James Hannah - The A to Z of You and Me

‘Right.’

‘But you’ve got to know, if you refuse all visitors, that means something to us. That sends us a message. Dr Sood will come in here in the morning, and he and I will have a chat about all the cases, and he’ll look at your notes, and he’ll say, Oh, refused all visitors , and he’ll draw certain conclusions from that.’

‘Yeah, I know.’

‘It’s just my job to let you know that. I mean, there are a lot of things we offer, to help people out when they’re having dark thoughts. I can arrange one of our counsellors to come along and have a chat at any time.’

‘No — no thanks.’

‘Just so long as you know I’m here to help. I’m here to help you get what you need.’

‘It is: it’s what I want.’

She smiles at me, and holds up her hands. ‘OK,’ she says, ‘OK. I’ll see what I can do. Just, do me a favour: don’t close yourself off completely. Any fool can be unhappy. Cutting yourself off from absolutely everyone — well, it’s very tempting, I know — but sometimes it’s not for the best. Sometimes you’ve got to try a little bit, so you can feel better.’

I frown at the wall, fractionally. It sounds like the sort of thing you’d say. I can hear you saying it.

‘I don’t want to see anyone,’ I say, in a measured tone.

‘OK, lovey. I’ll put the word in on reception.’

I look up at her and nod. ‘Thank you.’

‘Your wish is my command,’ she smiles, standing and brushing imagined crumbs from her trousers. ‘But listen, Ivo. You can be as grumpy as you like with me; I’ll keep on coming back. Just — just don’t leave anything unsaid to the people who matter. It only takes a few words to change your world.’

It’s quieter in here today. Something’s not quite right — people’s rhythms are different. Sheila’s not dropped in as many times, and when she has she’s been giving off different signals. Busy, busy. I’ve been thinking she’s avoiding me because I was short with her. She’s very businesslike.

But I’m starting to realize it’s not me on their minds. The signals beyond my doorway, out there in the corridor, they’re starting to become clear.

The breathing from Old Faithful next door has become more laboured. It’s lost its body. Sounds like a kazoo, exhaustedly huffed.

Hzzzzzzzz, hzzzzzzzzz, hzzzzzzzz

It’s constant, but weary. Weary clown.

Is that a rattle? Is that what they call a death rattle?

Hzzzzzzzzzz

Death rattle, deathbed — all these words accumulated from somewhere. Sometime. All the experiences from all the bedside farewells across the centuries. All point here, to these sounds, these feelings, these signals in here now.

Sheila has a respectful professionalism about her. She keeps conversation to a minimum, and her serious face only looks in on me from time to time to deliver medicine or adjust the blinds. Her amiable meanderings have straightened out into a purposeful efficiency. It makes it all so quiet, like a subdued Sunday. I’m only aware of the swish of her trousers and an occasional ankle click to mark her advance on a target.

Hzzzzzzzzzz

Old Faithful’s husband was camped out in the visitors’ waiting room all last night. Square-looking unfashionable Japanese man, roughly of retirement age, but still dressed in a crumpled work shirt and tie. He wanders aimlessly, waiting, eking out the time. The kind of walk you see people pacing out on train platforms when there’s no train. Waiting, waiting. The walk of the dead.

Hzzzzzzzzzzz

He walks past my doorway once more, glances in. I try to catch his eye to give a reassuring smile. I don’t know why. There’s nothing I can do to reassure him. Perhaps I mean: This is going to happen, and you’ll be all right.

He returns my smile with a nod. Good, that’s good.

He moves on.

I look out the window once more, to the magnolia tree. There’s no robin so far today. But look at it, I could gaze at it for ever, in late bloom as it is. I like them when they’re a little tighter, getting ready to reveal themselves. Better suited to a Japanese garden maybe, all clean lines. But beautiful, beautiful.

Hzzzzzzzzzzz

‘All the nurses here are very nice ladies.’ I look up. Mr Old Faithful has stopped on his way back past my doorway.

‘Sorry?’

‘All the nurses here are very nice ladies.’ He ventures in.

‘Yes, yes,’ I say. ‘The best.’

‘They have looked after my daughter and me very well. They have a good understanding of the stresses. They are very supportive.’

I nod and smile.

‘Are you being looked after well?’ he asks.

‘Yes, yes. They are very good here. Can’t do enough for you. Whatever you ask for.’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Yes.’

Then his face collapses almost comically, his nostrils flare and his mouth tightens.

I don’t know what to do.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ he says. He looks to leave, but he’s nowhere to go, so he stays where he is, forced to compose himself. ‘Sorry, sorry. It’s hard. I’m here, you know, with my daughter, and we’re just watching her mother slip away. I don’t know what I’m going to do. A father is a very poor substitute for a mother.’

‘That’s really sad,’ I say. ‘I’m really sorry.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘You understand.’

‘I do.’

‘This cancer is a very awful disease,’ he says. ‘It’s evil. It’s hard to believe that there’s no more they can do. We thought she was getting better. She had been given the all-clear. So we allowed ourselves to hope. She started to regain weight. She started to look a bit more like she used to look. But the cancer came back. You can’t ever drop your guard. I worked too hard. We didn’t have enough time to enjoy ourselves. When we realized what was happening, she wasn’t well enough to enjoy herself. I worked too hard.’

I want to help this man, but I honestly don’t know what to say.

His daughter appears at the door with two mugs.

‘Papa?’ she murmurs in a barely audible undertone. She can see he has been crying, and comes over to him. She proffers the mug and looks shyly over at me. I nod and purse my lips, indicating — something.

He accepts the mug and takes a couple of attempts to get the correct number of fingers through the unfamiliar handle. A teacup man. ‘Sorry, I was just—’ He looks over at me. ‘This is my daughter, Amber.’

‘Hello,’ I say.

‘Hiya,’ she says.

She looks brilliant. Rich black hair with a deep blue streak. Eyeliner, in the same way that I remember you wearing it. The swash . I struggle to meet her with the right sort of look. Beautiful, clear, lively eyes. Part Japanese, part not. Striking.

What am I? Flirting?

It’s all I know how to do. A reflex action. She’s exactly like you were. Confident. Confident enough to say ‘hiya’, to look me in the eye.

She can’t be eighteen. Less than half my age.

‘Are you both coping?’ I ask. ‘As much as you can, at least?’

‘Once you know what to expect each day, it’s better,’ says Amber, throwing a look at her dad. ‘You get a routine.’

‘Yeah. Routines are good. Uncertainty is almost the worst thing,’ I say.

‘It’s rubbish,’ she says. ‘But the nurses here — I mean, they’ve been brilliant. We’re so lucky. She could have been in the hospital, and we didn’t want that. This is nicer than the hospital. We trust them with — with my mum.’

Even from the way she’s standing, I can see she’s the one in charge. Only a teenager, but she’s carrying her dad along with her. As she talks he looks disconsolately out of the window at the tree and the lawn beyond.