TWENTY-THREE

And so, dear reader, to bed. I am unaware to this day of the exact time, but would suppose it to be around eight forty-five or so in the morning. My last patient had spent most of the night being sick; it was associated with central abdominal pain that had moved to the right lower quadrant, and she had been febrile with a coated tongue. Thus it was that I confidently diagnosed acute appendicitis and had waited with her – she was only twenty and had newly moved into the area, knowing no one – until the ambulance had arrived. During that time we had chatted and she had told me that her mother had just been diagnosed with pre-senile dementia and she had moved to be close to her. She had struck me as a nice girl, and I treasure meeting nice people because there are so few about.

It was the kind of sleep that only the truly, wretchedly, incontestably exhausted can ever know; it doesn’t so much knit the ravelled sleeve of care as darn it badly, so that you awake not refreshed, just ordinarily tired. Only problem was that halfway through – so that the darning this time was even more than usually threadbare and not destined to last long – a knocking came upon the front door. ‘Knocking’ is a euphemism; it would be described more accurately as ‘thumping’, or perhaps ‘battering’; maybe even ‘hammering’. More door abuse was committed before I made my bleary, semi-comatose way out of my bed, into the bathroom (by mistake), down the stairs and thence to my poor front door. This I opened.

My gaze fell upon a man who was the epitome of disgruntlement. Such was my state that I failed immediately to recognize him, an omission that this man – six feet or so in height, broad across the shoulders, getting broad about the beam – seemed to take amiss. I say ‘seemed’ because at that moment, the whole of reality ‘seemed’, if you get what I mean.

‘I think we should talk,’ was his opening sally in lieu of the usual niceties.

‘Do you?’

Now, you read those two words and maybe you will appreciate that I was extremely dozy, but they could be conceivably be misinterpreted; should you be so inclined, you might think that the tone was facetious, perhaps even in gladiatorial. Whatever you think, my visitor certainly formed his own opinion, and did so quickly. He grabbed the lapels of my light cotton dressing gown and brought us face to face; his breath smelled of beer but God only knows what mine smelt of. ‘You what?’

It took a couple of seconds for my lenses to contract to the right spherical diameter but, when they did, cogs meshed, synapses were triggered, bio-electric relays did their things . . .

Mr Michael Clarke occupied approximately eighty per cent of my visual field. To judge by the amount of perspiration he was excreting, he was hot, but then the morning was already warm. ‘Don’t be funny,’ he advised.

‘Mr Clarke,’ I said. For want of anything else to add and, given that I was somewhat befuddled, I continued, ‘Come in.’

And in he came.

To cut a long story off at the knees, he had a problem with the forthcoming matrimonials ’twixt my pater and his mater. This he made clear immediately, having pushed past me and sort of planted himself in my kitchen. ‘What the bloody hell is going on?’ he enquired; he had a richly South London twang.

Given that he had barged into my house and was acting in an unmistakeably hostile manner, I thought this a bit rich, but forbore to point this out and thus had to extemporize. ‘Well . . .’

Not brilliant, I admit, but I felt somewhat inhibited, what with being in my jim-jams and all. I was spared yet more embarrassment by his desire to do the talking. ‘Your father’s well out of order.’

I’ve been of the opinion that Dad was well out of order for a long time, but the men in white coats had yet to cotton on. The clouds of ambiguation were clearing, though, which was perhaps good for my well being, since I was getting the impression he was short on patience. I ventured, ‘Mr Clarke . . .’ dimly aware that I was in danger of becoming rather repetitive.

He brought his finger into action, using it with vigour to underline his points. ‘One, my mother is not available.’ He poked me hard about halfway between the sternal notch and the xiphisternum. ‘Two, even if she was, I wouldn’t want her having anything to do with some chancer like your father.’ Another poke. ‘Three, I’m holding you personally responsible for this situation.’ I tried again; if there’s one thing that being a doctor teaches you, it’s patience, although his choice of designation for my father was distinctly trying. In addition, you must bear in mind that I was tired and, in my opinion, Mr Clarke was a bit of a wanker (although I didn’t use that phraseology out loud). Therefore, instead of being anodyne, I reacted and did so loudly. ‘What situation?’ I was rewarded with a frown and a pause in the ranting, so I did what Wellington would have done and pressed home this small advantage. ‘In the first place, I am not responsible for my father and what he does. In the second, even if I were, I would applaud what he’s doing. In the third, you should be delighted to have him as a stepfather.’

I was quite pleased with this riposte, right up until the moment he produced a blow to my epigastrium followed by a well-aimed upper cut to my jaw, and I discovered that the art of debate (at least in South London) had died with the ancient Greeks.

What’s supposed to happen is that darkness gradually gives way to blurred light, shapes and colours emerge from blackness, while sounds come to you from a long way off, approaching slowly, and becoming less reverberant, more meaningful. Ideally, the shape of a face should fill your vision, a loved one talking in concerned tones as consciousness returns and you slowly recall what has happened to you.

That’s what is supposed to happen. What actually happened was I came to all alone, starring up at a cobweb in the corner of the ceiling; the only other entity in the vicinity was the spider – one of those incredibly long-legged ones that must have trouble when the soles of its feet get itchy – in the midst of the aforementioned web. My jaw hurt but then so did my whole head, and my stomach wasn’t going to be easily outdone in the pain stakes, either. I rolled over and got slowly and agonizingly to my hands and knees. I felt sick, but I feared that if I did start vomiting it would hurt big time; luckily a few deep breaths seemed to help. After five minutes I was able to get to one of the kitchen chairs and sat on it heavily. The ring of the doorbell was not well timed. Was it Michael Clarke back for a bit more sparring? I was in two minds whether to answer it but decided it was unlikely to be my nemesis again and made my giddy way up the hall. It was my father.

‘You all right?’ he asked, his face assuming a frown.

I considered giving him a brief résumé of my recent past, decided that there was no point. ‘Just tired.’

He grunted and there was a moment where I sort of stood aside and he sort of came in without being overtly asked, which is the way that close friends and relatives do things. ‘Been on call?’ he asked as we arrived in the kitchen.

‘Yep.’

‘Shall I make the tea?’

‘Yes, please,’ I sighed, sitting down heavily at the table. There was no point in saying anything more.

As he stirred the pot, he said conversationally, ‘I think things are going to be all right with Michael.’

‘Do you?’

‘Ada and he have had a heart-to-heart. She tells me there isn’t a problem. It was all just a bit of a shock for him. Give him a couple of days, she says.’

I nodded understandingly. ‘The news must have been like a blow in the midriff.’

He was putting my mug down in front of me as I said this; it had a picture of Einstein on it. ‘What?’ he asked, and I couldn’t really blame him. Thankfully, he didn’t want an answer; I had long ago noticed that my father often asked me questions without wanting a reply. We sat at the table for a few silent moments of familial companionship, after which he suddenly ventured, ‘I never had a problem with relativity.’

‘No?’

He shook his head gravely. ‘It was quantum mechanics that gave me trouble.’

‘Really?’

He had both hands around his mug, which bore a line print of Newton. ‘There’s logic about relativity, so you can accept the consequences, no matter how odd. You can see that, can’t you?’

‘If you say so.’

‘There’s no logic about quantum mechanics, though. It’s just odd.’

‘Like life, then.’

He brightened, as if I had said something witty. ‘Yes!’ he exclaimed. ‘I suppose it is.’ Then, his face suddenly perplexed, ‘Is your jaw all right?’

I don’t know what it looked like, but it felt huge and it throbbed. ‘I’ve got toothache.’

‘Oh.’

More silence. I wanted to ask him why he was there – because there was obviously another reason for his visit, although its nature was as yet unknown to me – but I knew that I couldn’t, that if I did, all the uncertainties would collapse around us (an ironically quantum mechanical situation). We both imbibed more tea; Dad always made a good mug of tea. Eventually he took in a lot of air and said, ‘I know you think I’m a stupid old fool.’

‘No, I don’t . . .’

‘Yes, you do, and yes, I am.’

‘No . . .’

‘Lance, please. I am not completely demented. Not yet, anyway.’

I smiled, although I was suddenly, unaccountably sad. ‘I know that, Dad.’

He nodded seriously. Opened his mouth, was about to speak, didn’t, breathed in, breathed out, shut his mouth, then drank the last of his tea. Only at this point did he speak. ‘They’re not the most attractive family, are they?’ I had a thousand things to say and could say none of them for a moment. He laughed but it was a melancholic thing, one that might come from someone who has just seen the back half of a maggot poking out of the apple he has just bitten into. ‘I’ve been trying to tell myself that I’m being judgemental, but it’s tough. It’s odd, because they all seem completely different from Ada.’

Being a family doctor means having to react instinctively and caringly whatever you are shown or whatever is said to you, no matter who is in front of you; you must never leave a pause, never allow the patient to begin to feel embarrassed and, above all, never suggest to them that you have opinions about what they say or what they show you. Being a professional means presenting yourself as a perfect replica of a human being, one who appears caring and knowing everything, yet at the same time one completely without emotion. You can get a long way as a doctor if you perfect that art.

I like to think I’m pretty good at my job.

I knew at once what he was talking about, and knew at once what to say.

‘Dad, you’re marrying Ada, not her family.’

‘They come as a package. She’s very close to them. She lives with them in the loft of their house; Michael converted it for her.’

From what I’d seen she was very close to her son and grandchildren, but I reckoned you could drive a supertanker through the space between Ada and her daughter-in-law. Not that that mattered; at that particular moment, I was more inclined to the distaff side of the Clarke family, given the fact that my mandible was groaning with silent, throbbing agony. ‘I’m sure things will grow easier as they get to know you, and you get to know them.’

He looked less than convinced. ‘I hope so.’

‘And you and she will be living together in your own house.’

‘Obviously.’

‘You can choose your wife, but you can’t choose her relatives,’ I pointed out.

‘Mmm,’ he said thoughtfully and, to my ears, there was a distinct lack of chuffedness about him as he did so. ‘You’re not bothered, are you, Lance?’

‘What about?’ I asked, although I knew exactly what he meant.

‘About me and Ada.’ I tried to respond but it still wasn’t my turn and he went on, ‘I know we’re close, but . . .’

He had run out of steam, which was maybe just as well. I rushed into the vacuum. Before either of us knew quite what was going on, I had moved towards him and we were hugging in a decidedly un-English way. ‘Dad, there’s no problem. Really.’

It had been a while since we had had more than five per cent of our body surfaces in contact, so he was a bit taken aback. There was a feeling of release and I felt the brush of his beard on my shoulder; I tried not to shudder or look at my epaulette. ‘Yes, well . . .’ he muttered, breathing quite deeply, as if I had just showed him a picture of me in women’s underwear and nothing else. We stared at each other for what seemed like an hour, was almost certainly only a couple of seconds. Then normal Dad was back and he remarked in the tone I have heard him use an uncountable number of times before, ‘It’s just that I can’t say that Michael and Tricia would have been my first choice from the catalogue.’

I cast around for positives, which took a while. ‘David’s a fine lad,’ I said after what I hope wasn’t too long a pause. ‘You and he get on really well.’

This produced a nod and a smile. ‘Yes, we do, don’t we?’ A pause. ‘He hasn’t been at school for the past couple of days.’

‘Is he ill?’ I asked out of politeness rather than professional or emotional concern.

‘Ada says he’s a bit below par.’ Which is one the commonest diseases known to mankind; it is also completely impervious to medication or any sort.

‘Probably a virus,’ I suggested.

He nodded. ‘Probably.’

I put out my hand to rest it on his and suddenly I found that I couldn’t recall the last time I’d touched him so often. He didn’t react, which was just the right thing to do, but it wasn’t long before he asked, ‘More tea?’ and stood up.

He was English, after all.

‘Why not?’

He looked at me more closely. ‘That’s one hell of a toothache, Lance,’ he observed. ‘The side of your jaw looks as though it’s been clobbered.’

Clobbered. I thought, What a wonderful word. It was the type of word only my father would use. I said without answering, ‘There are some paracetamol in the cupboard above the kettle. Would you get them for me?’