The A to Z of You and Me

F

Feet

LYING ON THE SOFA, I cannot bring myself to speak.

Mum comes and lifts my legs and drops them back across her lap as she sits on the seat beside me.

A cartoon is on the telly with the sound down, but I’m not watching it.

I can see she’s found my card. Or the rattly collection of macaroni, sugar paper and glue that the stand-in teacher sent us all home with. Mum must have dug it out of the bin.

Happy Father’s Day.

Mum rubs my feet, carefully avoiding the ticklish areas. She looks sometimes across at my face.

‘Takeaway tonight, bab?’

I can’t answer.

Looking down at my foot, she says: ‘Looks like it’s just you and me then, foot. How are you feeling? Are you feeling sad?’

After a short pause, my foot nods sadly.

‘And how about you,’ she says, collecting up my other foot. ‘Are you sad too?’

It too is sad.

‘Oh dear,’ she says. ‘Oh dear.’ And she sits there, considering, while I clutch a cushion to my belly and look at the screen.

Long silence. Long, long silence, full of cartoon noises. Bullets and boings.

‘I tell you what,’ she says, addressing my big toe, ‘let’s have a talk about what you’ve done today. Let’s talk about your shoes. What shoes have you been in today?’

My foot thinks for a while and looks across the room, towards the door.

‘Your Hi-Tec Silver Shadows?’ she says. ‘Are they your favourite shoes?’

Foot nods.

‘And what about you?’ she asks the other foot. ‘Have you been wearing Hi-Tec Silver Shadows?’

The other foot nods too.

‘Of course you have. It’d be silly to wear something else, wouldn’t it? Then you’d be in odd shoes. Did you like wearing your Hi-Tec Silver Shadows?’

The left foot nods yes, and the right foot shakes no.

‘Er …’

I say: ‘They like them, but one rubbed a bit.’

She leans in to my feet. ‘Who’s that?’ she whispers, gesturing up towards my head.

Both feet shrug.

‘Do you have tingly feet at all?’

Dr Rhys.

‘Do you have tingly feet?’

‘Mm — sometimes? Maybe?’

‘Yes, you see, that’s not normal. With diabetes that could indicate the onset of nerve damage. Which can mean you get sores that don’t heal, and become infected, and then we might have to amputate. I’ve got four people in this district who have a cupboard full of useless left shoes as we speak.’

This is it. This is good.

I’m walking. I’ve left my bed and I’m walking down the corridor and it was my idea.

I’m so rubbish at having the idea myself. I have to imagine what you would say to me. What would you say? You’d say:

Imagine yourself there. Then you’ll recognize it when you get there.

I’m walking, I’m walking.

I’m doing something with my life.

And it’s good. Good to keep the feet moving.

Got my blanket on my back, your arms around me.

It’s nice. Take it slowly.

One foot in front of the other.

Push, slip my way through the fire doors. They chunk shut behind me.

It gets the circulation going. Gets the brain going, gets the thoughts, the ideas going. It’s good, it’s positive. Something as simple as things to look at, new things to take in. Makes you look more kindly on the world.

Wish I’d done it earlier.

The coffee machine, there it is. The Café Matic 2. There’s a big stack of mugs beside it. All different. The staff bring them in. I Love London. Phantom of the Opera. A Room of One’s Own, Virginia Woolf.

Steady, now. It’s nice to go at a glacial pace. Keep near the wall.

I glance in on the room to my left. There’s an old lady on the bed. A younger woman looks up at me from the visitors’ chair, and I’m gone.

Round the corner now. Noticeboard up on the right, pinned every inch over with flyers and leaflets. The papers at the bottom lift and flutter in the convection of the heater beneath.

Convection current. Another concept Mr Miller taught us in Science. Will I never be rid of that man’s influence?

St Leonard’s Church Fête — £430 raised for the hospice. Not a bad sum. Or is it? It’s hard to tell. Huge thanks to all. Yeah, thanks.

Palliative Care in the Home. We all want to be where we feel most comfortable. Familiar surroundings. Not my home. With family and friends. Not my family. Or my friends.

Cancer, Sex and Sexuality. Everyone is different. There is no such thing as a normal sex life. You may still have needs and desires even if you are very ill.

Massage. Karen Eklund. Swedish masseuse. Twice-weekly sessions in the Baurice Hartson room. Sessions last approx 50 mins. Write your name below for a consultation. No pen provided.

Reflexology, Bowen Therapy and Reiki. Heal yourself.

Time to move on.

Laughter now colours in the corridor from the room at the far end. Audience laughter. And a voice. Familiar voice. By the time the sounds travel down the corridor to me, the words gather shimmer from the walls and the floor, so they are buried amidst the avalanche of sound, of gloss paint and vinyl. They talk of the corridor. They talk to me of pastel wallpaper and detergent. Shiny floor. Easy to clean. Health inspector fresh.

I squeak along the corridor towards the sound, and the words grow more distinct.

‘So what about the Budget then, eh? Terrible, wasn’t it?’

The Budget. Ugh, noise. Outside noise. Noise of a world carrying on without me.

‘But you wouldn’t want to be Chancellor, would you? No. You wouldn’t want to be Chancellor.’

Everything in me wants to turn back to my room, to get back into bed.

‘Can you imagine? Cutting all those NHS budgets. You wouldn’t dare fall ill, would you?’

No, come on, come on.

‘… well, I’m sorry, Chancellor, all these NHS cuts, you know? I can’t afford to give you anything for constipation. You’ll have to stay full of crap.’

In the TV room the telly’s broadcasting to an audience of empty chairs. Screenlight switches upholstery now blue, now yellow, now white, now blue. I’ve got this far, I might as well sit and watch for a bit. I select the chair next to the big trunk of toys, pick a Rubik’s cube off the top, rotate it uselessly in my hands.

‘So what’s the answer, eh? You’re so good at budgets, I suggest you go back to number 11 and work it out with a pencil. Yes?’

There is loud laughter now, and I wince at the noise. They turn it up higher and higher these days.

‘That’ll help him budge it, won’t it, eh?’

Laughter.

Amber appears at the doorway, carrying two empty coffee mugs. I look up at her and smile.

‘Hiya.’

She peers at me from behind her hair, and I think for a moment that she’s not going to acknowledge me, but she does, tentatively stepping in and looking at the screen.

‘On coffee duty?’

She doesn’t reply, but looks down at the mugs in her hands.

‘I’ve come to get myself a bit of culture.’

‘Oh, him. Yeah. I don’t really like him.’

‘They always turn the audience up so loud.’

She smiles, politely. Ugh. Such an old man thing to say.

We’re not such different ages. Twenty years. Twenty-two, three. I just want to say to her, I understand you. I get what it is you’re trying to say. With your deep blue streak of hair, and the way you dress. I mean, I want to turn to her and say You, me, friends, yeah? Same, yeah?

But no. No, no.

You can’t cling on to things like that.

‘Sorry to be a pain,’ I say, ‘but if you’re off to the machine, would you mind getting me a cup of tea? I’d go myself, but—’

She clears her throat. ‘Sure,’ she says. ‘Milk and sugar?’

She disappears.

I flick through the channels for something a bit less full-on. News, news, panel show. What would Amber want to watch? I end up on one of the music channels and leave it at that. Turn it down to background.

She returns bearing two mugs. Deep red and deep blue. One says Humph on the side, and one says Albert.

‘Humph,’ she says.

‘Thanks very much.’ I take it from her.

She retreats a few seats away, and sits cross-legged, cradling the cup against her lips, propping her elbows on her knees. Green-and-black-striped tights.

‘Have you got stuff to keep you busy out there?’ I ask. ‘All the waiting. It’s draining.’

‘I’ve got some books. But it’s not really the best place to read. I can’t concentrate.’

‘No, it’s hardly surprising, is it? You want to try playing Sheila’s game.’

‘What’s that, then?’

‘Well, what you do, you go through the alphabet and think of a part of the body for each letter. Then you think of a story about that body part, like, say what is the best thing your fingers have ever done. The moment in your whole life when they were best used.’

My explanation grinds to a halt, and I think she must wonder what the hell I’m talking about.

‘Adrenaline,’ she says, brightly. ‘I’d start with A for adrenaline.’

‘Why adrenaline?’

‘It motivates you and keeps you safe. It makes people do amazing things, like become superhuman. Do you know there was a woman who managed to actually heave up a car that was crushing her child?’

‘No, really?’

‘Yeah, in America. I read about it — it was the adrenaline in her arms.’

‘That makes my “Adam’s apple” story feel a bit inadequate,’ I say. ‘But that’s what you get for working in a garden centre all your life.’ I look at her, and I don’t see a light go on. ‘Garden of Eden,’ I say. ‘Adam’s apple.’

‘Which garden centre did you work at?’

‘You know the one down the road from here? At the junction?’

‘I know. We go out to the café there sometimes.’

‘Oh, yeah. Good cakes.’

‘Yeah! Great cakes!’

We gaze at the TV screen for a while, and begin to get drawn in by its conversation-sapping magnetism. I try to think of something to say about adrenaline. I can only think of it as an antidote to drug overdose.

‘I love your blanket,’ I hear her say. I look, and she’s reaching over to touch the edge of it.

‘Oh, thanks,’ I say, smiling. ‘It was made for me.’

‘Wow. It’s gorgeous. Can I have a look?’ She turns a corner. ‘It’s a got a beautiful tension in the stitches. I’m looking to do textile design at college — I’ve always loved it.’

‘Here,’ I say, handing it to her. ‘It’s really heavy.’ I can’t keep the pride from my face.

Amber interrogates the blanket with confident, intelligent fingers. Funny how a slight difference in movement or poise can tell you about a person’s talents. ‘Look at this—’ she holds the blanket up to herself, talking to herself almost ‘—the hexagons. Really unusual. It must have taken for ever.’

‘She went for hexagons because they’re a bit more gentle, I think, than squares.’

‘Who was it who made it?’

I hesitate a moment, unwilling to admit to ever having had a girlfriend, in case — in case what? Amber might be interested?

Jesus.

‘My girlfriend,’ I say. ‘Ex.’

Amber looks up at me with sudden sympathy.

‘She could do a lot better than me,’ I say, to deflect any questions.

‘It’s beautiful quality wool, must have cost a fortune.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah, totally. She definitely must have thought you were worth some trouble.’

‘Heh — yeah.’ I smile, and then my face must fall a little, because Amber looks concerned.

‘Are you OK? Sorry, I don’t mean to—’

‘I always used to get roped into her big schemes. Always some plan to carry out some random creative act somewhere. She used to do yarn-bombs. Is that a known thing in textiles, yarnbombs?’

‘No … what’s that?’

‘She used to plan to go to these places in town at four in the morning and decorate them with crochet hearts or daffodils or whatever else it was she was making.’

‘Oh wow, that sounds amazing.’

‘Yeah, little snowflakes at Christmas, little chicks in the spring. Just random acts of kindness, but executed to an insanely high standard. She was totally meticulous about it.’

‘And you had to trail along after her?’

‘Yeah, well, I never wanted to look at it like that. People used to say to me, Oh God, I bet you hate getting up in the morning, don’t you? But I never wanted to be the person who hated getting up in the morning. It was hard, but it was never bad. It was really really good. Maybe that’s how proper projects should be.’

‘Didn’t the crochet just get nicked?’

‘Oh yeah, they were hoovered up. But that’s absolutely not a reason not to do it. People will be how they’re going to be. You’ll never be able to control that.’

‘Yeah—’ Amber looks unconvinced.

She hands me back the blanket, and I pat its thick form. It looks like a flag they fold up at military funerals.

‘Would she come and visit you? Even though she’s an ex?’

The question takes me by surprise.

‘No,’ I say. ‘No.’

Fingers

‘What’s this? It looks like a bumhole!’

Mal jabs a finger through one of the holes in the stitching of the blanket, and his fingernail raps the wood of the pub table beneath. The burnt-down rolly pinched between his knuckles drops a flake of ash.

‘Mal! Fucksake.’

I flap at him.

He withdraws and snorts me a chastised smile.

I see it straight away. Where his finger touched the blanket there’s a grubby mark. I look quickly up at you, but you haven’t seen it — you’re busy battling back the bags and wrapping that are sliding off the seat beside you.

I’m not going to point it out. It’s my birthday and my present, so I’m not going to take the rap for screwing it up. It’ll probably scrub out anyway. I might have a try in a bit.

‘Oh, look at that, it’s gorgeous,’ says Laura, reaching across and turning over the edge to look at the back. ‘You made this?’

‘Yes,’ you say, finally karate-chopping the discarded wrapping paper into cooperation.

‘For him?’

You look at me and break into a warm smile. ‘Yes.’

‘Do you know what,’ I say, ‘I think it’s the first time anyone’s ever made anything for me.’

‘That’s why I wanted to make it,’ you say. ‘It’s made with love.’

I’m ashamed to realize I dart my eyes around to see if anyone’s registering their amusement at the word ‘love’. Becca is whispering something in Mal’s ear and laughing. He laughs too. A nice, private little joke.

‘Ah, Ivo, you always get the best stuff!’ says Laura. ‘How do you always manage to land on your feet? How many stitches are in this?’

‘Oo — I don’t know,’ you say. ‘About — fifty, sixty thousand?’

‘You’re mad,’ says Laura. ‘Sixty thousand stitches? For him?’

‘Is that mad?’ you say, straightening the blanket, checking for imperfections, tutting when you find a loose end.

‘I don’t know where you find the time for everything you do. You’re like a cottage industry or something, with all the guitar-playing and song-writing and crochet as well as training to be a nurse.’

‘Ah, you can find the time for the right person,’ you say. ‘He’s worth it.’

‘Well, I’m glad you think so,’ says Laura, pulling an incredulous face. ‘I don’t think there’s anyone on the planet I’d do this for. Or I haven’t met him yet, anyway.’

I catch a brief cloud cross Mal’s face as she says this.

‘I’ve enjoyed it. I had all those bus trips to work, and I used to fill up any quiet moments on night shift: I could pick it up and work on it, and it made me feel like we were together.’ You look up at me. ‘Think of it as an apology if you like, for being away on nights all those weeks. This blanket is made up of all those hours when I was thinking of you, and when I wanted to be back with you.’

‘Aww,’ says Laura, turning to me. ‘That’s lovely.’

‘And whenever I got stuck with anything, there were a lot of the older patients who still had all their crochet skills — I learned hundreds of little techniques.’

‘Do you love it?’ Laura asks me.

Your eyes switch slightly shyly to me, and the pressure of expectation immediately swells.

‘Yeah, it’s really— I like it a lot.’ I feel myself scratching around for the kinds of words I want to be using, now the whole pub seems to be watching. ‘It’s really — really heavy.’ I weigh it impressedly in my hands.

‘It’s only a blanket. All you want to know is, is it warm?’ says Mal. ‘Is it going to keep those frail little knees from knocking together or not?’

Maybe there’s a twitch in my DNA, a switch flicked in my middle, but I look at Mal now, and I think what a child he seems. How puerile can he get? Surely he can do better than that.

I know I can.

‘It’s brilliant,’ I say, deliberately and decisively. ‘I love it.’ And fuck you, Mal.

‘Well,’ you say, turning to me, ‘as far as I’m concerned it’s just something someone thought enough about you to spend a lot of time making. And that’s what I wanted to do for you,’ you say. ‘Happy birthday.’

I’m touched. I’m genuinely touched.

‘Well, here you go anyway, fella,’ says Mal, reaching around inside a plastic bag he’s got with him. ‘Happy birthday, yeah?’ He lands a packet of twenty-four Kit-Kats on the blanket, and a packet of twenty Benson & Hedges on top of that.

I look up, and he’s primed and ready for my laughter.

‘Aw, what’s not to love about that,’ you say, semi-quietly. ‘Perfect for a diabetic.’

‘Cheers anyway, fella,’ says Mal raising his glass, and encouraging others to do the same.

Then, he says: ‘Sorry, Mia, I forgot you weren’t drinking.’

‘I’m not not drinking,’ you say. ‘I just haven’t got a drink.’

‘Oh, right, I thought because of your dad and everything.’

‘What about him?’

‘Being an — sorry, was I not supposed to say? — an alcoholic?’

‘Mal!’ cries Laura.

‘What?’ says Mal, raising his hands in fake innocence.

You look at me, and I shake my head like I don’t know how he found out.

‘What’s this?’ you say.

Ah shit, you’ve found Mal’s fingermark.

You glare up at Mal straight away.

‘This took me eight months. Mind what you’re prodding it with, OK?’

‘I don’t get it,’ you say. Your computer table and all your books are juddering as you stomp up and down the carpet of your room. ‘I don’t understand what kind of special code they want me to crack to gain entrance to their little clique.’

‘Will you sit down?’ I say. I’m lying sideways on your bed, my head propped up on a big cushion. ‘You’re making me tense.’

You sit on the edge of the bed, leaning forward.

‘It’s hard,’ I say, ‘but we’ve all known each other for years. I think they get a bit … I don’t know, a bit lazy when new people come along.’

‘It’s been nine months now we’ve been seeing each other. That’s a bit more deliberate than lazy. I mean, what’s the deal with Mal? He deliberately made that mark on the blanket.’

‘No, it wasn’t deliberate. I saw him do it, it was an accident.’

‘Yeah, well he wasn’t too apologetic about it, was he? He was openly taking the piss. Why do you hang around with such a bunch of piss-takers?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Seriously, they just leech off each other. Anything that doesn’t fall in with their little world view gets stamped on immediately.’

‘I’m not like that.’

You sigh and slump down on your bed. ‘No, I know you’re not. I don’t know how you managed to escape it.’

‘They don’t know anything about you. They don’t know the real you at all. It’ll just take time.’

‘Becca’s supposed to know me, but she’s too busy being fawned over by everyone, all latching on to her.’

‘Ah no, Becca’s all right.’

‘Oh, she’s lovely, but she’d never stand up for you. And what’s the deal with her and Mal, whispering like schoolkids?’

‘No deal, they’ve just known each other a long time.’

‘Yeah, I wouldn’t be surprised if there was something there, you know. I don’t know why Laura puts up with him.’

‘I don’t know why you put up with me,’ I say, offering you a Kit-Kat.

Actually: green fingers. It was my mum who said that to me, she said, ‘You’ll have green fingers.’

She was struggling to push the old hooded lawnmower up and down the lawn on a Saturday. Saturdays always made her sad. Sadderdays. It was something Dad should have been doing.

She said to me, ‘We’ll have to set aside a little piece of the garden for you to call your own. You’ll have green fingers like your dad.’

Slight twitch of a frown on my face. It presented a bad image of rotting green fingers deep underground.

Maybe she noticed, I don’t know, but she quickly said, ‘That’s what they say if you love gardening. You’ve got green fingers. Have you never heard that?’

I shook my head.

She set me aside a little patch I could tend and look after all by myself. I grew sunflowers that first year, and the patch was soon allowed to stretch to the size of a full bed, an odd hotchpotch of annuals and perennials, herbs and vegetables. Within a few years the whole lot was mine, and my mum could confine herself to enjoying it around her on warm summer evenings.

It was the least I could do.

Funny what small things it takes to set your life on a particular course.

Face

God, look at my face.

I’ve got a triangle where the oxygen mask has pressed around my nose and mouth.

I steady myself with my hands on either side of the bathroom’s sink, and peer through the bad lighting into the mirror.

My face is yellow. Dark grey under the sunken eyes.

I slowly move my head around, checking out the angles, watch the pupils fixed stock-still, compensating for the rotating of my head.

I’ve always done this, since I was a kid. Always pondered the fact that you can only ever see your face from one place, from your own eyes. I will never see myself looking away.

Not without a camera.

Jesus, though. I look more and more like my dad.

There’s a face that’s imprinted on my memory. Dad. It’s the movement of a face that stays with me. The way he smiled. The way he laughed.

From all those years ago, it’s still as strong, that blueprint.

‘All right there, little man?’

There it is: the familiar face. Familiar old Dad smile.

‘Something up?’

I look at him and twiddle the end of his bed cover. Comb my fingers through the tassels.

‘C’mon,’ he says. ‘Tell your old dad.’

I peer up at him. ‘I’m not allowed to play up.’

He considers me a moment and I can see his face breaking into a little laugh. Not completely his usual laugh.

‘Who said that? Did Mum say that?’

I nod.

‘Ah well, she’s very tired,’ he says. ‘But what you should do is be a good boy for her, OK?’

Nod.

‘But don’t worry about me. You can play me up all you like.’

I look at him, curious.

‘Are you going to die?’

He frowns, and again it’s familiar, that deep groove straight down between his eyebrows. After a brief pause he holds his hand out to me. I take it and roll myself up gratefully in his arm, and end up looking away from him. Away from the frown. I feel him stroke the hair on the top of my head.

His voice comes to me now.

‘It looks like it, little man. I’m really sorry.’

I say: ‘That’s OK.’ I have a strong sense that I don’t want him to worry about me.

‘Will you look after your mum for me?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And your sister.’

‘Yeah.’

‘And then I’ll look after you, OK?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’m sorry we haven’t started work on that pond of yours yet.’

‘That’s all right. I don’t mind.’

‘Well, just keep it in mind. And you might be able to start it yourself when you’re old enough. When your mum says it’s OK. OK?’

‘OK.’

‘Just make sure you work slowly and carefully. It’s not a race. If you go a bit wrong, all you have to do is keep calm and put it right, yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What you don’t get right you can always put right. Don’t be afraid to change your mind.’

The words don’t mean much to me, but I hear the click of his lips behind me as they stretch into his familiar old warm smile. He’s happy he’s told me this. That makes me happy.

What you don’t get right you can always put right.

But I couldn’t, Dad.

I tried to put it right, but it just kept drifting wrong.

Every night I would say to myself, I will not go out tonight, I will not get stoned tonight—

But every night I would fail.

I wish I could have asked you what I should do then, Dad.

I wish I could have asked what I should do when every instinct in my body was urging me to do what I wasn’t supposed to do.

And then I’ll look after you, OK?

I’m imagining his smile.

The ghost.

Just thinking of that smile now, the calming, comforting movements of his face, it brings out actual physical reactions in my body. It makes my heart lighter. It makes my shoulders instinctively spread and settle.

The ghost exists: my body has seen it, and shaped it.

‘Hiya.’

I look up suddenly, and the elastic on the oxygen mask plucks my stubble, makes me flinch and frown. Standing awkwardly in the doorway it’s Amber.

‘Oh, hello—’

And ah no, she’s caught me here in my mask. Ah, shit. I didn’t want that. Old man, old man.

‘Sorry about that,’ I say, hooking the mask back on the canister. ‘I’m trying out the laughing gas.’

‘Can I come in?’

‘Yeah, yeah, of course,’ I say. ‘Have a seat — if you’ve got time.’

She heads for the visitors’ seat and plants herself down, still in her coat. When you’re a kid you don’t think to take off your coat. You just put up with the uncomfortableness.

I realize quickly when she doesn’t say anything that she hasn’t come here for any particular purpose, she just wants to hang out. She looks tired, but she’s clearly together enough to put on a public face. Matte scarlet lipstick to offset the shimmering blue streak in her hair, still troubled to put on the eyeliner.

‘Oh, hey,’ she says, reaching down and rooting around in her bag, ‘I’ve got something I wanted to show you.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘I went into college this morning, to try and stay in touch and let them know what’s going on—’

‘Good thinking.’

‘—and I was talking to my tutor, and I’ve managed to start up with this.’

She retrieves a small, curiously familiar little shape. A scrap of oatmeal-coloured crochet, slung over a hook, and attached to a small ball of wool. ‘I wanted to try and — try and get my stitches to be even slightly as good as you’ve got on your blanket there.’

I take the shape from her and turn it about in my hands. It’s so comforting, the fledgling idea, the work in progress.

‘Oh, wow, yeah. It’s really good,’ I say. ‘Lovely tension.’ I nod at her, impressed.

‘It’s good, when you’ve got so much going on in your head, to have something for your hands to do. Something to focus on.’

It’s lovely, just these few seconds, she’s there, open-faced, setting her cares aside, completely immersed in what she’s showing me. And for a few seconds I’m swept there too.

‘So,’ I say, handing back the crochet, ‘how are things?’

She takes it from me, and looks down at it, kind of smiling. ‘Yep, pretty bad.’

‘Yeah?’

‘I’ve been trying to make some preparations. Organizing whatever bits of the funeral I can, trying to get all that sorted. Quite a lot to learn and do. Dad just sort of — he can’t do it.’

I find myself lowering my eyes to allow her to swallow down another spoonful of sorrow in some sort of privacy.

‘It’s just — I don’t know,’ she says. ‘It’s really hard, not knowing how to do this stuff.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I try to get to sleep at night, but my mind’s turning over and over. You know: what if I forget to do something, what if I forget to sign the right bit of paper, what if the coffin’s wrong, what if it’s not what she wants. What if the food doesn’t arrive for the after-party. And it’s all— she’s not even gone yet. I don’t know when all of this is supposed to kick into action. It could be tomorrow, it could be weeks away.’

‘And your dad’s not … doing anything?’

She takes in a great breath and makes an effort to pull herself together.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ she says, and laughs. ‘You don’t need all this.’

‘No, no, don’t apologize.’

She purses her mouth, does a little gulp.

I can feel now my breath getting shorter. I hung up that oxygen mask too soon. It’s no good, I’m going to have to take another hit. I sit myself up with difficulty.

‘Sorry, can I do anything?’ says Amber, standing. She makes to shift the pillows to prop me up better. ‘Or … should I … leave?’

I accept the mask from her, inexpertly rake the elastic over my head.

I look up at her and frown, and she looks a bit shocked.

‘Sorry,’ I say, muted in plastic.

‘No, no.’

‘Looks worse than it is.’

Resigned, I adjust the mask in its place and let it settle in, settle me.

She sits once more and just waits for me to reacclimatize. Look at her, her eyes are so tired and puffy.

‘I’m really sorry to see someone like you going through all this,’ I say.

She raises her eyebrows. I wonder for a moment if she’s going to cry, but she simply exhales and says, ‘Yeah. It’s a bit shit. I just don’t want her to be in pain any more.’

‘They won’t let her be in pain. Not really.’

‘That’s all that matters. But — it feels so wrong … wanting it to be over.’

‘No, no. Not wrong.’

She stares across the room, a lost expression in her eyes.

‘I mean, she’s been amazing. These last few weeks I think she’s been trying to protect me from knowing how bad she was. Didn’t want me to worry. It’s such a selfless thought, you know?’

‘Sheila told me she thought your mum was an absolutely lovely lady. Kind and uncomplaining. She really seems to like her.’

‘When Mum told me the cancer had come back, she actually said sorry.’ Amber breathes a quick, quiet little laugh. ‘I thought, how can you say sorry for something like that? But she said to me, “I’m sorry to mess up your studies and make you worry.” I think she liked to reduce it to a few little things she could be sorry about.’

‘It’s a lot to take on,’ I say. ‘She’d want you to take such care of yourself, wouldn’t she?’

Amber purses her lips and looks down.

‘I know what it’s like,’ I say. ‘Mind racing. Feeling trapped. Maybe — if you just — stick to the small stuff. Practical stuff.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Forget what-ifs. What-ifs aren’t yours to control.’

‘No, no.’

‘If you sort all the practical stuff — the big stuff tends to get done too.’

‘Yeah,’ she says, frowning down at herself.

‘What’s on this afternoon’s agenda?’

‘I’ve got to sort out flowers, and what readings there are going to be, the music. I don’t know what she liked. It feels like I don’t know anything about her, even the smallest thing.’

She looks so lost. She’s too young. She needs a dad.

She needs her mum.

‘And there’s nothing your dad can do to help?’

‘He doesn’t know anything. He didn’t know her. He spent all his time off at work and — he wouldn’t be any use.’

I can feel her anger simmering away, barely beneath the surface.

‘Do you mind if I say something?’

‘No, go on.’

‘Making all the decisions, it’s too much. I know it might seem easier—’

‘It is.’

‘But it’s not.’ I lift the mask from my face, hold it in my hand a moment. ‘I mean, say you set everything up … you have the funeral you think she wanted … what about after? You’re left angry at your dad because you let him drift through it.’

Amber glares down at her little scrap of crochet, turning it around and about.

‘You’ve got to plug him into this.’

She looks up and tautens her mouth.

‘And it’s not … it’s not fair … to ask you to do this, but … he needs guiding through it.’

I’m sure she’s listening to me.

‘He’s got — what — twenty-five years’ worth of life with your mum?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Quarter of a century. That’s a lot to ignore.’

‘Yeah,’ she says, reluctantly.

‘Even tiny little choices. Like, what music did he and she like? What—’ another pull on the oxygen ‘—what were they like before you were born?’

‘Yeah—’ I can see her eyes mulling over the possibilities.

‘Ask him: get three possible readings. Even if he says he can’t. Give him a day to do it. And you can decide between you, yeah?’

‘Only he won’t know that.’

‘But then — he has to go and ask his friends. His friends who knew your mum. It’ll be his task. You just set him off.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ This seems to ease her brow a little.

‘You might be surprised. It’s a great … it’s a great opportunity. For everyone to remember her. In ways you might not have thought of.’

‘Hallo, lovey!’ says Sheila, waggling a bunch of lunch cards as she breezes into my room. ‘Have you chosen your lunch yet?’

‘Mm, yes — could I try a bit of the cod, please? No promises.’

‘Oh right,’ she says, swiping up my card and looking it up and down. ‘Bit more adventurous today?’

‘Yeah, something like that. I’ve just had Amber come to see me. We had a chat.’

‘So I saw — how’s she doing?’

‘She’s a sweet girl. So much on her plate.’

‘Hasn’t she? But she’s got her head screwed on. A real smasher. One of the lovely things about this job, you get to see the real good in people.’

‘Yeah. Sad to see her so young, though.’

Sheila bites the edge of the lunch cards. It dawns on me that she must see worse. Much, much worse. ‘Still,’ she says, ‘I’m really proud of you for taking the time to try a bit of mixing. I told you it’s a tonic, didn’t I, meeting a few different people?’

‘Yeah, yeah, it’s been nice.’

‘It’s good to have visitors now and again. What are you up to on your A to Z? You’ll nearly have it finished by now, I should think.’

‘I’m on G.’

‘G? Blimey, talk about taking your time. What have you got for G then?’ she says, frowning out the window. ‘There’s gut, groin …’

‘Gonads.’

‘Oh my God, it’s all the rude stuff, isn’t it?’

‘We used to have a game at school called Gonad.’

‘Oh, right?’

‘You know, that age where you think every vaguely anatomical word is a swear word.’

‘Little boys, they’re awful for it. Terrible gigglers.’

‘Yeah, well we used to think gonad was this majorly sophisticated swear word, and we had this game where we had to shout it out in class. Well, someone would say it quietly, then the next person would have to say it a bit louder, and the next one even louder, you know.’

‘Oh, right. So we know what kind of a little boy you were then.’