James Hannah - The A to Z of You and Me

I’m walking, I’m walking.

I’m doing something with my life.

And it’s good. Good to keep the feet moving.

Got my blanket on my back, your arms around me.

It’s nice. Take it slowly.

One foot in front of the other.

Push, slip my way through the fire doors. They chunk shut behind me.

It gets the circulation going. Gets the brain going, gets the thoughts, the ideas going. It’s good, it’s positive. Something as simple as things to look at, new things to take in. Makes you look more kindly on the world.

Wish I’d done it earlier.

The coffee machine, there it is. The Café Matic 2. There’s a big stack of mugs beside it. All different. The staff bring them in. I Love London. Phantom of the Opera. A Room of One’s Own, Virginia Woolf.

Steady, now. It’s nice to go at a glacial pace. Keep near the wall.

I glance in on the room to my left. There’s an old lady on the bed. A younger woman looks up at me from the visitors’ chair, and I’m gone.

Round the corner now. Noticeboard up on the right, pinned every inch over with flyers and leaflets. The papers at the bottom lift and flutter in the convection of the heater beneath.

Convection current. Another concept Mr Miller taught us in Science. Will I never be rid of that man’s influence?

St Leonard’s Church Fête — £430 raised for the hospice. Not a bad sum. Or is it? It’s hard to tell. Huge thanks to all. Yeah, thanks.

Palliative Care in the Home. We all want to be where we feel most comfortable. Familiar surroundings. Not my home. With family and friends. Not my family. Or my friends.

Cancer, Sex and Sexuality. Everyone is different. There is no such thing as a normal sex life. You may still have needs and desires even if you are very ill.

Massage. Karen Eklund. Swedish masseuse. Twice-weekly sessions in the Baurice Hartson room. Sessions last approx 50 mins. Write your name below for a consultation. No pen provided.

Reflexology, Bowen Therapy and Reiki. Heal yourself.

Time to move on.

Laughter now colours in the corridor from the room at the far end. Audience laughter. And a voice. Familiar voice. By the time the sounds travel down the corridor to me, the words gather shimmer from the walls and the floor, so they are buried amidst the avalanche of sound, of gloss paint and vinyl. They talk of the corridor. They talk to me of pastel wallpaper and detergent. Shiny floor. Easy to clean. Health inspector fresh.

I squeak along the corridor towards the sound, and the words grow more distinct.

‘So what about the Budget then, eh? Terrible, wasn’t it? ’

The Budget. Ugh, noise. Outside noise. Noise of a world carrying on without me.

‘But you wouldn’t want to be Chancellor, would you? No. You wouldn’t want to be Chancellor.’

Everything in me wants to turn back to my room, to get back into bed.

‘Can you imagine? Cutting all those NHS budgets. You wouldn’t dare fall ill, would you?’

No, come on, come on.

‘… well, I’m sorry, Chancellor, all these NHS cuts, you know? I can’t afford to give you anything for constipation. You’ll have to stay full of crap.’

In the TV room the telly’s broadcasting to an audience of empty chairs. Screenlight switches upholstery now blue, now yellow, now white, now blue. I’ve got this far, I might as well sit and watch for a bit. I select the chair next to the big trunk of toys, pick a Rubik’s cube off the top, rotate it uselessly in my hands.

‘So what’s the answer, eh? You’re so good at budgets, I suggest you go back to number 11 and work it out with a pencil. Yes?’

There is loud laughter now, and I wince at the noise. They turn it up higher and higher these days.

‘That’ll help him budge it, won’t it, eh?’

Laughter.

Amber appears at the doorway, carrying two empty coffee mugs. I look up at her and smile.

‘Hiya.’

She peers at me from behind her hair, and I think for a moment that she’s not going to acknowledge me, but she does, tentatively stepping in and looking at the screen.

‘On coffee duty?’

She doesn’t reply, but looks down at the mugs in her hands.

‘I’ve come to get myself a bit of culture.’

‘Oh, him. Yeah. I don’t really like him.’

‘They always turn the audience up so loud.’

She smiles, politely. Ugh. Such an old man thing to say.

We’re not such different ages. Twenty years. Twenty-two, three. I just want to say to her, I understand you. I get what it is you’re trying to say. With your deep blue streak of hair, and the way you dress. I mean, I want to turn to her and say You, me, friends, yeah? Same, yeah?

But no. No, no.

You can’t cling on to things like that.

‘Sorry to be a pain,’ I say, ‘but if you’re off to the machine, would you mind getting me a cup of tea? I’d go myself, but—’

She clears her throat. ‘Sure,’ she says. ‘Milk and sugar?’

She disappears.

I flick through the channels for something a bit less full-on. News, news, panel show. What would Amber want to watch? I end up on one of the music channels and leave it at that. Turn it down to background.

She returns bearing two mugs. Deep red and deep blue. One says Humph on the side, and one says Albert.

‘Humph,’ she says.

‘Thanks very much.’ I take it from her.

She retreats a few seats away, and sits cross-legged, cradling the cup against her lips, propping her elbows on her knees. Green-and-black-striped tights.

‘Have you got stuff to keep you busy out there?’ I ask. ‘All the waiting. It’s draining.’

‘I’ve got some books. But it’s not really the best place to read. I can’t concentrate.’

‘No, it’s hardly surprising, is it? You want to try playing Sheila’s game.’

‘What’s that, then?’

‘Well, what you do, you go through the alphabet and think of a part of the body for each letter. Then you think of a story about that body part, like, say what is the best thing your fingers have ever done. The moment in your whole life when they were best used.’

My explanation grinds to a halt, and I think she must wonder what the hell I’m talking about.

‘Adrenaline,’ she says, brightly. ‘I’d start with A for adrenaline.’

‘Why adrenaline?’

‘It motivates you and keeps you safe. It makes people do amazing things, like become superhuman. Do you know there was a woman who managed to actually heave up a car that was crushing her child?’

‘No, really?’

‘Yeah, in America. I read about it — it was the adrenaline in her arms.’

‘That makes my “Adam’s apple” story feel a bit inadequate,’ I say. ‘But that’s what you get for working in a garden centre all your life.’ I look at her, and I don’t see a light go on. ‘Garden of Eden,’ I say. ‘Adam’s apple.’

‘Which garden centre did you work at?’

‘You know the one down the road from here? At the junction?’

‘I know. We go out to the café there sometimes.’

‘Oh, yeah. Good cakes.’

‘Yeah! Great cakes!’

We gaze at the TV screen for a while, and begin to get drawn in by its conversation-sapping magnetism. I try to think of something to say about adrenaline. I can only think of it as an antidote to drug overdose.

‘I love your blanket,’ I hear her say. I look, and she’s reaching over to touch the edge of it.

‘Oh, thanks,’ I say, smiling. ‘It was made for me.’

‘Wow. It’s gorgeous. Can I have a look?’ She turns a corner. ‘It’s a got a beautiful tension in the stitches. I’m looking to do textile design at college — I’ve always loved it.’