Love Matthew
Knock
Knockknock
Of course, of course she came to help.
‘You didn’t have to bring stuff, Nanny.’
‘Nonsense. It’s just a few bits and bobs. It’s not right you buying everything.’
I was so pleased to see her. I hadn’t slept well. I know it wasn’t much to arrange, but when the day arrived I was full of worries. Nanny stepped into my kitchen and saw the tower of hurriedly cut ham sandwiches, stacked on the counter. ‘Wonderful,’ she said. ‘You’re nearly done. Now you remembered Aunt Jacky’s vegetarian?’
‘Is she?’
Nanny smiled and budged me aside with a swing of her hip. ‘You’ve done lots. Let me take over for a while. You get washed and dressed.’
By the time I was out of the shower, all the sandwiches were in neat triangles on a serving tray, and she was crouched in front of the oven checking on the mini sausage rolls. ‘Good timing,’ she said. ‘Help me up. My knees are on their way out, I’m sure of it. I’ll be as bad as your granddad soon.’
I helped her to her feet. ‘I’ve bought crisps too,’ I said. ‘Should I put them in bowls?’
‘We can do that when we’re there, sweetheart. They’ll stay fresher in the packs.’
‘Yeah. Sorry. I’m a bit— I want it to be perfect.’
Nanny Noo didn’t respond to that straight away. She lit a menthol cigarette from her secret pack in my kitchen drawer, blowing the smoke out of the window. She only smoked half before stubbing it out. Then she placed her hand against my cheek, and kissed me on my forehead. ‘It doesn’t need to be perfect,’ she said at last. ‘It’s already wonderful.’
‘Thank you, Nanny.’
She tapped on the kitchen counter, ‘Now, you start taking some of this down to the car. I can’t go up and down those stairs. Not with these knees.’
‘Thank you.’
It wasn’t perfect.
There were things I didn’t properly think through. Take the Beavers and Brownies Hut. It’s bigger than I remembered, and there weren’t really that many of us.
When the man met Nanny and me in the car park to give us the keys – and to explain how important it was not to prop open the fire doors with anything, because they’d had trouble with that before, and the amateur dramatics troop were unlikely to be allowed to rehearse there next summer if they didn’t stop scuffing the floor with black-soled footwear, and how to open and shut the top windows with the hook on the pole, and a bunch of other stuff that I didn’t properly listen to – he asked how many were in our group, then looked at me like I’d made a mistake.
Aaron and Jenny couldn’t make it. They sent a message with Aunty Mel to say they were so sorry but it was a friend’s wedding and Aaron was Best Man. There was nothing they could do, but their thoughts were with us, and they hoped to see everyone soon.
Aunty Mel did come, and she brought my youngest cousin, Sam. But Uncle Brian had to work, and Peter was away on some trekking weekend with the Duke of Edinburgh’s Awards.
‘If he didn’t go,’ Aunty Mel explained in a whisper. ‘He’d miss out on his silver.’
‘Of course, of course,’ Mum whispered back. ‘Well, he’s got lovely weather for it hasn’t he? If it’s anything like here. Almost too hot for hiking, I’d think.’
‘Beautiful, isn’t it? The forecast says it might turn tomorrow though.’
We were all hovering at the long fold-out table, where Nanny Noo had helped me to lay out the food and bottles of fizzy pop. Behind us was a small circle of chairs that I’d set out, and behind them were about fifty more, all stacked up against the far wall.
‘I didn’t ask about your drive, Mel?’ Dad said. Except he probably did ask, because she went to their house first to freshen up. And knowing my dad, it was the first thing he asked.
‘Oh it wasn’t too bad, thanks Richard.’ Aunty Mel turned to Sam, ‘Was it darling?’
Sam shrugged, stuffing a sausage roll in his mouth and Aunty Mel continued, ‘Although there was a bit of traffic build-up coming onto—’
‘The M4,’ Dad interrupted, nodding vigorously. ‘That’s right. I did ask, because you said you didn’t have time to stop at the services.’
‘Oh, yes. Yes. Still. Just as well. They’re extortionate these days, aren’t they? I read somewhere recently they were going to introduce some new laws to curb that.’
‘But it’s a captive market, isn’t it?’ Dad said. ‘It’s ridiculous. Five pounds for a cheese toastie.’
‘And the rest,’ Mum said.
‘And the rest,’ Dad said.
‘Are you joining us for cake, Matt?’
That was the student social worker – the one with the gold hooped earrings. She just took a sneaky peek over my shoulder as she skipped by.
It’ll be all awkward conversations there too. ‘Um— I’ll be through in a bit,’ I told her. ‘I’m nearly done.’
‘No rush,’ she said.
It’s hard to concentrate today, with so much going on.
Nobody cared about the prices at motorway service stations. Nobody wanted to be having this conversation.
It was just hard to know how to begin, because we’re not one of those families like you get in EastEnders, where all they ever talk about is the big and important stuff. We’re the kind of family who don’t talk very much at all, and when we do talk, it isn’t really about anything.
The conversation trailed off, and all you could hear was the clicking of the wall clock, until Mum asked Jacqueline, ‘Any nice plans for the rest of summer?’
When I last saw Aunt Jacqueline she would always dress in black and even wear black lipstick. And she always had a cigarette hanging from her lips. But now she wore a brightly coloured flowing dress and a pink headscarf, and she didn’t smoke at all.
‘Pardon?’ she asked.
Mum had taken a bite of sandwich and had to chew for ages before she could swallow it, ‘Sorry. Any nice plans for the rest of summer?’
‘We might go away again,’ Aunt Jacqueline answered breezily, linking arms with her new boyfriend, who was staring at the bowls of crisps.
‘Oh lovely,’ Mum said.
‘But we haven’t decided yet, have we?’
‘Hmm? No, no.’
Aunt Jacqueline’s new boyfriend was really tall and thin, and wore cut-off denim shorts and sandals. He had long white hair in a ponytail, and a scruffy white beard. He was a vegan.
Nanny Noo could have kicked herself because it was her who insisted we used proper butter in the sandwiches, instead of my tub of margarine. So all he could eat were the crisps. Except even that was a problem because Aunt Jacqueline’s new boyfriend wouldn’t eat the Beef & Onion flavoured crisps, and instead of just not eating them he gave this sort of hushed lecture about how he had a moral uneasiness with foods that were flavoured to taste like animals, even if they didn’t have animals in them.
Mum looked at me, and rolled her eyes.
‘Is there a toilet?’ asked Sam.
‘Just through there,’ Nanny Noo pointed.
Then we all took our seats, with our paper plates on our knees, and listened to the sound of Sam’s loud trickle of piss through the thin toilet door.
So it wasn’t perfect. But that didn’t matter. Because this wasn’t about what was in the sandwiches, or the huge empty space around our little huddle of chairs. Maybe it took us a while, but then Nanny Noo was right all along. It was wonderful.
‘Good lad, weren’t he?’
Granddad loosened his tie and undid his top button. He was wearing his smart white shirt, but you could see the dirt still under his fingernails from an early start on the allotment. I think it took courage for him to speak first. He keeps himself to himself, which is why you haven’t got to know him too well. But one thing I’ve learnt about people, is that they can always surprise you.
My granddad wasn’t finished, ‘Brightened up the room, he did. Just by being there.’
I’m not reading into it. I’m trying not to read into it. But if I did, I doubt I’d be alone. At that exact moment bright sunlight came pouring through the top windows. We had the fire door propped open to let the air in, and with the sunshine came the gentlest breeze, so that all at once it felt warm and cool, and everywhere around us, tiny golden dust particles were swirling in their millions.
There was a collective intake of breath. Nanny Noo squeezed Aunty Mel’s hand. Aunt Jacqueline moved her fingers slowly through the air. Mum was welling up already.
It was all lost on Granddad. ‘No bloody patience, mind. Would he wait for the glue to dry before he started painting that plane? Remember it? The Sopwith Camel? Not a chance.’
‘Was I there?’ Sam asked suddenly. He’d been looking a bit bored until then, slouched back and picking at a spot on his neck. Now he sat forwards, scraping his chair legs over the polished wooden floor. ‘I think I was there,’ he said. ‘And Peter and Aaron. I remember you building Airfix with us. Is the Sopwith the one with two sets of wings?’
‘It’s called a biplane,’ Granddad said.
‘Yeah. Yeah! Simon wanted to paint mine too. He wanted to paint a face on it. I remember it. Shit. That was so long ago.’
‘Language,’ Aunty Mel said curtly. ‘Honestly. This boy of mine.’ She wasn’t really cross with him. She reached to ruffle his hair, and you could tell she wasn’t really cross.
Then Mum turned to Granddad, and with a smile so big it nudged a tear from her eye, she said, ‘Dad. Remember at the lakes? When only you were allowed to help him on the potty.’
Nanny Noo shook her head, ‘Oh that was funny, that was so funny.’
Then Mum did something I’d never seen her do before. She did an impression of Simon. ‘I want Granddad to wipe my bum, Mummy! Not you. Granddad!’
My granddad threw his head back, laughing so hard you could see his gold teeth at the back of his mouth. ‘I was lucky that trip, weren’t I?’
The Beavers and Brownies Hut didn’t feel so big after that – the memories could hardly fit. We went on holidays, and to the school nativity when Simon was the Inn Keeper and decided that there was a room for Mary and Joseph after all. We went to the Bristol Exploratory, where we froze our shadows against the glow-in-the-dark wallpaper. We climbed up to the dangerous tree house with a rusty nail, and then off for the tetanus injection that followed. We stood in the queue for the Ghost Train, three times over, always too scared by the time we reached the front. We scrunched through autumn leaves at the arboretum – the trip when Simon disappeared for a whole hour, and Mum was frantic, but Simon didn’t even know he was lost, and when we found him, he was happily teaching a bemused elderly couple how to tell the time, but he might need some help from them, but not until he asked.
The truth is, I didn’t say that much myself. I didn’t have so many memories of my own to share. Not whole memories, with beginnings, middles, and ends. I was only a little boy when I knew my big brother, and we don’t get to choose what we keep.
What I did at the memorial, was listen.
To the laughter and the tears, and to the quiet stillness that followed.
This is where I want to leave my story, because it’s the place I am most proud of.
But that doesn’t make it the end.
This story doesn’t have an end. Not really. How can it when I’m still here, still living it? When I print out these last pages I’ll turn the computer off, and later today men will come with boxes to take everything away. The lights of Hope Road Day Centre will be switched off for the last time. But in time, another day centre will open and close, and another, and there will always be a Nurse This and a Nurse That, a
Click-Click-Wink
and a Claire-or-maybe-Anna.
I’ve told you about my first stretch in hospital, but I’ve been back in since. And I know I will again. We move in circles, this illness and me. We are electrons orbiting a nucleus.
The plan is always the same: After I’m discharged, I spend a couple of weeks with my parents to help me to settle. Mum wishes I was nine again; we could build a den in the living room, and hide away forever. Dad takes it seriously. He holds back on the special handshakes and talks to me like I’m a man. They’re both helpful in their own way. The first few days are hardest. The silence is a problem. I get used to the hourly checks, the scraping of viewing slats, fragments of conversations drifting from the nurses’ office. I get used to having Simon around. It takes time to adjust, and time to adjust when he’s gone.
I could keep on going, but you know what I’m like. The ink running dry from my typewriter ribbon. This place shutting down. That’s enough small print to get anyone thinking.
So I’ll stack these pages with the rest of them, and leave it all behind. Writing about the past is a way of reliving it, a way of seeing it unfold all over again. We place memories on pieces of paper to know they will always exist. But this story has never been a keepsake – it’s finding a way to let go. I don’t know the ending, but I know what happens next. I walk along the corridor towards the sound of a Goodbye Party. But I won’t get that far. I’ll take a left, then a right, and I will push open the front door with both hands.
I have nothing else to do today.
It’s a beginning.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank my parents and sister, who I know will be so proud to see this book on the shelves. I am blessed to have such a supportive family.
I’m grateful to everyone who has read my writing and shared their thoughts. That is no small offering. It is—I’ve learnt—how a novel comes to exist. Thank you Kev Hawkins and Hazel Ryder, who read my earliest drafts, and whose words of encouragement remained with me. Tanya Atapattu, for so many reasons—but especially for your kind encouragement whenever it was most needed. And Phil Bambridge for your generous contribution to the science lesson in the Prodrome chapter.
A very special thank you to Emma Anderson for your incisive editorial notes, and unfailingly helpful advice.
I completed the first draft of this novel on the Creative Writing MA at Bath Spa University. Thank you again to my parents, who helped support me financially during this time, and also to my then flatmate, Samantha Barron, who endured every vicissitude of my studies with me. Thank you to my manuscript tutor, Tricia Wastvedt, and to my other tutors and fellow students, not least Samantha Harvey, Gerard Woodward, John Jennings, and Nick Stott.