Читать книгу When I Met You - Jemma Forte - Страница 16

Just off Romford High Street, on a narrow side road, there’s a small café called ‘Ron’s’ where cab drivers tend to congregate, waiting for jobs to be radioed in. This is the designated spot where I am to meet my dad.

When I got back from Hayley’s, Mum was deeply suspicious when I said I was going out again and interrogated me for ages, so in order to get her off my back, I told her I was off out to meet Jason. I know I’ll have to come clean about what’s going on eventually but, today, I just wanted to leave the house with as little fuss as possible.

I’ve made a bit of an effort with my appearance. I’m wearing a floral tea dress and a little jacket. I’ve also plastered on the make-up. In many ways I hate Ray for everything he’s done and yet I still want his approval and for him to see me looking nice. This is too confusing to analyse at any great length, plus if I stop to think about everything for too long, my head’s probably in danger of exploding.

As I sit on the bus – Mum needs Tina tonight – I try to read a newspaper that someone’s left on the seat next to me but can’t concentrate on the words. I’m nervous, really nervous, about seeing Ray, but also strangely excited. It’s weird. Despite what he’s put us through, I don’t think I could contemplate not trying to get to know him. Of course, the fact he’s so ill has acted as a pretty strong catalyst for me, in terms of making my mind up. It’s not like I have the choice of making him sweat for a few months before agreeing to see him. Though, with regard to that, I’m starting to wonder whether maybe he’s exaggerated his illness a bit, in order to get my sympathy. It would be rather a sick thing to do but given that I’m on my way to meet him now, effective too. My doubts stem from the fact that he looks like such a big strong man. Not one who’ll be going anywhere any time soon.

After a fifteen-minute bus journey and a short walk along the high road, I shove open the door to the café, which was his suggestion for our designated meeting spot. It’s very full.

I’m the first to arrive and manage to nab the only free table left. I feel a bit like a rose among thorns. Grizzled cabbies surround me chatting away, drinking their tea and eating fried food. Still, it’s as good a place as any for our meeting, plus nobody I know is in any danger of popping in. I sit for ten minutes, but don’t mind. I’m early and on the dot of quarter to eight, which is the time we’d arranged to meet, Ray appears.

I smile nervously and half get out of my seat, hovering as I wave in his direction. Once he’s spotted me I sit back down again, awkward and clunky, unsure of how to be.

‘Hi,’ I say shyly as he approaches.

‘All right,’ he says, looking relieved to see me and just as nervous. ‘Do you want a cup of coffee or something?’

I nod even though I don’t really want a coffee. I hate coffee.

The café’s lighting is stark to say the least. It’s perfect for this situation though because I’m fully intent on sussing Ray out as much as possible. As he places two cups of coffee on the table I scrutinise his face.

‘You trying to see whether I’m really ill?’ he asks gently.

I’m startled. Had I been that obvious?

‘It’s all right, I do it myself,’ he says. ‘But just so you know, I am. That ill I mean, and shit as it may be, that ain’t gonna change.’

‘Right,’ I say weakly, desperate for more information but not wanting to ask, in case he can’t face talking about it. However, Ray seems to pick up on my need to know more about his illness because although at first he looks reluctant about doing so, he starts to tell me.

‘Three years ago I was feeling really knackered all the time and then I noticed a bit of blood when I … well, when I went to the toilet and that.’

I nod in order to demonstrate that I know what he’s getting at.

‘Anyway, long story short, they found out I had cancer of the colon, so I had an operation to remove half of it. After that they blasted me with chemo and radiotherapy and for a long time I was good as gold. Until a couple of weeks ago when during one of my check-ups they discovered it was back, only this time it’s spread,’ he says plainly, conveying the facts precisely as they are, so there can be no confusion on my part. ‘It’s on my liver and in my lymph and there ain’t much they can do about it. There are things they can do to help but they can’t cure it no more,’ he says, needing me to get it, needing me to be very clear on the subject. He was going to die.

It’s so horrendous and I wish more than anything that he’d got in touch years ago. Not at this stage, when death’s hanging over everything. So much wasted time, and sad that it took something this drastic to galvanise him into action.

‘You’ve still got your hair,’ I remark cautiously.

‘Well, chemo was a while ago now but also not all types of chemo make your hair fall out anyway. It depends on the drugs they give you, which are all tailored to the individual. I got lucky,’ he adds wryly.

‘I’m sorry, I suppose it’s just that you seem … all right,’ I whisper apologetically, because as much as I know he needs me to accept what he’s just told me, I’m having real trouble digesting it as fact.

‘I am all right,’ he says, nodding in agreement. ‘I really am at the moment. In fact, ever since I got my head round the fact that there weren’t no more they could do, I’ve felt positively good. I get a bit tired and that, sometimes have trouble sleeping, but you know …’ he trailed off.

I can’t bear it. It must be so frightening knowing what pain lies in wait. I can feel terror advancing on me like an army just thinking about it. The certainty of the end is something surely we’re not really programmed to deal with.

‘What about America? They probably have more advanced medicine over there don’t they?’ I say, clutching at straws.

‘A bit,’ he agrees, smiling ruefully. ‘But they don’t perform miracles, which is what I’d need.’

We both concentrate on our coffees for a while until he says gruffly, ‘Nice that you seem to care a bit though.’

I shrug, not sure what I feel really. I mean, if anyone told me they were dying I’d feel sad. It is sad. Tragic in fact. The fact he’s my father makes it even more poignant than if he were some stranger of course, and yet that’s still kind of what he is to me. What do I really know about him after all?

I decide to swerve this potentially thorny subject and instead ask something I’m curious about more than anything. ‘So, while you’ve been going through all of this, who’ve you been with? Are you married? Do you have kids?’ My tone is deliberately light but I can’t look at him as I ask this. It’s something I’ve been fretting about all day, knowing that the answer could change my life all over again.

‘No. I never re-married. I was in prison such a long time and I guess … I don’t know really. I guess it wasn’t something I went looking for again.’

‘What about friends?’ I ask, allowing myself to breathe. I’m relieved there aren’t lots of relatives in the background if I’m honest. But at the same time don’t like the idea that he’s been through all of this on his own. It seems too horrific.

‘Yeah, I’ve got “friends”,’ he says, seemingly mildly amused by my line of questioning. ‘I’ve got some good old mates and the people at the hospital have been amazing too. I’ve had a lot of support and of course there’s my key worker who’s been there every step of the way.’

I must look non-plussed because he goes on to explain.

‘You get assigned a key worker when you find out you’ve got cancer. They’re basically a nurse who makes sure you’re dealing with everything all right, keeps an eye on you. Mine’s called Matt. He’s a top bloke as it goes.’

I don’t know why I’m surprised his key worker’s a man. I’m pleased he’s got someone looking out for him though. Equally I feel saddened and angry because if only he’d thought to find us years ago maybe some of that support could have come from me, his own flesh and blood.

‘Anyway, I didn’t come here to talk about all of that,’ says Ray, determinedly upbeat all of a sudden. ‘I want to know about you Marianne. Tell me everything. What you like, what you don’t like. Have you got a boyfriend?’

I shake my head and stare fixedly into my coffee, which I still haven’t touched.

‘I’m surprised, you’re a pretty girl.’

I blush flame red at this.

‘You should see Hayley. She’s the pretty one out of the two of us,’ I mutter.

Ray suddenly looks a bit sheepish and I guess then that he probably has seen her. I don’t ask. It’s all quite unnerving.

‘So how come you’re still living with your mother then? I would have thought you’d have wanted your own place by now. What are you now? Thirty-one?’

I nod. ‘Let’s just say it’s not really out of choice.’

‘Oh. Right.’

There’s a long silence, which I’m probably expected to fill, but don’t. Eventually he says, ‘So, you’re single, living with your mum, anything else? What do you do? What makes you, you?’

I shrug. I know I’m being very wooden but in reality I don’t know whether I’m ready to have such a personal chat yet. I’m here for answers, not for a heart to heart.

‘Are you gonna help me out a bit here or what?’ jokes Ray nervously.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to tell you about myself, it’s just … there’s not really a huge amount to say.’ I sigh heavily before eventually giving in. ‘I’m a hairdresser, I live at home because I can’t afford to move out and I’m sort of seeing someone but it’s extremely early days. That’s about it really,’ I mumble, uncomfortable in this odd, interview-like scenario. Doubts over my ability to cope with the situation are creeping in. There’s just so much to absorb and it’s all so … strange.

‘So you are seeing someone then?’ says Ray, leaping on this titbit of information, eager to engage in more of a two-way conversation and displaying over-the-top levels of interest as a result.

‘Well, sort of. I met an Australian guy in Thailand and hopefully he’s coming to London soon.’

‘An Aussie, eh,’ he says in a tone that irritates me. It’s ever so slightly mocking. ‘And Thailand, when did you go there then?’

‘Last year. That’s kind of what I do. I travel. Then, when I’ve run out of money, I come home, work again … at the salon, then I save up until I have enough to go off again.’

‘Right,’ says Ray, still nodding, only I can’t help but notice, he looks a bit bemused.

‘What?’ I say, feeling defensive.

‘No nothing. It’s just … you know, I’ve never really heard of anyone describing “going on holiday” as what they do.’

There’s so much I could say back to this. I have to sort of wrinkle my entire face in an effort not to reply back too forcibly, though what I say still packs a bit of a punch. ‘Well, it’s probably more worthwhile than spending half your life in prison.’

‘Fair point,’ Ray agrees, fists planted squarely on the table. He’s wearing the same black leather coat he was wearing the other day and his shoulders are so broad in it, he’s practically the same width as the table. He’s slim though. Despite his big build he certainly couldn’t be described as a fat bloke. He’s just very tall. He’s wearing a gold cygnet ring on the little finger of his right hand and everything about his presence is big, in a way that could be reassuring or menacing, depending on how you viewed him I suppose.

Another silence follows, one that definitely couldn’t be described as comfortable. Feeling deflated I start fiddling with the packets of sugar that are on the table in an aluminium pot. I realise in that moment that I want so much from this man, want him to be so much, the reality can’t possibly measure up. Then he says, ‘You like your music then?’

I nod, feeling immediately defensive and inexplicably like I might be about to cry. This is so much harder than I thought it would be. I swallow hard and stare at the table.