Christmas on Rosemary Lane

‘Kenny Halsall?’ the GP repeated from the doorway. He was wearing tiny round spectacles and had the wiry build of a jockey.

James looked at him, trying to transmit the message: This is my father; he had fifty-seven egg sandwiches stuffed in his cupboard; could you please diagnose him with something and help?

Kenny approached the doctor, and both men disappeared around the corner. James inhaled deeply, picked up a ragged copy of Improve Your Coarse Fishing magazine that he had no intention of reading, then dumped it back on the table and strode over to the receptionist. ‘Erm, my dad’s just gone through to the doctor’s,’ he started.

She nodded curtly as if he really shouldn’t be bothering her. ‘Yes?’

‘I was sort of hoping to go in with him,’ he continued, keeping his voice low, ‘but he wasn’t too keen on that. The thing is, I’d really like to talk to the doctor about my dad, about the concerns I have, about his memory and behaviour and things …’

‘Are you registered with this practice?’ the woman asked. Her mouth was pursed, her lipstick worn off apart from a peachy line around the edges. ‘Because, if you are,’ she added, ‘the best thing to do is make an appointment with your own GP and discuss it with them.’

She turned back to her screen and seemed to be focusing on it intently. ‘I used to be registered,’ James offered, ‘so maybe I’m still on the system …’ Even as he said it, he knew there was no point in her even checking; there hadn’t been a ‘system’ then, at least no computer as far as he could recall. He was from a pre-systems era when things were written in books and there were drawers of files on everybody. It was the same building, but the last time he was here was probably when he’d chicken pox in something like 1989.

‘Date of birth?’ the woman asked. As James answered, his father reappeared, looking unusually buoyant and pleased with himself. ‘Nothing wrong with me,’ he announced.

‘Oh, that’s good, Dad.’ James beamed and turned back to the woman.

‘What’s your name?’ she barked at him.

‘James Halsall—’

She shook her head. ‘You’re not on the system.’

‘Right. Okay. Well, could I possibly get on it?’

She eyed him with suspicion. ‘You’ll need to take these forms and bring them back.’

‘Great.’ He exhaled, aware of his father gazing at him.

‘What’re you doing?’ Kenny asked.

‘Nothing, Dad.’ He looked at the woman. ‘There’s no chance I could have a quick word with the doctor just now, just for a second—’

She widened her eyes and shook her head, as if he had expressed a desire to set up a burger stall right here in the reception. ‘No, sorry. He’s very busy today.’ He took the forms from her and stuffed them into his back pocket, aware of his father eyeing him curiously as they left the building and climbed into James’s car.

‘So, did the doctor give you any tests?’ James asked.

‘Oh yeah, he put that thing on my arm, the blood pressure thing,’ his father replied. James sensed him still studying him intently as he pulled out of the car park. ‘You think I’m going mad, don’t you?’ Kenny added.

‘Of course not, Dad,’ James said.

‘Why did you want to talk to my doctor, then?’

‘Just, you know, to see how things are.’

His dad regarded him steadily as they waited at a red light. ‘You think I don’t know you threw all that food away.’

‘What food?’

‘My sandwiches!’

James let out a gasp of exasperation. ‘Oh, Dad. I was just trying to clear out the—’

‘Well, don’t try anything,’ Kenny said firmly. ‘You know I hate waste.’

As they fell into a rather surly silence on the drive back to Burley Bridge, James wondered what to do next. The thought of suggesting to his father than he might be suffering from anything more than perpetual ill humour filled him with horror. But then, James was an adult man of forty-one, and sometimes, being an adult required one to face up to bloody awful situations and figure out a way of dealing with them.

No matter how maddening he was, and how fervently he railed against the idea of any kind of ‘help’, James was determined that he would not let his father down.

Chapter Ten (#ulink_12cb029c-476b-53e4-80d0-adc5dc5926cc)

Sometimes it was hard for Lucy to remember what she was like before the accident. But, somehow, the weeks had gone on and she was still here, alive. Christmas had happened, apparently, although naturally it had been a write-off. Lucy’s parents had arrived at Rosemary Cottage, and Lucy had a vague recollection of a few presents and a cobbled-together dinner, and her mother cooking and cooking as the days went on – mostly pies, as it happened, as if copious quantities of pastry might save them all. But Lucy was still a mother herself, which required her to be stoic and strong – all those motherly things – so she did her best and tried not to fall to pieces in front of Marnie and Sam.

You were supposed to hold it together, just because you’d given birth. You had to comfort your children when they were inconsolable and stand there, clutching their hands because you’d decided it was best for them to go to Daddy’s cremation, to say goodbye properly with the other people who loved him. As if you were capable of making any kind of rational decision. Should they have gone? Was it too traumatising for them, even though Lucy had somehow got it together to find a young, female celebrant who had followed her request to make the ceremony a celebration of Ivan’s life?

It was beautiful – everyone had said so. Well, nearly everyone. Lucy became convinced that Ivan’s mother, Penny, had glanced at her with fury – as if she thought she were somehow to blame for the accident. Perhaps she was being hypersensitive, and of course, his parents were devastated too. Ivan had been their only child, and although they were hardly demonstrative, she knew they adored him. Back in their North London semi, his childhood bedroom had remained just as he’d left it when he’d departed for university at eighteen years old.