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

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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 an