Maggie Gee - The White Family

Alfred looked at Darren levelly. ‘The news isn’t very good, in fact.’

The family went quiet. Was this something momentous? ‘I wasn’t going to tell you. Your mother didn’t want it. But the tests aren’t quite what they ought to be.’

‘But you’re doing very well for a man who’s had a stroke,’ Darren said, indignant.

And Alfred pulled himself up in bed. It was as if he wanted to savour the moment, a moment when he still had power over them. Perhaps he felt himself slipping away from the world of busy people who strode down the ward, or flew halfway round the world after dinner. ‘I never said I had a stroke. It was an event , the doctors said. Apparently I had another one last night. A stroke’s just something with your circulation. They can fix that —’

‘— Of course they can fix it,’ Darren affirmed, to no one in particular.

‘— but that’s not the problem. They’ve found some blockages. Lots of small blockages in my brain —’

‘Blood-clots?’ asked Darren, over-helpfully. He’d started to sound like an interviewer, Shirley thought, why can’t he just shut up? She was frightened, suddenly. Sharply frightened.

‘In plain English, they think I’ve got cancer. The so-called events are kind of fits. They look like strokes, but they’re not.’

All Shirley could think was he’s going to die . Dad was trying to tell them he was going to die. Poor Mum. Poor Dirk (and where was Dirk, anyway? Poor Dirk, he always got left out) — But it was impossible. It couldn’t be true . ‘But Dad,’ she burst out. ‘I can’t believe it. You’ve lived outdoors, you never smoked —’

‘It’s secondaries,’ he said, with a certain relish. ‘They don’t know where the primary is.’

‘He did smoke, actually,’ May put in. ‘He loved his smokes, when we were courting.’ Shirley saw none of this was news to her. She looked grave, but not shocked, whereas the children were dumbstruck. ‘You did smoke, dear, didn’t you?’

‘Oh never mind that,’ cried Alfred, furious. ‘That was years ago, woman. It’s not to do with that.’

Now it was Darren’s turn to put his foot in it. ‘It’s not exactly brain cancer, if it’s secondaries. The primary might well be lung.’

‘So you’re all doctors, are you?’ Dad fumed on his pillow. ‘And it’s my fault, is it, because I smoked?’

This scene was going terribly wrong. Shirley saw he was fighting with himself. He wanted to be brave, and dignified, but his wife and children weren’t letting him.

She felt a surge of simple pity. For he was a brave man, in his way. If there were shouts in the street, he would always go out. She had watched him chasing yobs from the Park, louts who were six inches taller than him. ‘You’re a fighter, Dad,’ she found herself saying. ‘You won’t be beaten. I know you won’t.’

‘Of course I shan’t give up,’ he snapped, but slightly appeased. He looked at her, suddenly, his pale blue eyes seeming to see her properly, as if they might be together in this. ‘You’re a good girl, Shirley … a good girl.’ He pushed himself up again with one thin arm, and made an effort to smile at his family. ‘I am a fighter. I’ve always been a fighter.’

(But that was the trouble with Dad, of course. Fighting made their lives miserable.)

‘When are they operating?’ asked Darren.

‘He doesn’t know,’ said Mum disapprovingly, as if all this openness had gone too far. As if once they let death come into the room, it would stay with them always; no going back. No going back to their normal bickering.

(But Mum was always so afraid of change. She was a coward, really, though Shirley adored her. Because just possibly, Shirley felt then, if we knew Dad was dying, if everything was spoken, we could find something different. An openness. A new way of being together. A new way of being with my dad. As if fear and lying could finally end –

He might be sorry. We might be sorry. All of us might become less frightened.)

‘They’re not going to operate,’ Alfred said. He stared at them, defiant. ‘They say they can’t operate.’ This was his moment. He waited for what he had said to sink in.

‘OK,’ said Darren, stupidly smiling. Perhaps her brilliant brother was stupid. Susie had put her arm around him, her thin arm in its bright blue jacket, three gold cuff buttons, five red nails, but under it all she offered human comfort. Shirley wished that Elroy were here. She too needed an arm around her. Darren’s mouth opened, and closed again. Then Thomas was beside him too, bearing him up.

‘People are listening,’ said May, very quietly. ‘I don’t want everyone to know our business.’

Shirley realized she meant the raddled red-head on the bed next door, who was listening avidly, not trying to pretend. She met Shirley’s eye, and did not look away, her veined eyes glittering with terrible hunger. Shirley felt a kind of senseless horror, as if it was death, lying waiting for them, and told herself, but she’s just lonely. No one ever seems to come to see her . She wriggled past Darren and Susie to her mother, and put her arm protectively around her shoulders ( I’m sure I never used to be so much taller ). ‘Doesn’t matter, Mum. Never mind …’

Shirley needed comfort, but gave it, instead.

‘Do you have a prognosis, Mr White, Alfred?’ said Susie. They all turned and looked, surprised by her daring.

‘It’s cancer, I told you,’ said Alfred, but gently, more gently than he would have done if it was his children.

‘That’s not what prognosis means,’ said May, unable to hold back, as usual. ‘That’s diagnosis, what you’re talking about.’

Shirley let go of her mother and moved forward to the bed, it was time to intercede to prevent an argument. She ought to work for the United Nations –

But Thomas, bless him, stepped in to help. ‘Did they talk about the future, Alfred?’

The future, she thought. Such a brilliant choice of words.

And Dad turned towards him with a strange expression that Shirley slowly realized was gratitude. (Because sometimes families couldn’t talk on their own. Sometimes they needed outsiders to help them.) ‘They don’t think I’m going to get better,’ he said. ‘So we’d better face up to it. I’m on my way out. But I’m going out fighting. I’ve got things to do. Lots of loose ends to tidy up at the Park.’

Somebody was sobbing. A woman, sobbing. The volume of noise became sensational, terrific …

‘He has to ask the doctors if he wants to go back to work,’ said May, to everyone and no one. ‘He hasn’t mentioned it. They might not agree. Dirk, dear, sorry, you’ve had a shock …’

The shuddering roars came from Dirk, not May. Dirk had come in while Alfred was speaking. Dirk had come in, and no one had noticed. He was standing with Mum, his face buried in her shoulder. All Shirley could see was his leather jacket, the pattern of studs heaving and shaking.

‘You can’t all stand there bawling,’ said Alfred, with a hint of his old sardonic humour. Indeed he was back in control again, now he had seen his news take effect. ‘Making a spectacle of yourself. Now you older ones had better move aside and let me have a word with Dirk. Not you, May,’ (irritably). ‘You stay.’

They wandered numbly back down the ward. ‘I don’t believe it,’ muttered Darren. ‘Of course we’ll seek a second opinion. We’ll find someone seriously good in the States.’

‘Are you still flying back?’ Shirley asked him.

‘We have to, don’t we,’ he said to Susie.

‘I don’t see why. We could just make a few phone calls.’

His face had a spasm of irritation. ‘You’re a therapist,’ he said. ‘You can’t let your clients down —’