Читать книгу The Complete Man and Boy Trilogy: Man and Boy, Man and Wife, Men From the Boys - Tony Parsons - Страница 28

The doctor came looking for me at five in the morning. I was in the empty cafeteria, nursing a cup of tea that had gone cold hours ago. I stood up as she came towards me, waiting for her to speak.

‘Congratulations,’ she said. ‘Your son has a very hard head.’

‘He’s going to be okay?’

‘There’s no fracture and the scan is clear. We’re going to keep him in for observation for a few days, but that’s standard procedure when we’ve put twelve stitches in a four-year-old’s head wound.’

I wanted that doctor to be my best friend. I wanted us to meet up for dinner once a week so she could pour out all her frustrations with the NHS. I would listen and I would care. She had saved my son. She was beautiful.

‘He’s really all right?’

‘He’ll have a sore head for a few weeks, and a scar for life. But, yes, he’s going to be okay.’

‘No side effects?’

‘Well, it will probably help him get girls in fifteen years’ time. Scars are quite attractive on a man, aren’t they?’

I took her hands and held them a bit too long.

‘Thank you.’

‘That’s why we’re here,’ she smiled. I could see that I was embarrassing her, but I couldn’t help it. Finally I let go. ‘Can I see him?’

He was at the far end of a ward full of children. Next to Pat there was a pretty little five-year-old in Girl Power pyjamas with her hair all gone from what I guessed was chemotherapy. Her parents were by her side, her father asleep in a chair, and her mother at the foot of the bed, staring at her daughter’s face. I walked quietly past them to my son’s bed, knowing that I had been wrong to wallow in self-pity for so long. We were lucky.

Pat was on a saline drip, his face as white as his pillow, his head swathed in bandages. I sat on his bed, stroking his free arm, and his eyes flickered open.

‘You angry with me?’ he asked, and I shook my head, afraid to speak.

He closed his eyes, and suddenly I knew that I could do this thing.

I could see that my performance so far had been pretty poor. I didn’t have enough patience. I spent too much time thinking about Gina and even Cyd. I hadn’t been watching Pat closely enough in the park. All that was undeniable. But I could do this thing.

Maybe it would never be perfect. Maybe I would make a mess of being a parent just as I had made a mess of being a husband.

But for the first time I saw that being a man would have nothing to do with it.

All families have their own legends and lore. In our little family, the first story that I featured in was when I was five years old and a dog knocked out all my front teeth.

I was playing with a neighbour’s Alsatian behind the row of shops where we had our flat. The dog was licking my face and I was loving it until he put his front paws on my chest to steady himself and tipped me over. I landed flat on my mouth, blood and teeth everywhere, my mother screaming.

I can just about remember the rush to hospital and being held over a basin as they fished out bits of broken teeth, my blood dripping all over the white enamel sink. But most of all I remember my old man insisting that he was staying with me as they put me out with the gas.

When the story was retold in our family, the punch line was what I did when I came home from the hospital with my broken mouth – namely stuff it with a bag of salt and vinegar crisps.

That ending appealed to my old man, the idea that his son came back from the hospital with eight bloody stumps where his front teeth used to be and was so tough that he immediately opened a packet of crisps. But in reality I wasn’t tough at all. I just liked salt and vinegar crisps. Even if I had to suck them.

I knew now that my dad wasn’t quite as tough as he would have liked to have been. Because nobody feels tough when they take their child to a hospital. The real punch line to that story was that my father had refused to leave my side.

Now I could understand how he must have felt watching his five-year-old son being put out with gas so that the doctors could remove bits of broken teeth from his gums and tongue.

He would have had that feeling of helpless terror that only the parent of a sick or injured child can understand. I knew exactly how he must have felt – like life was holding him hostage. Was it really possible that I was starting to see the world with his eyes?

He was standing outside the main entrance to the hospital, smoking one of his roll-up cigarettes. He must have been the only surviving Rizla customer in the world who didn’t smoke dope.

He looked up at me, holding his breath.

‘He’s going to be fine,’ I said.

He released a cloud of cigarette smoke.

‘It’s not – what did they call it? – a compressed fracture?’

‘It’s not fractured. They’ve given him twelve stitches and he’ll have a scar, but that’s all.’

‘That’s all?’

‘That’s all.’

‘Thank Christ for that,’ he said. He took a tug on his roll-up. ‘And how about you?’

‘Me? I’m fine, Dad.’

‘Do you need anything?’

‘A good night’s kip would be nice.’

When I was with my father, I sometimes found myself talking his language. He was the only person in the country who still referred to sleep as kip.

‘I mean, are you all right for money? Your mum told me you’re not going to take this job.’

‘I can’t. The hours are too long. I’d never be home.’ I looked across the almost empty carpark to where the night sky was streaked with light. Somewhere birds were singing. It wasn’t late any more. It was early. ‘But something will turn up.’

He took out his wallet, peeled off a few notes and handed them to me.

‘What’s this for?’ I asked.

‘Until something turns up.’

‘That’s okay. I appreciate the offer, Dad, but something really will turn up.’

‘I know it will. People always want to watch television, don’t they? I’m sure you’ll get something soon. This is for you and Pat until then.’

My dad, the media expert. All he knew about television was that these days they didn’t put on anything as funny as Fawlty Towers or Benny Hill or Morecambe and Wise. Still, I took the notes he offered me.

There was a time when taking money from him would have made me angry – angry at myself for still needing him and his help at my age, and even angrier at him for always relishing his role as my saviour.

Now I could see that he was just sort of trying to show me that he was on my side.

‘I’ll pay this back,’ I said.

‘No rush,’ said my father.

Gina wanted to get on the next plane home, but I talked her out of it. Because by the time I finally reached her late the following day, getting on the next plane home didn’t matter quite so much.

She had missed those awful minutes rushing Pat to the emergency room. She had missed the endless hours drinking tea we didn’t want while waiting to learn if his tests were clear. And she had missed the day when he sat up with his head covered in bandages, clutching his light sabre, in a bed next to the little girl who had lost all her hair because of the treatment she was receiving.

Gina had missed all that, she had missed all that through no fault of her own. Personally, I blamed that fucking bastard Richard.

By the time I reached Gina, we knew that Pat was going to be all right. Now I didn’t want her to come home.

I told myself that it was because I didn’t want her to hold Pat and tell him everything was going to be fine and then leave again. But I knew it was not quite as noble as that. Where the fuck was Gina when we needed her?

‘I can be there tomorrow,’ she said. ‘This job can wait.’

‘There’s no need,’ I said, dead calm. ‘It was just a knock. A bad knock. But he’s going to be okay.’

‘I’ll be coming home soon anyway. I’m not quite sure when –’

‘Don’t change your plans,’ I said.

Listen to us – as formal as two people feeling their way at a dull dinner party. Once we could talk all night, once we could talk about anything. Now we sounded like two strangers who had never been properly introduced. Listen to us, Gina.

Cyd was standing on my doorstep holding a takeaway container.

‘Is this a bad time?’

‘No, it’s not a bad time. Come in.’

She came into my home, handing me the container.

‘For Pat. Spaghetti pesto.’

‘Green spaghetti. His favourite. Thank you.’

‘You just need to put it in the microwave. Can you do that?’

‘Are you kidding? Even I know how to use a microwave. One minute or two?’

‘One ought to do it. Is he awake?’

‘He’s watching some TV. Just for a change.’

Pat was sprawled all over the sofa, still in his Star Wars pyjamas and M&S dressing gown, watching the director’s cut of Return of the Jedi. The rule book had been thrown out of the window since he had come home from the hospital.

‘Hi Pat,’ Cyd said, crouching down beside him and stroking his hair, carefully avoiding the large plaster that now covered one side of his forehead. ‘How’s your poor old head?’

‘It’s fine. My stitches are a bit itchy.’

‘I bet they are.’

‘But – guess what? They don’t have to be taken out. My stitches.’

‘No?’

‘No, they just fade away,’ Pat said, looking to me for confirmation.

‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘They dissolve. They’re the new kind of stitches, aren’t they?’

‘The new kind,’ Pat nodded, turning his attention back to Princess Leia dressed as a scantily-clad concubine in the court of Jabba the Hutt.

‘That’s some outfit she’s got on,’ Cyd said.

‘Yes, it is,’ agreed Pat. ‘She’s a slave girl.’

‘Goodness.’

They watched Princess Leia squirming on the end of her chain for a few moments.

‘Well, I’m going to leave you to get better,’ Cyd said.

‘Okay.’

‘Cyd brought you some dinner,’ I said. ‘Green spaghetti. What do you say?’

‘Thank you.’ He gave her his most charming, David Niven-like smile.

‘You’re welcome,’ she said.

I walked her to the door and I realised that something inside me felt like it was singing. I didn’t want her to go.

‘Thanks for coming round,’ I said. ‘It’s made my day.’

She turned and looked at me with those wide-set brown eyes.

‘I mean it,’ I said. ‘This is the best thing that’s happened to me all day. Definitely.’

‘But I don’t understand,’ she said.

‘What don’t you understand?’

‘Why do you like me? You don’t even know me.’

‘Do you really want to know?’

‘Yes.’

So I told her.

‘I like you because you’re strong but you’re not hard. I like it that you don’t take crap from men, but you still left your country for a man because you thought he was the one for you.’

‘Biggest mistake of my life.’

‘Maybe. But I like it that you’re so romantic from watching all those MGM musicals as a little girl.’

She laughed, shaking her head.

‘You see right through men, but you still want to find a man to share your life with,’ I said.

‘Says who?’

‘And I like the way your entire face lights up when you smile. I like your eyes. I like your legs. I like the way you know how to talk to a four-year-old kid. I like the way you were there when I needed someone. Everyone else just stood and stared. You were kind. And you didn’t have to be kind.’

‘Anything else?’

‘You’re beautiful.’

‘I’m not beautiful at all.’

‘You’re beautiful and brave and I’m jealous of every man who ever went out with you. Now and again I walk in front of the place where you work in the hope of bumping into you.’

‘You miss your wife,’ she said. ‘You really miss her.’

‘That’s true,’ I conceded. ‘But it’s also true that you blow me away.’

‘Boy,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘But you still don’t know me.’

She didn’t say it the way she had said it before. Now she said it gently, kindly, as if it weren’t my fault that I didn’t know her.

And she moved towards me as she said it, looking at me with those eyes for a moment before they closed as she placed her mouth upon mine.

I kissed her back. ‘I know you a little bit,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ she said, giving me that. ‘You know me a little bit.’