Читать книгу Andalucia - Richard W Hardwick - Страница 3

She’s on her feet before her surname echoes off the wall behind. Towards the smiling nurse she strides. I get up slower, gather my book, my empty bottle of water, shuffle after. But then I’m spotted. And the nurse takes her gaze from Anna’s slim face, her long brown hair. And her expression changes as her hand comes up.

“She’s only going for the...”

Mumbles something like she doesn’t want to say the words.

I presume Anna's going to sign her name, check details, will be back in two minutes. Surely I’ll be allowed to support her all the way through? So I wander back across the waiting room, look round at faces that fall away rather than make eye contact. And I sit back down in Anna’s chair, still warm. The door does open two minutes later but it’s the nurse that comes out. I sling her a dirty look, turn to the telly, watch history unfolding. Barrack Obama smiles back at me. Helicopter pictures of the celebrating masses. Braving the weather, that’s what the presenter says. While around me, in warm silence, sit ten or so people; waiting to hear about themselves or their loved ones.

Inauguration:

To commence officially or formally; to initiate.

The doctor had said, “It doesn’t feel like cancer,” smiled affectionately. Anna returned the smile and then the nurse smiled too. I remembered to breathe out again. Everything’s going to be alright; that’s what all the smiles meant.

“But you need to have the mammogram,” he added. “Just in case”

And I’m still here. And it’s getting on for an hour now. And I couldn’t give a toss that the world might be changing for the better. Eventually she comes out, slower than she went in, a little unsteady on her feet, says they had to test some cells. They’d squished her this way and that. It was bigger than it seemed. They have to stick a needle into it, send it to the lab. I hold her hand, still warm and inviting; grip it tighter than I normally would.

Then we’re back in the same room as before and the doctor pushes a long thin needle into her breast and the tears come rolling down her cheeks as she grits her teeth against the pain. And the nurse holds her shaking hand while I sit uselessly at the foot of the bed.

“Pretty worried,” is what the doctor says this time. “That’s why they have the mammogram, the ultrasound. It’s difficult to tell just from feeling”

And then more waiting. Except this time we’ve moved along the conveyor belt and the silence has a thickness that’s rarely challenged. Now there’s just six, the lucky ones allowed to leave, take their relief with them, return to normal lives. A woman’s legs buckle. She’s picked off the floor and taken to a private room. The doctor rushes in. An hour later a nurse pushes her out in a wheelchair, past legs that move quickly, eyes averted elsewhere. Two more go in and then come out, just a quick five minutes for both of them. And then, second from last, after two more hours of waiting, two more hours of hand holding and leg rubbing, they call out her name again...

This time we go past the room we’ve already been in three times, the room we’ve seen others go in, come out of. Two doors down is where we go. A different nurse introduces herself, says the doctor will be along in a few minutes.

And we sit there. And we look around at the leaflets on the wall. And we know...

Cancer is your name. But many call you Big C.

It’s shorter. And easier.

Thirty-six years old with cancer. A girl that people always turn to when things fall apart. A girl that always knows the right thing to do, the right thing to say.

But she can’t answer the question the nurse asks her.

“Do you have any children?”

She breaks down and I answer instead. Explain we have a five year old boy called Joe. A two year old girl called Isla.

•

She asked if she had the right group, seemed a little nervous, sat down on carpet and crossed legs, black hat perched above dyed black hair, black clothes flowing all around. After a few seconds studying carpet pattern she looked up and across at the four blondes in designer clothes lined up on the chairs. Then she glanced at my flowery shirt, my slicked back pony tail, and she felt very different. And though it wasn’t love at first sight for me either, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t interested.

She sat next to Pete on the aeroplane, swapped with Helen because he was terrified of flying, held his hand while we took off. Over Western and Eastern Europe we went, out over the Mediterranean, round the south of Turkey and above Cyprus until eventually Tel Aviv slipped into sight down below. There was nothing political in my choice of destination. I’m not Jewish and I wasn’t going to work with oppressed Palestinians. I was simply going as far away from London as I could with what money I had, away from ecstasy and the dull blur of alcohol, away from the office job that was never as exciting as people pretended it was. I was twenty-one years old, going to work the land, sweep clean my mind. I was going for an adventure. And if love came around too; well, that would be a bonus. Anna was eighteen, had three months before starting nursing training. She wanted to go to Nepal with a lad she fancied, sold everything she had in a car boot sale but didn’t make enough money so joined the Sheffield kibbutz group instead. But they didn’t fly for another month and she wanted to leave straight away. The London group agreed to take her but needed to check availability, then quickly responded with the news that there was just one seat left on the plane. Anna got it.

On such small details whole lives and families are created.

A large cemetery came into focus as we descended, tiny rectangles of gravestones in orderly rows, trees greener than those in England, streets and fields drier, white buildings illuminated in a land used to fierce sun. Over a busy dual carriageway and down to a runway and a round of applause that brought bemused looks from nine young Brits. Past the suspicious questions of customs, the furrowed brows of armed soldiers, through a dark alley with railings on either side, staring people crushed outside, arms and legs flailing through. And into a waiting minibus.

The driver didn’t speak much, just straightened his gun on the dashboard, pressed down on accelerator. I sat next to Anna as we bounced on hard seats, looked out at wide streets, people drinking coffee outside cafes, white and pale modern buildings, military camps with high walls. Leaving the city behind, we journeyed through camel coloured fields, past clusters of houses as seen on tv, hitch-hiking soldiers and ancient gnarled trees. Shirley passed forward a Motown tape. Giggles turned to song. The driver looked in his mirror and smirked. Past Jenin and through Afula we went, round the southern tip of the Sea of Galilee as the last of the sun fell away behind us. Then, the tape finished, we drove up, up, up into the darkness of the Golan Heights. Aware we were on occupied territory the minibus fell into apprehensive silence as we started to wonder about our destination; Kibbutz Afiq. The woman at Kibbutz Representatives explained it was the nearest settlement to both Jordan and Syria, saw our concerned faces and said, ‘Don’t worry, there’s an army regiment based there the whole time.’ Eventually we reached the top and continued over flat land and what seemed like nothing else until we sighted small lights on our right beyond high barbed wire fences. The driver slowed. And we pulled up at large gates in front of a manned and armed watchtower, highlighted by our headlights in the darkness.

•

I push the trolley down the aisle looking for cooking chocolate. I push back the tears as well, as some cliché ridden pop song plays softly over the speakers, a song I would have ignored two days earlier, probably mocked.

She wants to stay positive she says, as we walk down the beach hand in hand.

I leave her at six thirty a.m. to drive to work, leave her for the first time since the news, leave her with both children because Joe has a temperature, is too unwell to go to school. I feel guilty but she wants everything to be as normal as possible, and anyway we need the money. And if I don’t go to work, I don’t get paid. I can’t focus; just stand there while everyone else makes small talk. Those that know why I was off two days ago come up and then push back their own tears while I find myself reassuring them. We’re not thinking worst case scenario I say. It doesn’t bear thinking about. It slips in now and then but we shove it back out, slam the door shut. And then I cross my fingers and hope the same is true of Anna back home.

Sometimes I get a feeling in my stomach like a cramp that folds over, that twists tighter and tighter, squeezes nausea upwards like bile through internal tubes. I eat my breakfast and chat to oblivious children. I don’t ask what Anna gets. Then I telephone my Mam. I’ve been putting it off. When someone’s on the vulnerable and rocky road to recovery themselves, and they don’t know if they have the energy, then it’s the last thing they need. The phone’s engaged. She’ll be on the Internet looking for inspiration, searching for techniques. Googling medication.

I’ve nearly finished the seventh pint before I can bring myself to do it, before a quiet moment allows. It’s not an easy thing to just slip into conversation. We’re outside The Free Trade pub, looking down at the Tyne, the Baltic, the Sage, the Millennium Bridge. They’ve been at our house all day and they haven’t got a clue. I wanted to tell them over the first pint, give it time to settle. But they were so happy, the atmosphere so good. We don’t meet up that often these days. One shrugs in drunken sympathy, declares she’ll get through it. The second says nothing, just listens, then talks about something personal he’s been through. The third freezes in all but eyes, unable to speak, rooted into paralysis as he remembers a past family member. I take another sip and apologise for not telling them earlier.

Everyone’s gone. The kids are in bed. She’s outside looking at the stars as the tears slowly roll. It’s harder at night-time, away from children that think everything’s normal, away from work and its distractions. We cuddle but I can’t think of anything to say that hasn’t been said a dozen times already. I tell her I love her once again, make sure I don’t cry with her. I have to be a rock; that’s what people say. I can crumble into pieces when she’s not present. But I have to be solid when she’s nearby.

It lays further down, in the unconscious, smothering everything else. Dominating. It’s been pushed down there but tiny droplets seep out. This isn’t a tap that can be fully turned off, perhaps ever. Music is its gateway, or at least it is this time. It seems wrong to be driving to work, to be driving away from her, but we need the money and she’s at work herself for the time being. I tire of Radio 4's company, the aid to Gaza advert, the reclassification of cannabis (again), the scandal of corrupt politicians (again). So I put a cd on. It starts gentle enough but when the guitars kick in I feel the first signs of movement inside tear ducts. I feel my foot pressing harder on the accelerator, picture myself driving wildly. Then I picture myself on stage, smashing my guitar, smashing my fist into someone’s face. And then finally I picture myself at home in the kitchen, smashing my fists off cupboards, throwing things off the shelf, destroying the place. I pull into the prison car park surprised to have arrived in one piece and completely unaware of the last half hour’s drive. Perhaps my unconscious is not completely smothered after all.

Six-twenty a.m. and I’m downstairs in the kitchen making sandwiches. I hear Anna asking Joe to go to the bathroom and get washed and dressed. Joe growls, stamps his feet like a baby elephant, shakes the ceiling above me. Anna plays things exactly the same way she always does; calm yet firm. But Joe screams at his Mammy and so I shout upstairs. Anna tells me she’s dealing with it, go walk the dog. I leave the house and wonder how I would cope on my own, how I would manage to get everything done. I wonder how a five year old boy and almost three year old girl, both of whom adore their Mammy, would cope with her death; whether their beautiful, funny, self-absorbed little minds would crack like eggs. Or fill like dirty sponges. And I let a few tears slide down because I can. I’m on my own, and it’s still dark.

•

“Straight out the gates. Keep going. Turn right at the dead cow”

We were off to find the ancient ruined city of Piq, following directions we got from three nervous German girls we met at the volunteer houses. We never saw the cow, walked out over flat dusty land, the occasional green rectangle of orchard sighted in the distance. We stood on a deserted road, watched the sun set deep orange over mountains that could have belonged to Israel, Syria or Jordan for all we knew then. And then we turned back to Afiq, our new home.

All the girls except Anna and Helen were still downbeat about our accommodation. Jane physically gasped when we arrived at them. Although ours were the same as all the rest from the outside; small, white, single story and very basic, the inside gave a new meaning to minimalism. One living room with a couple of tatty couches, a shower room with toilet and three bedrooms with nothing except thin mattresses on low metal frames. Be sure to shut the doors we were told. And don’t leave windows open. Jane was disgusted. This wasn’t what she expected; Sarah, Sharon and Shirley too. They were after parties, hedonistic fun, at the very least a few posters on the walls. Nobody had alcohol either. Everyone stupidly thought there’d be a shop open more than two afternoons a week. We stayed up late chatting, discovering each other, met Marla in the morning, the American volunteer co-ordinator. Our first day was free. The day after we’d be working in the gardens and would have to wear strong boots because five dogs had been killed by snakes that summer.

We arrived back from our unsuccessful quest to find Piq, found the swimming pool instead, had a dip as the dark thickened. The German girls came along, still seemed hesitant, eventually said there’d been problems with English volunteers in the past. They often didn’t stay because life was too simple, work too hard. Afiq had only been a kibbutz since 1972, was the first Israeli settlement established in the Golan Heights after the Six Day War, was small and isolated compared to most other kibbutz. And if English volunteers did stay they drank too much to alleviate the boredom. The last group had just left, were lazy, got drunk every night. One lad drove the tractor into the swimming pool pissed. If we wanted respect and friendship in a place like this we would have to earn it. Rob and I walked to the phone box on the other side of the kibbutz to reassure worried mothers, sidestepped a black scorpion, hurdled a cockroach being attacked by hundreds of ants and noticed on the outside of the perimeter fence, a deer being chased by what looked like wild dogs.

•

The tide is out, the clouds are parting and the air is crisp; a perfect January day. Halfway along the beach I see a hunched figure coming towards me, stick in hand; someone who already knows. Minutes later, Brian stands and faces me.

“Well, it’s a beautiful day isn’t it?”

I nod, shrug...

We watch our dogs a moment. Then he moves alongside me and we look at the sea. And he asks how Anna is.

He nods as I talk. He’s “been there, got the t-shirt.” And all he has now are memories and photographs he can’t look at. He tells me people used to come up when he was walking the dog and ask how his wife was. He felt like punching them he said, had to remind himself it was only because they cared. But if he saw them coming towards him, even if it was close enough for them to see him, he used to turn away, walk in a different direction so they wouldn’t meet.

He needs to move on before I do.

I carry on down the beach, looking for shells and stones to take back home. Down by the waves I walk, tip-toeing like a sandpiper, using the approaching roar as my retreat signal. Moving fast when white foam crashes at my feet. I scan them, thousands, millions even, some flesh coloured, stretched sinews and tendons. Others dappled like horses. Speckled thrushes. They’re better where the waves come. The water brings out their colour, their energy, highlights and contrasts. And then something catches my eye, lodges in my gut at the same time. Part of an animal perhaps. Sea creature cut out with rough knife. I stand above it and look down in disgust. Nodules stick out, tubes clogged wet with sand. I’m fascinated and revolted at the same time, want to pick it up and examine it, throw it far into the sea. But I can’t bear to touch it, so I kick it instead. It’s hard like bone. I kick it into the flush of the waves and continue along the beach without looking back.

The full moon illuminates fields and rolling hills, soft with overnight snow. It pulls me to work, not away from it. I don’t understand and then I realise it’s because it’s my last day for a week and a half. I want to get to work so I can get back again. I turn left, just five minutes away and now the moon tries to pull me home. It wouldn’t make any difference. It’s Anna’s last day too, probably for months. Her operation is in two days time. I remember how she couldn’t sleep. I took her a cup of tea in the early hours of the morning. She laid on her side and repeated the same thing.

“I just want to come back. I just want to come back”

•

Out we staggered, through purple sunrise to strong coffees, rakes and hoes after two hours sleep. By noon we’d spent seven hours clearing weeds and dried grass. Then, as we ate dinner of boiled chicken, rice, stale bread and salad, and pretended not to be bothered by the feast of eyes upon us, we watched them come up the stairs one by one. Dark skinned, short black hair underneath hats pulled down tight, dark blue overalls, old green army jackets, sturdy black boots and machine guns slung over shoulders like any other accessory. The Golani, the army regiment stationed at Afiq, came up for dinner and looked us all up and down, but in particular the girls.

On the night we found the disco, an underground bomb shelter invisible from the air. Gingerly down dark steps we went, but Israeli Goldstar beer was good, better than the music. So we got drunk and watched Golani dance around machine guns like handbags. Then Anna and I drank black coffee and went to Piq with Yasmin, one of the German girls. We sat on top of bombed Syrian houses destroyed in the 1967 war, built on ancient ruins from centuries before. Looked down the valley as the sun rose golden over Tiberius and the Sea of Galilee. The sky above shifted slowly from black to grey, white to pale to deep blue; the valley from murky brown to burnt orange like faded memories from Sunday School. Hyrax, known as rock rabbits, popped heads out of holes one or two at a time until there were dozens on either side, sunning themselves on rocks. Birds sang praises and the Galilee sparkled and shimmered like there really was divine creation.