.'

`That's good,' I relaxed, happy that Claire was back with her
friends. I started doing extra exercises, one two three, one two
three, one two three. Perhaps it's time for me to renew old
friendships? I puffed away. Or even make new friends? I mused,
concentrating on breathing correctly. One two three, one two three,
one two three. Maybe join a writers' circle in Middlebeck?

`Damn,' I swore, having strapped my feet into the rowing
machine Stan never used - his wife had bought it in the hope that it
would encourage him to slim - and was just getting into the stroke
of things when the telephone started to ring. `Don't stop ringing,'
I grunted, sending out thought waves whilst wrenching my feet free,
tugging and pulling before hurrying from the privacy of my garage
back into the house. `To hell with the phone,' I exclaimed, with
heart heaving, my legs were breaking into a trot. Admittedly for
only a few steps, but the damage was being reversed. One day I
might play games again?

`Hello, Martin, is that you?' It was Sally's mother.

`Hello, Thelma. Claire still with you?'

`No, she's left, gone on the four o'clock bus. But listen, I'm
concerned about her neck.'

`Her neck, what's wrong with it?' I attempted to hide my
concern.

`Haven't you noticed?' Thelma sounded surprised.

`No, should I have done?'

`I forgot, you see her regularly, you might not have noticed
the change, but I think she's got thyrotoxicosis.'

`Thyro-what?' I said, attempting a quick translation,
remembering that Thelma once was a nurse, `Something to do with the
thyroid?'

`Yes. Even her eyes are becoming enlarged.'

`Her thyroid?' I ruminated, knowing only vaguely what that
might entail. `Could it have anything to do with her hands
shaking?'

`That's another of the symptoms.'

Poor Claire. All this time I had been dismissing her symptoms
as being due to nerves, following the divorce, partially because of
Isabel, and maybe as a result of.... `Can they cure it with
tablets?' I angled in hope.

`Sometimes, as long as she sees a doctor, and the sooner the
better.'

Thank goodness. Please, please, please let it be cured by
tablets, I cast handfuls of mustard seeds in every direction. `Do
you think she'll go?'

`She's promised me it's the first thing she'll do in the 
morning.'

My M.S. suddenly lost its importance, except that I really
would have to remain fit and again be her rock whenever she wanted.
It was a good thing Isabel had slipped out of my life after she was
launched into the broad oceans of university life.

Claire took Thelma's advice and went straight to her doctor. He
took one look and immediately sent her home to her mother's to rest.
Next morning the specialist arrived. `I'm sorry, dear,' he also
could tell at a glance, `I think your thyroid might be overactive,'
telling her gently so as not to alarm her, whilst taking samples of
blood, telling her not to worry, and leaving a supply of tablets.
`These will help until the lab tests come through.'

`I think some of the tablets are for my heart, it's
palpitating,' Claire cried to me over the telephone.

Damn it, I cursed, for not spotting that she was ill when her
hands first started to shake. `Shall I pop over, take you to that
cafe, or anything else you would like me to do?'

`No,' she sobbed, not wishing to see anyone, `I just want to
hide from people for ever.'

Damn, damn, damn, I cursed yet again, for not being able to
help. `OK, whatever you say, as long as you know you can contact me
whenever you wish, for whatever you want, at any time of the day.
Nothing you might ask for will be too much for me...... Provided you
don't want a Rolls Royce or something like that,' I added as a joke
in the hope it might help lift her depression, not realising that
her wanting to hide in a corner was yet another syndrome of the
condition.

Another was being impossible to live with. I knew nothing
about this at the time, fate leaving it to Lena to discover just how
stressful coping with someone in this condition could be. Perhaps
one of the mustard seeds from the handfuls I scattered had been
blown off course, landing in one of the ruts Lena and Ransley were
ploughing. They had intended to break up what was left of our
family, yet this can not have been what they planned, the errant
breeze giving Lena much more than she intended whilst making it
easier for me to cope with M.S.

What I did discover was that it was going to be a long job:
although Claire would be well looked after, Mary, Lena's mother,
making damned sure of that, having become disillusioned when her
daughter bought a house with the money, including the children's
holiday money, which she had been stashing away.

But during the time whilst Claire's health was improving
another seed germinated and John left his school, preferring to
travel to college in Middlebeck where he could be grown up instead.
In fact he often stayed overnight with a friend, leaving me on my
own with little or nothing to do. Even the rooks were silent,
perhaps I should start going out again?

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.

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.

Chapter 37.

Each day was sunny. We walked a bit, slept a bit, ate a bit,
slept a bit, swam a bit, slept a bit again until, happier and
healthier, I all but broke into a run after each swim. Yet during
every evening my legs became heavy. Was it the swimming or the sun,
perhaps all the sleeping, or even the wine? No. I drank very little
and, as for the food, we lived mainly on salads.

`By gum, tha holiday's done thee good,' Stan brought a bag of
coal my second day home. `Don't want thee catching tha death, what
with October being here, not after all that heat what you've had,'
he winked. `How did thee get on with tha,.. er, friend..?'

`Fine, thanks,' I ducked. Mind you, it was good to hear him
confirm that I looked as well as I felt, though I was still
wondering why my legs were so tired.

I forgot about them as they seemed to recover, Zena and I
seeing each other more and more as the days continued to shorten.
`What are you doing for Christmas?' she asked.

Now, there's the cut, I thought, mindful of Claire and John
having to shuffle themselves between parents. Two houses in the
pack, each decorated for Christmas, twice the presents, yet no
longer anywhere for them to call "This is my home". Prospects of
vacant faces at the dining table, Christmas through a looking glass,
I lived their desolation. My love a powerful love, a different
love, on top of which Zena was still equal-top love. Too few
minutes for so many loves.

`I'll spend Christmas day, first thing, at Adderton, then spend
the rest of the holiday with you, if that's OK?' I replied.

`Fine. That'll give me chance to clean up my house. I'll have
been kept busy at work right up to the last minute.'

The rookeries around Adderton rocked high, deserted, wrestling
in the winter wind as our Christmas dawn rang hollow. Claire and
John opened their presents before I delivered them to Lena's. `Have
a nice time, dad,' their smiles restrained once we neared within
sight of their mother's new house. What politics, what tensions
caused this?

`See you on Wednesday, enjoy yourselves,' I swallowed my 
feelings, loathful of the chances I had missed whilst we were still
married. If only I had grabbed those opportunities perhaps today's
division of loyalties might have been avoided.

My thoughts continued, muted, as I drove onto Middlebeck,
churning over in my mind those memories of their last Christmas
before the divorce. Perhaps not, Lena had been planning dumping me
for a long time, there was probably nothing I could have done, I
brightened up, nearing Zena's. This Christmas we were going to her
brother's for lunch.

`Wine?'

`Yes, please,' I said, then whispered to Zena, `It's red.'

`Didn't I see you having some red at the Writers' Christmas
party?'

I nodded, guiltily.

`Doesn't it agree with you?'

`Well, sometimes, in small quantities, I think, so after that
party I'll have had enough for the moment.'

`Drink what you can,' her eyes whispered back, reproaching me
mildly, her lips adding quietly, `I'll finish the rest when nobody's
looking.'

Next day would have started under a conglomerate of
melancholy’s had I been dwelling upon lost Christmases past. But not
now, not today, not when I was waking up with Zena in my arms,
despite the grey daylight which was rising grudgingly into a Boxing
Day sky. We remained embraced, ignoring that by me staying in bed
my walking would become worse. Still, it was Christmas.... Well,
`Stay where you are,' Zena said when she saw me starting to move.
`I'll bring you a cup of tea. You can go for a walk later, after
you've been to your friends.'

I was easily persuaded as she loosely knotted her white kimono
dressing gown and hurried downstairs, leaving me to lie back,
resting. The room was so spotless that I mused it had never been
seen by a spider, at least not since she had lived here, my eyes
enjoying her dressing table with its orderly scattering of makeup,
and tissues, and...

`I've brought your things,' she returned with the tea and
counted my tablets, my free arm holding her nearer until, the tea 
having gone cold, she broke free and began to get ready. This
lunchtime we were going our various ways, visiting friends, happy
that tonight we would be back together again.

`Zena, I feel much better now, since taking those multivitamin
tablets.'

She turned her head, with hair dryer still blowing, and looked
through her elbow. `That's good,' she smiled.

`On the other hand, it might be just a placebo effect or,
better still, the consequence of spending a long night with you,' I
snuggled closer, my hands at rest on her shoulders. `Headlines,
miracle cure,' I proclaimed, leaning forward until our cheeks were
together, my mouth close to her ear, before whispering, `To heck
with other sufferers, I'm not sharing you with anyone else.'

What a bore, getting dressed, even though setting off in
opposite directions to see our respective friends would be a happy
event, like really being married, certain that this evening we would
be together again.

Following my lunch at the Eastdrakes I went for a walk. It was
a good walk; good for my M.S., and "good for the digestion" as my
father would say, though the unseasonable appearance of warm sunlight
left me with a sensation of being tired.

`You're not going so soon?' their children pleaded when I got
back, having been waiting for my return, board games at the ready,
expecting me to stay late as usual.

`No, not immediately, but before it gets dark. Remember, I'm
cycling.'

`Stay longer, much longer, Peter will run you home.'

`He can't, he's also had a drink, it's not worth the risk,' I
shook my head. `That's why I'm using my bike,.... it's not just to
save money,' I said nothing about beginning to feel off-colour.
Probably that walk to blame, I thought, expecting that a rest at
Zena's would soon put it right. `All right, I'll stay a bit longer.'

`Right, right. Which do you want, there's just the top hat
or iron left.'

`Tim's already thrown double four, so you've got eight to
beat,...'

`Double four to beat.' 

`... although if you get a double four you can have a second
attempt.'

`He can't.'

`He can.'

`Who's got the rules?'

I was doing pretty well before landing on Park Lane with
Claire’s hotels upon it. `That's me bankrupt. Anyway, it's time I got
going.'

`No.'

`Stay a bit longer.'

`We haven't tried our new game, yet.'

`No, really, thanks, next week, perhaps. I don't want to be
cycling in the dark when the pubs are coming out.'

`Cheerio.' Five heads in the doorway, lights on their Christmas
tree twinkling in the hall.

`Bye.'

`See you soon,' five arms waving goodbye.

Later, much later, my condition had deteriorated, by then I had
cycled to Zena's. `Have some natural yoghurt, full of helpful
bacteria,' she offered, opening her refrigerator, adding, when she
saw doubt in my face, `It's very-low fat.'

After eating the yoghurt I began to feel even worse. This time
it was just like M.S. `I think it would be safer for me to go home,
for more tablets and oxygen.'

`Go home? What have you been eating today?'

`Nothing, nothing harmful.'

`Yesterday you only had a sip of red wine.... What was that
sweet you had at the Writers' party?'

`Cheesecake.'

`Chocolate cheesecake! You've only yourself to blame,' she
despaired.

Back home my condition became even worse, and worse and worse
overnight. Probably a virus instead of M.S., I hoped. Yet perhaps
it was both? Better call the doctor before things end up serious.

`What are you doing on the floor?' he worried, alarmed, when he
let himself in through the door.

`Resting,' I lied, tongue in ill cheek. `I'm too exhausted to 
do any exercises!'

He ignored my bravura, carried out an examination, agreed with
my diagnosis. Perhaps it was both M.S. and an infection. `Keep
resting. I'll leave a supply of anti-biotics.'

My condition soon stabilised after taking his tablets, then
rapidly improved, especially when I bought some different vitamin
tablets. But he who heals first often heals last: two days later
the cure was reversed and my recovery became a collapse.

`This is ridiculous,' I swore the room was shrinking as I
tussled with my condition until, ending up virtually paralysed, I
was unable to crawl, had to sleep on the floor, too weak to even
work my oxygen supply. By the end of the week I was obviously
gravely ill. Better not call out the doctor again, not at this hour.
What is it that I have been taking? “PENBRITEN” it says on the
label. Surely That's not the antibiotic which put me in hospital
thirty years ago?

`It's a synthetic penicillin,' my doctor said, when he answered
his telephone, not too pleased at me waiting until New Year's Eve
before having to find out.

`No wonder I feel awful, I'm violently allergic to penicillin.'

`You didn't say that when I visited you,' he snapped, knowing
that I knew enough to know better. `I'll leave a different
prescription at the surgery for someone to pick up after eleven
o'clock.'

It took over an hour for John to find someone apparently sober
who could drive to Arkston Bash for my tablets. And yet it seemed
that hour upon hour was passing, all the time my room getting
smaller, paradoxically the furniture receding beyond reach, death
tightened its grip. Hurry up, hurry up, please hurry up.

Finally, when the tablets arrived in a pill box, in a
prescription bag, in the slow hands of a neighbour all hale and
hearty, I thought he might be too late. My head was swirling and
swirling, almost out of control, `If they don't work quickly I'll
even have those bloody steroid injections, anything the doctor
insists.'

But within minutes of me taking a double dose of these
different antibiotics the claws of death began to loosen their grip 
and, though still poorly and exhausted, my mind was now at ease to
sink into sleep.

During the night my improvement must have continued because,
with this reaction to penicillin out of the way, within days my M.S.
was defeated. Mind you, this time my recovery was accelerated by me
taking evening primrose oil capsules, as well as a revised regime of
vitamin tablets, plus the rest of my diet being totally fat-free.

Zena, shattered by seeing my illness, started with a similar
dose of influenza. Was it my bug? No, it couldn't be, for in the
end I had probably been suffering from an attack of M.S., brought on
by me eating that chocolate cheesecake at the party. Then things
had been made worse, very much worse, by me taking those Penbriten
tablets, so maybe I never had flu in the first place. But Zena was
certainly ill, and perhaps it was an illness exacerbated by her
worrying about me.

She was confined to bed, deteriorating whilst I was
recovering - even though winter had struck. To hell with the rooks,
let them scatter for food, my new tablets had certainly worked. In
fact I was able to travel by train through the deep drifts of snow
to Middlebeck to see her before another week had escaped.

Poor Zena, her flu was in full flow, still keeping her off
work. Were my tablets really the reason why I had got better? Was
it only the cheesecake which caused my illness? Could I have thrown
off the M.S. even quicker had I been treated with oxygen in Walt
Khitley's diving chamber?

Chapter 38.

Zena returned to work, thrice, and thrice the rooks cawed and
thrice she was ill again. `You're suffering from post-flu
depression. You've never given your body time to recover,' her
doctor told her. `Have you got anyone to look after you?'

`Why did you not say there was me?' I asked Zena when she
phoned me.

`You're just getting over an attack of M.S., so I promised the
doctor I'd go away for a rest.' Her voice was frail.

`I could still take care of you.'

`She didn't think that would be a very good idea.'

`Why not? Didn't you tell him about how we managed on holiday
together?'

`Of course I did, darling, but I must have a long rest. Anyway,
he's a her.'

`Yes, but...'

`It's no use, we can't help each other until we're both better.
As soon as the hospital says I'm fit enough I'm going to convalesce
at my sister's.'

`Hospital! Perhaps I can visit you there?'

`I've told you, until...,' she started to cry.

`I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I won't worry you any more. But,
perhaps, when you're better, and resting at your sisters?'

`She's a se, se, semi-retired writer,...' she continued to sob.

`If it's all right, I don't..'

`..In Tuscany.'

`Tuscany?'

`She finds it help, helps her writing.'

`Oh.'

`Don't, don't worry, I'll let you know when I get home.'

I sat cross-legged, bottom moulded deeply into the carpet.
`Bugger, bugger, bugger,' locusts had stripped my orchard of
happiness. I gazed into the middle distance, television pictures
were dancing whilst images of Zena and our holidays and of joy and
of sadness popped up in the distant beyond. `Sod!' Suddenly my legs
had fallen asleep. `Sod, sod, sod,' they were paralysed. No matter 
how much they tried they were unable to move. The damned bug had
sneaked back on me again.

I looked at the clock. Why had M.S. struck? Soon it would be
closing time. Good, John would be home. Another film started. Black
and white, “The Rise of Epohritius”. Never heard of it. Foreign,
with sub-titles. Can't read them at this distance, not with my
spectacles out of reach. Three more commercials and still John was
missing. Again and again Zena swam through my mind. Where the hell
was he? My long arms needed to grow longer if I wanted to switch
the bloody thing off. Damn, damn, damn.....

Then the door burst open. `I'm going to a party,' his head
nipped in and nipped out before I could say no.

`Oy! John,' I bellowed. `John.'

The door nudged back open, but this time without showing his
head, not even his nose, `What?' he grudged.

`I can't move. Please will you find our camping mattress and
put it on the floor? Please, before you go out.'

`Sorry, dad, I didn't know you were ill,' his face preceding
his body, with a complexion paled by concern, `Have you been waiting
long?'

`No, only a short while. That doesn't matter.'

`I'll stay in.'

`No need to do that, John. I'll be all right, so long as you
untangle my legs, help me onto the mattress, and cover me up.'

`Are you sure you don't mind?'

`Of course I don't mind. You know me, providing there's a
mattress and oxygen I'm fine. Besides, what else can anyone do?'

`I'll keep popping back. Will Zena be coming tomorrow? Do you
want a drink, before I go?'

`No thanks, I've got trouble enough without adding a drink to
my bladder. Besides, Zena's still ill. You go and enjoy yourself.'

He was obviously worried, too worried to leave me, yet anxious
to get to the party. There followed a stop-go go-stop before he
returned to ask, `Are you sure?'

`Yes, good of you to ask. But if I could cycle to London, just
seven years ago, tonight I'll be able to lie on a mattress waiting
until my legs get better,' my head disappeared under the quilt. 
`Good night, leave the light on,' I added, voice muffled by
bedding, just in case I need to rely upon vision for balance, `See
you in the morning.'

My ocean of thoughts ebbed, like waves receding, hoping the
rooks had missed a mustard seed before the tide came in, a shimmer
of hope seeping into the shifting sands of sleep.

Later, later, I woke up. how much later? What time was it? The
clock, the clock? My head was pounding, sight blurred, was it two
o'clock? I tilted my head. Or just ten past twelve? Screwed round,
I managed to focus. It was precisely one minute past two, or one
minute to two, depending upon which was the big hand? The mattress
felt damp, I was wringing with sweat, heart thumping. Heart
thumping! Good, a vigorous blood supply without the complication of
exercise. Just the thing I had been waiting for. A chance to see
whether richly-oxygenated blood, this time a vigorous flow, could
mimic what had happened in Walt Khitley's pressure chamber and bring
about an improvement in my multiple sclerosis.

Tissues began to tingle, limbs became stronger, and after
fifteen minutes I was able to stand. `Bloody marvellous,' I
shouted, frightening a spider which had darted, three darts at a
time zigzagging over the ceiling, to freeze. `Bloody marvellous,' I
shouted even louder, causing the spider to dart leg over abdomen
back into its nest. The speed of my recovery had come as a shock,
`But don't overdo things, settle down, doze a while, breath some
more oxygen,' I mumbled aloud, weaving a deep pile of excuses until
I had sunk into sleep.

Next morning I was fit for light jobs, like washing the pots
and concentrating on throwing off yesterday's flu. If only I had
attempted this treatment at Christmas? But it wouldn't have worked,
my pulse rate at that time being normal, although perhaps Walt's
chamber might have helped - what with oxygen under pressure not
requiring a fast-beating heart? That's another experiment to carry
out next time I'm ill, to see if an increased supply of oxygen to
the brain would reduce the severity of an M.S. attack.

`Tha ought to get thee sen' swimming,' Stan pontificated on his
throne by the fire when I called at the Jolly Poacher to celebrate
the good news. He was leaning back on his haunches of wisdom, one 
thumb under the belt which held in his stomach as well as supporting
its trousers, the other hand holding a pint. `If tha's got thee
lungs full of air tha can't drown, and that'll guarantee filling
thee brain wi' oxygen, provided tha keeps thee head above water,' he
guffawed. `Besides, swimming's bloody good exercise.'

Perhaps he's right, I thought, next day, whilst counting the
lengths, swimming up and down amongst the green echo of a lonely
pool. I climbed out, shivering, leaving it completely deserted,
when it soaked up my thoughts before glazing over. It was still
there, still undisturbed, as I raced up the stairs in my rush to get
home.

`I've dashed up the stairs! Dashed up the stairs!' my legs
realised, their joy having disturbed a receptionist to gawp up from
her desk and wonder what rules were being broken as I stuffed my
head into the hood of their very public phone booth. `It's worked,'
I telephoned Stan, whilst looking down at my knees, obviously my
rooks had missed a seed or two. But if only it could have been Zena,
Zena being the one I really wanted to phone. Trouble is, she was
still ill, yet I had to phone someone, `I'm coming back this evening
to see if I can double the cure.'

`How did tha get on?' he wondered, a couple of days later, why
I had not rung him again.

`I ended up knackered,' my elbow flopping down against the bar.
`Problem is, I've already said I'd pay a full year's membership
fee.'

`No wonder tha looks buggered,' Lofty Cartwright butted in. `I
suppose it means tha'll go swimming every day until tha's got thee
money's worth?' he grinned, leaning forwards, cupping his ear,
supporting himself over his pumps, hoping to evoke a confidential
reply.

`Perhaps, maybe. I'll just have to see how it goes,' I
shrugged, turning and leaving. `See you sometime.'

Back home a letter was waiting. It had arrived in a brown
envelope that morning, which was as good an excuse as any for not
opening it lest it was something to do with my swimming club fee or
Access account. `Ah, well,' I flexed the pint of Dutch courage upon
which I had toddled home and started to ease a smooth pencil under 
its flap, taking care not to tear least I should need to return it
to sender.

`Oh,' my alcohol smiled, the letter was only from SRIMS, the
Society for Research into Multiple Sclerosis, they were opening an
oxygen chamber near Leeds. Opening a centre near Leeds, and I'm on
their list! Is that a reward for my fund-raising cycle ride? No,
probably not, that was seven years ago, and maybe they don't know
that I'm broke. But perhaps if I turn up they might let me have
treatment on credit and, if I use the train, and my disabled pass,
at least I can afford to get there.

Ticket for one, half fare disabled, I fed my money unchallenged
into the ticket machine. It was programmed for coins, not people,
and unmolested by railway staff I travelled to Quipley station.
Well, almost, `Oy,' the train guard shouted full length of the
carriage when he saw me stand up and make a move for my bike. `This
yours?'

I cleared my throat.

`This ticket, according to regulations, is for the sole use of
disabled and retired. It's a criminal offence to.....'

`I've got multiple sclerosis.'

`Where's your crutches? You look all right to me.'

`People with M.S. have good days and bad days. Here's my
photograph, on the pass, and I only push my bike for carrying the
shopping,' I nudged closer to the door and he nudged me back. `Do
you know about multiple sclerosis?' I offered, keeping him occupied
to the point of distraction until we squeaked to a stop at Quipley
station.

`Get yourself off,' he flicked out his railway watch, as
though deciding that I might be a semi-disabled lawyer and he was
not going to risk that, especially since he did not believe a word
that I said. `I've no time to argue, my driver's already running
late.'

`Thanks,' I limped down, our mutual gratitude in exchange for
the conflict averted as he assisted me and my bike onto the
platform.

Yet how could I expect him to understand that I was having a
good day? Best not upset him, nor leave him wrongly imagining that 
I had made a fool of him. `Don't get on your bike,' I muttered to
unadjustable components on my wheels until the train had turned the
corner and been swallowed into the black nether of a castellated
tunnel.

Now alone, sharing the silence of past times with the
loneliness of a railway track, I tried to set off, not finding the
pedals until fourth attempt. Still, at last I had remained upright,
as though those rooks had missed a couple of mustard seeds, but no
more than two because both ankles were repeatedly grazed whilst I
wobbled for three miles up and over a hill to the SRIMS therapy
centre. `Thank goodness for that,' I gasped, racing the last
hundred yards downhill to arrive, just in time, out of breath, tyres
smouldering to the touch and circulation racing.'

Ninety minutes later, after being unlocked from the chamber
where six of us had breathed oxygen under pressure, I pedalled
downhill in the opposite direction, zigzagging amongst traffic until
I rode into Leeds City Station.

`Oy! Off that. Go back to the other entrance, wheel it in.'

`But there are steps.'

`Oh, three steps too much for you? What's wrong with carrying
it? Company regulations state that only disabled passengers...' I
turned away before he had finished.

With only minutes to spare there had been no time to argue, the
picture on my pass being one of those unconvincing photographs taken
by flash in a half-curtained booth. I returned to "Go", raced onto
the platforms waving my hand in the air, brandishing what was left
of today's crumpled ticket.

Just in time, I caught the train and was tippled onto a seat as
it rocked over a cat's cradle of points which knitted the platforms
together. `Phew,' I unzipped my jacket and my breathing slowed down
to the pace the wheels which started to whisper a song to the
tracks. Houses, fields, closed coal mines and meadows and cows
passed by my window but all I saw were reflections of Zena.

`Adderton.'

`Um, pardon?'

`You're ticket said Adderton.'

`Mmm, yes.'

`Well you better get off, and take your junk with you, unless
you want to end up in Scunthorpe.'

Hell, I was there, I bundled myself and my bike backwards
through the guard's door.

`What you been bloody up to?' shouted a voice from a different
direction before I had time to wheel away from the platform, get on
the saddle, and straighten myself up.

`Been for oxygen,' I looked up, it was Stan.

`Did it leave you knackered?' he laughed, having watched me
being bundled off the train before it left Adderton station. He
rarely missed anything from the cab of his tractor.

`No, not after pacing myself,' I got off. `Look. Just see how
well my legs walk,' I started to demonstrate.

`Tha reckons t'exercise helps t' oxygen, then?' he chewed upon
something organic.

`Or oxygen helps exercise?' I raised my eyebrows.

`You what?' he had missed what I said, his attention
distracted by watching his cows. They were wandering close to the
line as the short train wormed its way round the bends and banked
into the distance.

`Or oxygen helps exercise,' I broke into his thoughts.

`What is?'

`It's all right, it's too late now.'

`Where?' he asked, still watching the last carriage disappear
out of sight. `Tha'll need a rest, then,' he spat out the pulp of
his organic chew. M.S. is so boring, but obviously he had heard part
of what I had said.

`In a way, but not too long a rest. It's more a matter of
pacing. Don't want to end up worse like I did after spending that
week lying in hospital.'

`Sort of like treading water, then?'

`Perhaps, you might say so?' I tried to puzzle that one out,
not having a clue what he meant, but thought it best to look
knowingly since I wanted to be off now that it had started to
drizzle.

`What's wrong with a bit of rain on thee `ead?' he laughed,
huddled in his sheltered cab, realising what I was up to.

`Nothing,' I wiped the wet off my saddle.

`Better get thee sen' swimming since last month tha said that 
it had done thee so much good.'

`I intend to, I intend to,' I set off pedalling home whilst my
legs were still tingling, having realised that oxygen therapy
probably benefited from exercise.

During the next weeks I forgot all about rooks, went swimming,
had treatment at the SRIMS Centre, and my health continued to
improve. Yet how I hated swimming without Zena. Mind you, at least
I discovered that cold pools were much better than warm. Were my
constricted subcutaneous blood vessels diverting oxygenated blood to
my brain?... Or do cold nerves work better than hot?

`You what?'

I looked up. It was Stan. Over a month had passed and he had
chugged round to my house to see how I was doing. `Oh, nothing, I
was just wondering.'

`About thee windows?'

`No, not really.'

`Tha ought to, they're rotting.'

`I know that, but I don't want to complicate things by doing
the repairs by myself.'

`What's wrong with using Harry Hodger?' he tested the wind with
his finger.

`Harry Hodger! Hodger the Bodger?' I grimaced.

`Aye. Folk's say he's a bodger, but he does a good job in the
end, and he's cheap.' This time Stan reversed and switched off his
tractor, the rain was blowing into his cab. `I will have a coffee,
if you're offering.' There was little chance of him working his wet
fields today.

`He's only a decorator,' I huddled, sheltering in the lee of
one of Stan's wheels.

`Decorator? Don't you believe it. He can do anything, can
Harry. What's more, he's short of work at the moment.'

`Short of work? Not the best recommendation.'

`More a matter of his business having been caught by a swipe of
Thatcher's handbag.'

`I thought you were a Tory.'

`Just give me a coffee, and give him a try. I'll tell him to do
a good job.'

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?

Chapter 40.

Next day most of the improvements wore off, although they left
me still better able to handle stress and looking forward to the
next Quaker meeting.

These silent meetings suited me, providing light upon simple
goals I had previously put off. Would the situation with Zena have
been different had I achieved this peace sooner? Other folk might
find yoga, meditation, or similar pursuits just as helpful. Healthy
mind healthy body,... or is it the other way around?

`How's your daughter?' asked Betty who ran the village post
office.

`Very poorly. They made a mess of her operation. Took too much
thyroid away. She'll be on tablets for the rest of her life.'

`Who did the job?' Betty quizzed, her post office being the
central clearing house for all local gossip. Mrs. Pettenger, her
ears pricked up like a bat which had sensed there was something
worth catching in the air, moved even closer and rested her shopping
on the counter. Arthur Fortune stopped counting his pension.

`Begins with a B,' I tried to remember. `Brady, I think. Yes,
Brady.'

`Not the mad Irishman,' her face lit up.

`Why,.. do you know him?' I reacted, unable to see what she
should be laughing about.

`Brady! Know him! Do I know him? I used to be his secretary at
the hospital,' she brought her laughter under control, dabbing away
the tears. `Don't get me wrong. Charming, he was. But, you know the
type, drunk half the time, and a house filled with kids.'

Thank you bloody much, I picked up my Invalidity Benefit. If
only her nosiness could have told me this before the operation, when
Claire was agonising over whether to have radio active therapy
instead..... And caw, caw, caw went the crows.

I visited Claire every day. Good thing Zena's still in Tuscany,
I kept on telling myself in an effort to find some consolation
amongst the thorns. But on the third day two women had beaten me to
Claire's bedside. Who are they? One of them looked familiar, though
the taller one with short grey hair and a complexion ripened by the 
good life was a complete stranger. Better hang back until they are
ready to leave, I thought, but the tall one got up as soon as she
saw me retreating to the doorway. `See you tomorrow, Claire,' she
said.

That voice, that voice.... Good gracious, it was Lena, my
former wife. I watched her leave, still unable to recognise her, my
hate and anger gone, almost as though she did not exist. `When I get
out of hospital,' Claire said, hesitatingly, as soon as I sat down,
`In a couple of weeks' time,' she continued, nervously, `The
hospital want me to convalesce at Mum's. You're not angry, are
you?'

`Of course not, Claire,' my face melted, broadly, trying to
ease her anxiety. `It's a good idea, a very good idea. You won't be
fit for your own flat, and I wouldn't be able to care for you
properly if my M.S. ever troubled me.'

`Are you poorly again?'

`No, no. Of course not.'

`You're not just saying that, are you?'

`No, not at all, I really am well,... and pleased, very
pleased,' my smile broadened further as my fingers pressed firmly
like a feather upon the back of her hand, the hand which was not
connected to tubes. `Truly pleased, Claire. Relieved that there's
someone to look after you.' I made no mention of how my health was
beginning to wilt amongst various fissures of stress.

Which included my car, it was playing me up, no longer reliable
enough for running her about: it had come back from the garage with
its engine stuttering and coughing despite having had a major
repair. Yet when life is a bugger it is funny how fate can
intervene, mustard seeds or something keeping my four wheels turning
so I could keep visiting the hospital until Claire went to her
mother's.

But after waving Claire off Sod's Law trampled all over these
seeds, my car dying as I steered back into our drive. Still, Sod and
Bugger must have had quite a tussle because the car kept its final
cough until it was near enough to free-wheel right up to the door of
my house where it became a static display, proof of H.P.
Abberknuckle's assertion that "If it looks wrong, it is wrong". 

`Oh, dear. Did it?' said the mechanic responsible for my
indisposition. `If you bring it back for a reservice I'll look at it
first thing in the morning.'

`Like hell you will. It won't bloody move.'

`Well, it you'd like to,....'

`Don't bother. I'll take it somewhere more reliable.'

So I went to Reliaball Motors. They were only too pleased to
send out a recovery truck, promising top class service in keeping
with their Customers' Charter. I would definitely be satisfied, they
assured me, but once they got their spanners to my car their phone
call had a familiar wrench, `I'm afraid it's not good news, Sir,'
they reeled off the estimate.

`That's an awful lot to spend,' I looked down at the drawer
into which my cheque book had hibernated whilst funds were scarce.
`It's an old car, just a case of throwing good money after bad.'

`Definitely not, Sir. It's been up on the ramp, we've had a
good look, the rest of the vehicle is healthy.'

`So it should be, the number of transplants it's received since
I bought it.'

`If you had come to a main agent like us in the first place
you'd have been running around in it trouble free for another ten
years.'

`Ten years?'

`Certainly, Sir. Once the engine's put right you could still
get that out of it.'

`All right, then,' I succumbed, though left without transport
and no chance of seeing Zena I was left with time on my hands, but
time which sleight of hand soon used for carrying out more tests. It
became obvious that I was allergic to lactic acid, in addition to
the fats and gluten which I already avoided. Eureka, Christmas made
sense, the yoghurt I ate before becoming ill was made of milk, an
allergy masked by the penicillin which had made me so much worse.

Right, that sorted out, I set about discovering more about
vitamins. I knew about supplements being used to keep animals in
captivity healthy, but I was more bothered about using them for the
control of M.S. rather than of me having a shock of shiny hair.

`Have you seen this?' 

`What?'

`This,' the therapy centre passed me a diet sheet. “Take four
times a day 2 capsules of evening primrose oil, 50 mg
pyridoxine, 250 mg vitamin C, and 5 mg zinc glutamate, plus
0.5 mg Colchicine morning and evening”.

I gave it a try and began to look better, feel better, even
more able to tolerate hot weather (increasing fluid intake also
helped). Severe attacks of M.S. became a thing of the past. Mind
you, occasionally it still gave a little tweak but, if I wanted a
pick-me-up for my circulation, like on a hot day, I would revert to
drinking a cup of strong coffee.

Oh, dear, that explains why my movements were so much better
after each Quaker meeting - black coffee upon an empty stomach, not
a miracle after all! Still, coffee was not the entire answer because
even without caffeine each meeting left me better able to cope.

`Damn,' I cursed. `Damn, damn,' having been so preoccupied
with diets, I had not taken a tranquilliser before going to bed.
`I'll be kept awake all night,' I cursed again, then fell asleep.

Next morning I tried to work out why I had slept so well? Why
no side effects during the night? Why no.... Calcium! That's it.
Calcium! Two weeks ago I had started taking calcium tablets after
years of not drinking milk.

Four days passed, still no withdrawal symptoms, it really does
look as though calcium is a factor. But watch it, don't run the risk
of an attack. Better play safe, reduce the dosage gradually.

`Is my car ready?'

`Sorry, Sir, we're doing our best. We'll let you know when it's
done,' said a man at Reliaballs before starting to blame me, `Had
you come to a main agent like us in the first place......'

I pressed the mute button, swore at a magpie which was thieving
its way down our drive, then decided to avoid stress and slammed
down the receiver. I had problems enough whilst being without car
now that our bus service had been privatised. Best not have a row,
time to go walking, divert your anger, I said to myself, remembering
how that “doo” with Harry Hodger had made a mess of my legs.

Thus I managed a few yards further each day, getting stronger
and stronger, walking and musing, at the same time realising how 
much time could have been saved and illness avoided had I been given
a set of allergy tests in the first place.

`Bloody hell,' I jumped, that bloody pony startled me after
having escaped from Adderton Long Meadow yet again. It almost
cantered right through me as Stan's tractor bounced past in
pursuit, bouncing as fast as a tractor can bounce when zigzagging after a recidivistic pony.

`What's a ruddy-vitic pony?'

`It's always damnwell .......,' but he was gone, gone before
being whiplashed by......

Sod it, I'll ring the garage, I doubled back home. If my car's
not ready I'll give them a piece of my...., `How much!?'

`We found more faults than we expected, Sir. You should have
brought it to us sooner,' the man at Reliaballs bounced my anger
straight back in my ear. `It's running beautifully, Sir, you'll get
years of trouble-free motoring. How will you be paying, cash or by
cheque?'

`Are you sure?'

`Certain, Sir. Years of trouble-free motoring.'

`Access, then,' I yielded, flexing my judgement.

Silence.

`Or Visa, if that's easier,' I said, intending to stab a hole
in his commission since a complaint at their price would be futile,
taking comfort in the knowledge that by using a credit card I would
cut into their profits.

`We can't deliver it to you, then, Sir. You'll have to collect
it.'

I walked to the station for a train. Three platform changes
later plus a trudge across town I arrived at the garage where my
car's engine was already warmed. A warmed up engine left me feeling
a little less angry, supposing that this was the kind of service one
got when settling a big bill.

But it is a gullible man who pays for a horse without examining
its teeth and, sure enough, next morning with its engine cold it
required a push start. `The carburettor's faulty, engine's burning
oil, and sounds as though it's running on peanuts so I guess the
timing's way out,' my fist pounded upon the desk in Reliaballs' 
reception.

`Take a seat, sir, pour yourself a coffee. I'll get an engineer
onto it right away,' retreated the only salesman not to have dodged
out of sight. He had a half-bald head, or was it a bald half-head
with sideburns and a Reliaballs' jacket over his suit?

Three cups of coffee later the car was ready. `We've dealt with
the faults, sir, but there'll be a small charge for one job not
covered by guarantee.'

Taking pleasure in credit-carding them yet again I left,
smiling, not reading the invoice until getting home.

“To cleaning of exhaust pipe.” `Cheeky sods, it was a brand new
exhaust.' “To fitting new oil filler cap.” `Bloody thieves. It never
burnt oil with the old filler cap. I'm wasting my time, better write
to the manufacturer, and make it a letter that will grab them by
their attentions.'

“Dear Sirs,
I'm one of the dummies who bought one of your cars......”

This letter certainly woke them up, but only to their own
interests. They defended Reliaballs', could offer no help, not
unless I paid for a further examination of my car by another of
their agents.

How naive of me. `I should have realised. Even the best car is,
by its very nature, something with a potential for breakdown, so for
poor manufacturers to survive they must be past experts in
deflecting complaints,' I whinged into my pint that night in the
Jolly Poacher.

`Forget it, you'll only make yourself ill trying to beat them,'
Stan chuckled so as to placate me.

`It's no laughing matter.'

`Cheer up, they've done you a favour,' he stared at my empty
glass. `Make it last until August, then lease a new car from
Motability. They supply most makes, my father had several because of
his knees. Trouble-free motoring, he called it.'

Chapter 41.

I took his advice, spluttered from garage to garage, found the
right model I wanted. `This one.'

`Yes sir, right sir, sign here,' the salesman lent me his best
pen. `It might take up to six weeks for Motability to process the
paperwork, what with this being your first time, sir,' he slithered
in this afterthought once I had signed.

`Never mind,' I shrugged, trusting that in the meanwhile my old
car would reach the oxygen centre, provided I drove gently: it was
a couple of months since my last dive.

`Is that how long your car's been off the road?' Mabs was
surprised. She was in charge of the oxygen therapy centre that day.
`I'm sorry, but it's half an hour until the next dive.'

`That's OK, I set off early, expecting to wait,' I opened my
newspaper. Just then a young woman entered, searching for
information, having never been to the SRIMS centre before. The man
following in her footsteps I guessed was her husband, his eyes
bored as though going shopping, only there under sufferance, looking
around for nothing to do.

I bet he's just been diagnosed, she's trying to find him a
cure, I guessed. `Martin,' Mabs called, breaking into my muse.
`The chamber's ready. Everyone's waiting for you, yet again!'

Its door clanged shut, air hissed in through a valve, pressure
started to rise, we put on our masks and began to breath oxygen. I
settled back into my newspaper again. `It's half time,' a voice
announced over the intercom. Those thirty minutes seemed to have
gone quickly, I stretching my legs, surprised that already I was
feeling much better. But I had not imagined myself to be ill, so
it just went to show how missing oxygen treatment gave M.S. the
chance to sneak up.

Once the dive was over we walked, limped, or some were wheeled,
through for coffee or tea. That young couple were still there, with
leaflets about SRIMS and how the centre worked. He was still bored,
averting his eyes from us that were maim. I intercepted him when he
was ready to leave. `It's right, you know, all this about diet and
oxygen,' I butted in. Someone passed us a cup of tea each as I 
continued, `Fifteen years ago the specialist told me to return for
callipers until my wheelchair came through. I defied him,
discovered a diet, and ended up playing league cricket plus cycling
to London, and much, much more.'

He leaned forward, suddenly interested. Was he wondering why I
was here? I wondered. Perhaps to him it was like listening to an
economist arguing his case in the bankruptcy court.

`But I became overconfident, behaved as though fat would never
affect me, and ended up paralysed by a serious attack,' I stirred in
a sugar. `Some people reckon you should avoid this stuff,' I
continued stirring.

`Don't use it, myself,' he poured another cup of tea.

`Now that you know about the mistakes I made you can stay like
you are,' I continued, giving him a list of does and don'ts before
concluding. `Remember, when somebody says "it's Christmas, have a
little of this, or just a little of that," insisting that surely a
bit won't hurt; always refuse, tell them that you don't eat fat.
It's like saying I don't smoke, or sorry I don't drink cyanide,' I
stood up to leave. `I thought I could walk on water until someone
gave me fat. It's easily done, that's why I've got to start all
over again, and even then I'll never again be as fit as you,' I
demonstrated, and whilst I was limping he got out his note book
ready to swap our addresses. `And, if you haven't already done it,
make a friend of your doctor.'

Next day the weather man was right, for a change. Temperatures
soared, Summer's furnace distilled the sky a deep blue, almost all
the way to the stars, reminiscent of the Mediterranean and Zena.
That's a thought, I've forgotten to tell him how important his wife
is if he wants to stay healthy. I wrote him a letter:

“It won't be easy for her, she hasn't got the disease, you might
be irritable at times, so go out of your way to treasure her as the
most important thing in your life. She'll be two thirds of your
cure.”

What to do next? There are still several weeks before my new
car was due to arrive. Why not risk the duff engine, drive to the
level crossing and walk a few yards up the hill? - that hill I had
struggled over immediately after being diagnosed. 

This time it worked, by doing just-a-bit-at-a-time, and the
distance increased until the day when I ran out of hill. Try
something more ambitious, I thought, like a return to Ouseby Hoff,
and again climb those slopes where our children once played.

This was more like it, the car's engine spluttering and parking
itself within scent of the pines, my blood pumping vigorously at the
thought of something more ambitious to conquer.

Hopping over the fence and into the wood my adrenaline raced
faster, and raced even faster upon reaching the top. `Just a bit
further,' I enthused to the cones on the trees which seemed to be
crackling, throwing out seeds, as I walked further and further along
the ridge before turning back. `Idiot,' I shouted, damning myself,
scattering the pigeons from somewhere amongst the tops of the pines
as I struggled and slid in descent down the slope. `You've overdone
it again, silly bugger. Will you never learn?'

But this time I was lucky, being tired before too much damage
was done. Swimming would soon put that right. `Sorry, we're taking
industrial action next week,' the pool manager burying his
conscience beneath a graveyard of grievances as he turned me away.

`Oh dear, how sad, never mind,' I fought to suppress my anger.
`I'll see if my legs can come out in sympathy with your action.
Kind of walking to rule.'

Mind you, the strike did me a favour. It forced me to rejoin
that private pool where, the hotel mindful of profit, kept the water
several degrees colder - not the temperature I liked but one which
did me more good.

It had been an ill wind which had tussled and pushed me to use
their side door which was signed "NO WAY OUT" to prevent residents
from leaving without settling their bills. Once inside it never
occurred to anyone to ask for my membership fee as I swam up and
down. Well, the place was almost empty, and I was helping to warm up
their water. Besides, think of the taxes I was saving them by
keeping myself fit and not calling upon the National Health Service
for treatment.

`You'll be coming to see me, won't you?' Mother telephoned when
she heard that my new car had arrived. By now she was living by the
sea, having moved there to be near to my brother. This is not what 
he had planned, having changed jobs just to escape after assuring
her that he had given up his girl friend in an effort to forestall
her pursuit.

Better get it over and done with, I thought, redialling whilst
the phone was still in my hand. `Hello, Peter, do you fancy going
out for a drink if I call to see Mother?'

`Certainly do. Why not ask if she'll put you up for the
weekend?' he suggested, `Then we can go for a meal.'

`OK. How about if I see you at her flat, this Saturday?'

`Ah, bit of a problem. Best if we meet by her steps, next to
the sea, immediately in front of her...,' he mentally shuffled,
using vague reasons before adding, `Don't forget, nine o'clock,
sharp.'

That's my Peter, evasive as ever. Wonder what he's up to this
time? I smiled whilst driving over the moors, past Fylingdale's
Early Warning Station. He's one phenomenon they'll never track down.

The moors ended. Blue Bank, fields falling steeply, sheep
bleating behind me and, in the distance, through blue haze, the
ruins of Whitby Abbey. I drove along the coast. There it is,
Mother's flat, top floor of a former hotel trapped between sea and
cliff - close to God's hand in Summer, dependent upon the Devil's
humour for the rest of the year. Good thing I was fit again, ten
flights of stairs, goodness knows how she manages.

`Of course I get out for a walk,' she reacted, `They don't give
free rides to pensioners around here.'

Even as I trod carefully back down the steep stairs to go out
with Peter she continued to rant. `Get a move on, I climb these
steps several times a day.' An oppression pored over the landing.
`When will you be back?'

He arrived, exactly on time, with car door flung open in
gangster getaway fashion with his moll in the back. So this is the
other woman, I smiled? A different one, I bet one Mother had not
bargained for when she moved to the coast, but a replacement to
target her current hate on.

It was after midnight when Peter gave me a lift back. `I'm
all right, drop me here,' I assured him.

`No,' he insisted, shepherding me closer until we reached the 
side door. I eased my hand onto the latch, silently, yet it clicked
in the echoing darkness. He stopped, ears pricked. A light switched
on, piercing the night. `Who did that?' I muttered, and made as to
start climbing the stairs. But he was silent, frozen against the
outside wall.

Upon the top landing I discovered the answer. It was Mother who
had put on the light. She was crouching, also in hiding. The pair
of them in a war of attrition, repelled by a foetal attraction.

`Was she with him, Poison Ivy?' mother's whisper savaging the
silence, her psyche in ferment. The air was electric. My stress
level rose, a neural barometer in the path of her storm.

First thing tomorrow I'm off, I decided, desperate for retreat
in any Quaker meeting in time.

It took me three weeks to unwind. Back in Whitby pacts and
alliances were being redefined between Mother and Peter. Not an
example of Glasnost, more of a tidal relationship where the other
woman moved out when mother moved in.

`Is that you, Martin?' it was Mother on the telephone, several
weeks later. `I'm in hospital, I've broken my knee, fell over whilst
taking Peter's dog for a walk.' Wretched thing had made a dash for
the cliffs whilst Mother hung on.

`That's his girl friend's animal, he doesn't have a dog.'

`Are you calling me a liar?'

I rang off before she poured more venom over me, the neap tide
had passed, the other woman moving back in.

After being discharged from hospital, in a tactical withdrawal,
Mother removed back to Leeds. `It's going to take months to
recover, confined to this house, but anywhere's better than being
stuck in that flat when Poison Ivy's around,' she ground away,
marooned, her leg stuck in the air.

Weeks passed. She began to learn what it was like being
dependent upon others. `The ambulance took me for physiotherapy
today, you know. Nice girl, she is, the physiotherapist,' Mother
having discovered a bit about being disabled. `You've no idea what
it's like using walking sticks.'

`Yes, they are difficult, aren't they?'

`Sorry, I forgot,' she corrected herself, then immediately 
forgot her forget and continued her story, barely pausing for
breath. `And do you know, whilst I was seeing this physiotherapist
girl, someone delivered a huge bouquet of flowers to her? Who on
earth sent them? I asked - you know how I hate flowers being cut -
and do you know what she said? My husband, she said. What on earth
did he want to send those for? I asked. Because he loves me, she
replied.'

Was this Mother's first glimpse in a world where relationships
involving sentiment were not considered a sin? After ninety years
was fate showing her what she had missed? Poor Father, how he would
have liked to play such games.

`And another thing, do you know what Poison Ivy did?' her
venture into normality yielded as she reverted to talking about
Peter's girl friend again. Still, she had made a start.

Yet it was too much for one day. `You'll have to excuse me, I'm
late for oxygen,' I checked with the clock and left in a hurry. She
still had a lot to learn.

Chapter 42.

As the pressure in the chamber started to rise, and oxygen
flowed, I thought of how Mother might be inching, millimetre by
millimetre towards a normal way of life. Mind you, aged ninety, she
would have to get a move on. Then I dwelt upon Claire and John, she
was already rebuilding her life and he was at college. Only Zena was
missing, but not from my thoughts. Funny how huge a difference just
one letter makes, like in Zena or Lena, and love or rove.

`Hour's up,' a voice announced and the chamber door swung
open, time for refreshments. Mine was a coffee, which I was
sipping, whilst completing a quarterly progress report a young man
strode into the centre, disgustingly fit, bursting with joie de
vivre. He thrust out an arm in my direction, `I've never thanked
you for the letter you wrote to me a couple of months ago,' he
started vigorously shaking my hand.

`Letter?' I had never seen him before.

`Yes, you know, that one you sent me the day after telling my
wife and myself about your polyunsaturated fats and organic foods
and exercise and...'

Good gracious. It was him. The young man I had told about diet
on the day when he wandered, lost, into our Centre, following his
wife after being diagnosed.

`Thank you, thank you. I had to say thank you,' he kept shaking
my hand whilst it was still attached to my arm. Then he stood up to
leave, `Thank you again.'

`If he can do it, so can I,' I thought, looking south towards
where the eleven o'clock sun would hang tomorrow, over Tuscany, and
where tonight's smoky summer moon was rising.

The End

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

1  

Dangerously Healthy  - Copyright © Malcolm Birkenshaw

Click here to access Home page

Presented by CureZone.com