The A to Z of You and Me

D

Diaphragm

‘WHO CAN SPELL “diaphragm” for me?’

Mr Miller stands at the front of the class in his weird blue blazer with its six gold buttons, and those ever-present musty trousers.

‘What sort of blazer’s that?’ mutters Mal to me and Kelvin. ‘It’s like it’s from the nineteenth century or something. Who does he think he is? King Dickface the Turd?’

Kelvin and I crease up laughing. Dickface the Turd.

‘Kelvin!’ says Miller. ‘Well done, you’ve just volunteered to spell it out on the board. Come up here.’

Kelvin reluctantly leaves his lab stool with a wooden creak and shuffles up to the front.

I look at Mal and do an eye-roll. ‘Miller likes to pick on Kelvin. You probably want to get used to this.’

‘OK,’ says Miller, handing him the chalk. ‘Off you go. Oh, and I forgot to mention. Anyone who gets it wrong gets a detention.’

A prickle of suppressed outrage crosses the class.

‘Kelvin?’

Already resigned to his fate, Kelvin fumbles the chalk, drops it, picks it up, and then tries to hold it like a pencil.

‘D—’

Miller places the eraser on the board next to Kelvin’s tremulous and malformed letter ‘D’. Kelvin looks up at him, questioningly. ‘Carry on,’ says Miller. ‘It’s going very well so far.’

Chuckles from around the room.

I.

‘Excellent!’ cries Miller, sarcastically.

A. Kelvin pauses, and Miller’s head shifts fractionally, sensing the kill.

R.

‘Nope!’ Miller whips the board rubber across Kelvin’s efforts, knocking his hand away, and flicking the chalk across the room into a table of girls.

‘Detention for Kelvin, and the chalk’s landed with you. Up you come.’ He points a knobbly finger at one of the girls. She gathers up the chalk and tries to brush its mark off her jumper, before replacing Kelvin beside Miller.

Kelvin dumps himself back on his stool beside me.

D, she writes.

‘Good—’

Y.

Miller pauses awhile before mugging around to the rest of the class. Then he wipes her away, and picks the chalk up himself.

‘D, I, A, PEEEEEE, H, R, A, GEEEEE, M. Anyone who gets that wrong after I’ve spelled it out so plainly will deserve the detention they get, OK?’

Spirits broken, we mumble our assent.

‘Right, now, as you’ll hopefully remember from last year, the diaphragm is a membrane, just here in your chest, and when you breathe you are using your muscles to pull on that diaphragm, and in pulling it draws the air in through your nose and throat, and into your lungs, which enables you to breathe.’ Miller scrawls breathe tetchily out on to the blackboard and underlines the final ‘e’ about eight times. ‘Now — that is exactly what you can’t do—’ he picks up the large book that has been sitting on the bench in front of him all this while ‘—can’t do—’ he struggles to find the page, and an adventurous few begin to giggle ‘—if your lungs look like this.’

He cracks the book open at a double page that is completely taken up with a photo of a pair of lungs, branched through with black, like burnt cheese on toast.

One of the girls pipes up: ‘Ah, sir, that’s nasty.’

‘And that,’ concludes Miller with a self-satisfied flourish, ‘is exactly what is currently growing inside one of you.’

A sudden hush. He paces the room, bearing the chalk eraser before him, in his usual manner of dramatic pause, loving it. Loving it.

But what can he mean? What can he mean?

‘The only question is, which one of you currently has this growing inside them?’

From the left three-quarter pocket of his big blue blazer, he teases out a pack of cigarettes, and wields it between thumb and index finger in front of the class.

‘Which one of you is missing a nearly full packet of these from this morning’s session?’

We sit aghast. I look at Mal.

A pack of twenty Embassy No. 1.

He sits there impassive, watching with absolute innocence as his cigarettes are dropped with a light pat back on the desk, and Miller takes up his favoured place, leaning against the slender edge of the blackboard.

‘Well, there they are,’ he says. ‘Whoever wants to come up and collect them may do so now.’ His eyes seem to settle on Mal, before the bell for the next lesson rings off down the corridor, but nobody moves.

An impossible, unnatural silence descends as the game of chicken settles in. Outside, the corridors begin to fill and churn with kids making their way slowly to their next lessons, with maximum noise.

‘I know,’ says Miller, ‘you think I’m going to let you go.’

Shimmering silhouettes of students’ heads begin to imprint themselves on the frosted wireglass of the classroom door.

‘I know you think I’m going to have to let in the next class. But I don’t have to do anything.’

Mal looks at me, and I look at him, and an idea begins to form.

Miller makes his way slowly over to the door, and opens it. His presence immediately hushes all activity out in the corridor. He slowly fixes the door shut and returns his attention to us.

‘I have let classes stand out there for the full fifty minutes before today, and I’d be willing to do it again now. So.’ He sits down, and once more picks up the packet of fags. ‘So.’

Miller loves to have his enemies, and he’ll be even more triumphant to get the new kid. I’m sure he’s been zeroing in on Mal ever since Mal started sitting near me. And he seems all right, Mal. He’s got a lot about him. Miller’s just a twisted, bitter old has-been. Everyone hates him, and he knows it.

I don’t look at Mal. I raise my hand and it takes Miller a while to see it. Some of the girls see it, but they’re too scared to draw Miller’s attention to it.

‘Sir,’ I say.

Miller swivels his eyes first, and then turns his head to face me.

‘Yes.’

I want to say this without fear.

‘They’re mine.’

The class finally drains out and down the corridor, and Mal takes hold of my heavy schoolbag and shifts it to the next class ahead of me.

Noted.

Miller is already carefully manoeuvring himself between the desks and discarded chairs in my direction. I know what his response is going to be. Not anger, but sympathy. Annoyance, yes, a longer detention, no doubt, but sympathy because of my home situation, and him not wanting to step over the line.

The classroom door clicks shut behind him, and he softly begins to speak.

‘I must say, I’m disappointed—’

‘What did Miller actually say, then?’ asks Mal, sticking two Rizla papers together meticulously, the zips on the sleeves of his leather jacket jangling as an accompaniment. He lays the papers on his bag while he roots around in his coat pocket for his pouch and tin.

I’m sitting on the floor at the end of his bed, sucking on the thankyou beer he bought me. I’m a bit pissed.

‘Well I thought he was going to start going on about my dad, and about cancer and all of that stuff. But he didn’t really go there. He started talking about how he’d fallen in with a group of friends who’d got him to smoke a cigarette once, but that he hadn’t liked it, and it had made him sick, and he didn’t know why people ever did it.’

Mal laughs dirtily at the ceiling. ‘That tells you all you need to know about him, doesn’t it? Made him sick? I bet he gets home and whips himself every night after work.’

‘Ha! Yeah.’ I begin whipping myself with an imaginary lash. ‘I must not let anyone spell diaphragm wrong.’

Mal cracks up, satisfyingly. ‘I must not glance down the girls’ tops and rub one out in the staff toilet at break time.’

‘Wet break,’ I say.

Mal laughs and points at me. ‘You’re a funny lad!’

I laugh myself and bask in the glory. Try desperately to think of something else funny to back it up with, but nothing comes.

Kelvin’s still standing, leaning against the door frame and nursing his can of Coke. He laughs a gurgly laugh. ‘I must not ever let anyone get away with anything!’

The laughter expires, and Mal sets about twisting and mashing up the machine-made cigarette, emptying its contents into the fresh flat paper, before crumbling gear carefully and fairly up and down it.

‘So what’s this about your dad then?’ says Mal.

‘Oh, he died of cancer when I was six.’

‘Ah man, really?’

‘Yeah, that’s kind of why I did it, because I knew he wouldn’t want to push it too far.’

‘Ah, mate,’ says Kelvin, frowning, ‘that’s well low.’

‘What?’

‘It’s well sick, using your dad like that.’

‘Is it?’

‘No, it’s not, man, it’s genius,’ says Mal, compacting the mix, and rolling the loaded skin back and forth in his fingertips.

‘Ah no, not my style,’ says Kelvin, crouching down in the doorway and eyeing the joint with increasing nervousness.

‘The dad thing makes you untouchable. And, you know, it’s a shitty thing to happen to anyone, so if you can make it work for you, I think that’s a smart thing to do. It’s not like you haven’t earned it, is it?’

Mal dabs a piece of cardboard from the fag packet into the skin as a roach.

‘So what about you then?’ Kelvin asks Mal. ‘What made your dad and mum come down here?’

‘The old man got reassigned to a new parish.’

‘Your old man’s a vicar?’ says Kelvin.

Mal doesn’t answer, but pulls a sarcastic face, like the question is beneath contempt.

‘Wow, that must be really interesting,’ says Kelvin.

‘Yeah? Why’s that then?’

‘I don’t know,’ says Kelvin, a little unsettled. ‘All the confessions he’ll get to hear or whatever.’

‘Sounds like you already know all there is to know about it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Confessions is just Catholics, I think,’ I say, quietly.

‘Oh. Is that different from …’ He peters out.

‘So have you moved around a lot then?’ I ask.

‘Yeah, following the old man’s mission,’ says Mal, moodily. He looks up at me. ‘Do you want to swap dads?’

I meet his gaze briefly.

This is Mal all over. He’s not afraid to go there.

I laugh ruefully. ‘No, you’re all right.’

‘And now from the glorious north down to this shithole,’ he says, stretching and yawning.

‘Do you miss being up there, then?’ says Kelvin.

Just when I think he couldn’t ask a dumber question.

I’m definitely a bit pissed.

‘I’ll miss the parties,’ says Mal.

‘What did you get for your GCSEs?’ asks Kelvin.

‘Eleven A’s.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘Yep.’

‘Eleven?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Fucking hell!’ Kelvin looks at me with moronic enthusiasm. ‘I only got one A, and I only did ten GCSEs.’

Mal shrugs, making his leather jacket creak. ‘It’s not hard to get all A’s if all you want to do is get all A’s … Just learn how they want you to learn, predict how they’re going to ask the questions. It’s no big secret, is it? But I’m like, fuck it. Not interested. Don’t want no tests no more.’

‘But you’re doing your A levels.’

‘No tests no more.’

‘Are you going to quit then?’

‘I haven’t decided. I was thinking about getting a place in town maybe, get out of here. Start up a few things. I’ve got some ideas.’

Mal runs the paper along his tongue-tip and seals it shut. Mal, master joiner. Never too tight. Meticulous mix.

He draws out his Zippo from his jeans pocket.

Flick, flick and flame.

‘Right, now, who wants this?’

He passes it to Kelvin, who pauses just long enough to look uncomfortable before taking it at fingertips’ length. He begins to suck on the end. A bit of smoke in his mouth, quickly blown out.

‘No, man, come on, stop fucking about,’ says Mal.

‘What?’

‘You’re not doing it right.’ He lifts the joint back off him. ‘Now,’ he says, invoking his most imperious Mr Miller impression, ‘if you remember your diaphragm, which is this membrane at the bottom of your chest here—’ he jabs Kelvin in the chest ‘—you need to pull down on it to draw the smoke—’ he takes a deep toke, holds, and exhales ‘—into your lungs and out. Into your lungs and out.’

Poor Kelvin. It’s so obvious he’s never done this before. I watch carefully as Mal shows him how it’s done. I’ve only smoked a couple of Laura’s fags, but I think I’ll get away with it.

Everything we do is glacially slow.

Seriously, I’m not sitting on this beanbag any more. I’m properly flat on the floor, and my head is planted where I’d been sitting. I can hear all the little beans inside tumbling over each other: delicately, impossibly light.

I look over at Mal and squint. Blink a bit to see if I can make more sense of it, somehow.

Kelvin’s standing again, looking down on us from the doorway.

‘Listen,’ says Kelvin, ‘I’m going to go, all right? I’ve got—’

‘You not want any of this?’ says Mal, holding up the second joint.

‘Nah, thanks, man, I’ve got my own at home, I’m going to go and — got stuff to do.’ He looks at me. ‘Are you coming?’

‘No. I don’t want to,’ I say. ‘I feel too nice here.’

This is so nice. I’m exquisitely comfortable.

‘I’m never going to move again,’ says Mal. ‘I just want to be sucked into the sofa.’

He starts giggling goofily, and I start retching laughs.

We sit there with the TV turned off for another lovely long age. It doesn’t matter. It’s an impossible distance away.

‘Well, I’m going to go, I think,’ says Kelvin. I look over at the doorway, and he’s still there. I thought he’d gone ages ago.

No one’s going to try and talk him into staying. No one should have to talk anyone round to anything.

It’s getting to the point with Kelvin where — I don’t know — I just don’t say anything in case it makes him talk more. I don’t want talk, just want to say sssshhhh. But that seems to make him anxious, which makes him jabber.

‘I’ll see you around,’ says Kelvin.

‘Bye, Kelv.’

Three’s a bad, bad number for friends. The two gang up on the one, it’s always the way. Two’s company, three’s a political situation. Just make sure you’re one of the two.

It’s good he’s gone.

I feel a bit bad, but it’s good for everyone.

‘Knock, knock,’ says Sheila, knock-knocking on my door frame. ‘How are we doing? Oh, that’s much better, your breathing sounds a lot easier now, doesn’t it? Come on, let’s get that mask off you, so we can see how you do without it.’

She prises the mask from me, and I stretch my clammy face, run my fingers over my cheeks to feel for mask marks.

‘There we go. I’ll leave it here for you, OK?’

‘OK.’

‘I’ll get Dr Sood to come in and have a look at you in the morning, see if there’s anything else we can do to make it a bit easier for you.’

‘OK.’

She unclips my chart from the end of the bed, draws a biro out of her white-piped pocket, and begins to gnaw unsanitarily on the lid. ‘What are we going to do with you, eh?’

‘I don’t know. Listen, Sheila — can you make it so that I don’t get any more visitors? I don’t — I don’t want to see anyone.’

She looks up at me, over the top of the clipboard.

‘Are you going to tell me what this is all about then?’

‘What?’

‘Well, when one of my people gets into a lather about a simple little trip round the garden, I like to try and get a handle on why that might possibly be.’

She peers at me intently with her bottomless black irises.

‘Just — good old family baggage.’

‘Was that your brother then?’

‘Kelvin? Ah, no, no. He’s playing dogsbody for my sister.’

‘Things — a little bit tricky back there?’

‘Little bit.’

She frowns, and looks back down at my notes.

‘Things with your sister?’

‘Little bit.’

She bats the clipboard flat against her chest. ‘Tricky enough that you want to sever all ties?’

I close my eyes and sigh.

‘Look, I know what you’re getting at. But it’s for the best. We’ve said all we’ve got to say to each other.’

‘It’s not for me to judge, Ivo. You’ll know better than me, I’m sure.’

She slots the clipboard back in place, repockets the biro, and comes round to half-sit at the end of the bed.

‘Let me take you through what I’m thinking,’ she says. ‘What I’m thinking is, here is a man, he’s not well, and he’s clearly not happy. Now, it’s none of my business, but I’m here for a reason. If you don’t want to see anyone, that’s up to you. Whatever you want, that’s what I do.’

‘Right.’

‘But you’ve got to know, if you refuse all visitors, that means something to us. That sends us a message. Dr Sood will come in here in the morning, and he and I will have a chat about all the cases, and he’ll look at your notes, and he’ll say, Oh, refused all visitors, and he’ll draw certain conclusions from that.’

‘Yeah, I know.’

‘It’s just my job to let you know that. I mean, there are a lot of things we offer, to help people out when they’re having dark thoughts. I can arrange one of our counsellors to come along and have a chat at any time.’

‘No — no thanks.’

‘Just so long as you know I’m here to help. I’m here to help you get what you need.’

‘It is: it’s what I want.’

She smiles at me, and holds up her hands. ‘OK,’ she says, ‘OK. I’ll see what I can do. Just, do me a favour: don’t close yourself off completely. Any fool can be unhappy. Cutting yourself off from absolutely everyone — well, it’s very tempting, I know — but sometimes it’s not for the best. Sometimes you’ve got to try a little bit, so you can feel better.’

I frown at the wall, fractionally. It sounds like the sort of thing you’d say. I can hear you saying it.

‘I don’t want to see anyone,’ I say, in a measured tone.

‘OK, lovey. I’ll put the word in on reception.’

I look up at her and nod. ‘Thank you.’

‘Your wish is my command,’ she smiles, standing and brushing imagined crumbs from her trousers. ‘But listen, Ivo. You can be as grumpy as you like with me; I’ll keep on coming back. Just — just don’t leave anything unsaid to the people who matter. It only takes a few words to change your world.’

It’s quieter in here today. Something’s not quite right — people’s rhythms are different. Sheila’s not dropped in as many times, and when she has she’s been giving off different signals. Busy, busy. I’ve been thinking she’s avoiding me because I was short with her. She’s very businesslike.

But I’m starting to realize it’s not me on their minds. The signals beyond my doorway, out there in the corridor, they’re starting to become clear.

The breathing from Old Faithful next door has become more laboured. It’s lost its body. Sounds like a kazoo, exhaustedly huffed.

Hzzzzzzzz, hzzzzzzzzz, hzzzzzzzz

It’s constant, but weary. Weary clown.

Is that a rattle? Is that what they call a death rattle?

Hzzzzzzzzzz

Death rattle, deathbed — all these words accumulated from somewhere. Sometime. All the experiences from all the bedside farewells across the centuries. All point here, to these sounds, these feelings, these signals in here now.

Sheila has a respectful professionalism about her. She keeps conversation to a minimum, and her serious face only looks in on me from time to time to deliver medicine or adjust the blinds. Her amiable meanderings have straightened out into a purposeful efficiency. It makes it all so quiet, like a subdued Sunday. I’m only aware of the swish of her trousers and an occasional ankle click to mark her advance on a target.

Hzzzzzzzzzz

Old Faithful’s husband was camped out in the visitors’ waiting room all last night. Square-looking unfashionable Japanese man, roughly of retirement age, but still dressed in a crumpled work shirt and tie. He wanders aimlessly, waiting, eking out the time. The kind of walk you see people pacing out on train platforms when there’s no train. Waiting, waiting. The walk of the dead.

Hzzzzzzzzzzz

He walks past my doorway once more, glances in. I try to catch his eye to give a reassuring smile. I don’t know why. There’s nothing I can do to reassure him. Perhaps I mean: This is going to happen, and you’ll be all right.

He returns my smile with a nod. Good, that’s good.

He moves on.

I look out the window once more, to the magnolia tree. There’s no robin so far today. But look at it, I could gaze at it for ever, in late bloom as it is. I like them when they’re a little tighter, getting ready to reveal themselves. Better suited to a Japanese garden maybe, all clean lines. But beautiful, beautiful.

Hzzzzzzzzzzz

‘All the nurses here are very nice ladies.’ I look up. Mr Old Faithful has stopped on his way back past my doorway.

‘Sorry?’

‘All the nurses here are very nice ladies.’ He ventures in.

‘Yes, yes,’ I say. ‘The best.’

‘They have looked after my daughter and me very well. They have a good understanding of the stresses. They are very supportive.’

I nod and smile.

‘Are you being looked after well?’ he asks.

‘Yes, yes. They are very good here. Can’t do enough for you. Whatever you ask for.’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Yes.’

Then his face collapses almost comically, his nostrils flare and his mouth tightens.

I don’t know what to do.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ he says. He looks to leave, but he’s nowhere to go, so he stays where he is, forced to compose himself. ‘Sorry, sorry. It’s hard. I’m here, you know, with my daughter, and we’re just watching her mother slip away. I don’t know what I’m going to do. A father is a very poor substitute for a mother.’

‘That’s really sad,’ I say. ‘I’m really sorry.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘You understand.’

‘I do.’

‘This cancer is a very awful disease,’ he says. ‘It’s evil. It’s hard to believe that there’s no more they can do. We thought she was getting better. She had been given the all-clear. So we allowed ourselves to hope. She started to regain weight. She started to look a bit more like she used to look. But the cancer came back. You can’t ever drop your guard. I worked too hard. We didn’t have enough time to enjoy ourselves. When we realized what was happening, she wasn’t well enough to enjoy herself. I worked too hard.’

I want to help this man, but I honestly don’t know what to say.

His daughter appears at the door with two mugs.

‘Papa?’ she murmurs in a barely audible undertone. She can see he has been crying, and comes over to him. She proffers the mug and looks shyly over at me. I nod and purse my lips, indicating — something.

He accepts the mug and takes a couple of attempts to get the correct number of fingers through the unfamiliar handle. A teacup man. ‘Sorry, I was just—’ He looks over at me. ‘This is my daughter, Amber.’

‘Hello,’ I say.

‘Hiya,’ she says.

She looks brilliant. Rich black hair with a deep blue streak. Eyeliner, in the same way that I remember you wearing it. The swash. I struggle to meet her with the right sort of look. Beautiful, clear, lively eyes. Part Japanese, part not. Striking.

What am I? Flirting?

It’s all I know how to do. A reflex action. She’s exactly like you were. Confident. Confident enough to say ‘hiya’, to look me in the eye.

She can’t be eighteen. Less than half my age.

‘Are you both coping?’ I ask. ‘As much as you can, at least?’

‘Once you know what to expect each day, it’s better,’ says Amber, throwing a look at her dad. ‘You get a routine.’

‘Yeah. Routines are good. Uncertainty is almost the worst thing,’ I say.

‘It’s rubbish,’ she says. ‘But the nurses here — I mean, they’ve been brilliant. We’re so lucky. She could have been in the hospital, and we didn’t want that. This is nicer than the hospital. We trust them with — with my mum.’

Even from the way she’s standing, I can see she’s the one in charge. Only a teenager, but she’s carrying her dad along with her. As she talks he looks disconsolately out of the window at the tree and the lawn beyond.

‘Anyway, you shouldn’t be asking us how we are,’ she says. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Oh, it’s much easier to worry about others,’ I say. ‘Every time I see a doctor, my first question is always How are you? I worry that they’re too overworked to see me. I worry about Sheila. Have you met Sheila?’

‘I love Sheila,’ says Amber. ‘She’s amazing. Always there. Knows exactly the right thing to say. Things seem to be a bit more cheery after you’ve seen Sheila.’

For her age, Amber seems so mature. OK, so there’s the blue hair, and her eyes, her beautiful artfully painted eyes, and her clothes hung and slung about her. Statementy. Like any teenager. But a grown woman’s mind.

I want to say to her, Listen, you’re too young to be in a place like this. But I can’t, can I? You’re too young to lose your mum. Society will decide: You are too young. Society will tut into the silence of the drawing room and say, It’s a crying shame.

I want to comfort her.

But she won’t take that from me.

Let it go.

Let her go.