The A-Z of Us (26 page)

‘I have Parkinson's.'

‘What?'

‘That's why I'm in London.'

‘Parkinson's?'

Someone has hit me. I can't breathe. I stare at my father in disbelief. He is hiding his right hand beneath the table like a child concealing stolen candy. Immediately my anger
vanishes and I'm filled with shame and pity. I feel an urge to lean over and touch him. Hold him.

‘I lied about the asylum seekers thing,' continues the Reverend John Thompson, his voice trembling like his hand. ‘The truth is, I'm here for tests at Queen's Square.'

‘What's Queen's Square?' I ask, wishing this could be a simple enquiry about London geography rather than a fearful question about my father's future.

‘The Hospital for Nervous Diseases.'

My father's voice is small and scared. His body seems to have shrunk in the instance of confession, hunching into a shrunken, concave shell. The Reverend John Thompson breathes in deeply, evidently seeking strength from somewhere deep inside.

‘Look, I'm sorry, Ian, I didn't do this very well. It's funny, having spent so many years giving other people bad news, you'd have thought I'd be able to give my own with a bit more sensitivity…'

‘What does it mean, Dad?' I ask, quickly.

‘Every case is different.'

‘What happens? Normally.'

‘Usually there is a gradual deterioration in function of muscles and limbs. The ability to walk, to move the arm, or hand, facial expressiveness. There is this thing called dysarthria…'

‘What's that?'

‘A difficulty in articulation.'

‘Articulation?'

‘Your speech slows, it becomes slurred. You can't talk properly any more.'

‘Is there a cure?'

‘No,' my father intones softly. ‘I don't think so.'

I want to cry. My father's sermons boomed through my childhood, through my adolescence, through my university years. I heard them from Quito to Papua New Guinea, at the top of Kenyan mountains, at the bottom of Australian coral reefs. The Reverend John Thompson lives for his Sunday address, he comes alive the moment he crosses himself in the pulpit. It's not fair. It's not right. I want to shout.

‘How did this happen?' I bark, angrily. ‘Why did it happen?'

‘There's no reason…'

‘So much for the Grace of God!'

‘Ian…'

‘You see, it's just proof…'

‘There's no blame…'

‘Why not? Why would a benign God do this to you? Why?'

I glare at my father as if glaring at the very Word made incarnate. My father stares back at me, eyes ringed with bruised fatigue.

‘I don't know. I don't have any answers.'

‘Why not?'

‘I just have to accept it.'

I look away. I wish I'd managed to contain myself. My father doesn't need my baiting. In attacking his God I am attacking him. I should be supportive, caring, loving.

‘It'll be all right,' my father concludes. He's trying to sound brave. I remember this tone from when I was little. Had my father seemed as unconvincing back then?

‘Does Mum know?' I ask, more quietly.

‘Yes. She's trying to be strong.'

‘I'm sorry Dad. I'm so sorry.'

My father looks down. I see tears in his eyes.

‘I don't know what to do, Ian.'

Immediately, without thinking, I step around the table and open my arms and quickly place them around my father's back. I'm surprised at how wide and strong my father's body feels. I can feel the older man stiffen at my touch. I wonder for a moment whether he will push me away. Then I feel his muscles slump. I hear a brief sob. I hold him more tightly.

We remain, son behind father, as I hold him tightly for a moment. I know everyone in the coffee shop is watching us, but I don't care.

‘Thank you,' my father whispers.

‘I love you, Dad.'

I kiss my father's cheek.

‘I don't know what to do,' my father murmurs, gently.

Outside, the sun is shining. It's warm, and most of the passers-by are wearing shorts and light dresses. Everyone seems exuberant, joyful even in the Indian summer heat. We stand for a moment, father and son, blinking in the bright light.

‘The appointment's at two.'

‘Why don't I come with you?'

‘No. Thank you. Somehow I think I'll feel stronger on my own.'

‘You're sure?'

‘Yes. Thank you.'

We walk through Chinatown to Leicester Square underground station. We stop at the barriers.

‘I'll come back to Cambridge in a couple of days,' I say, trying to sound strong.

‘That would be nice.'

‘I'll think about the map. I'm not sure what I'm going to do.'

My father nods, but says nothing.

‘I'm going to help you through this, Dad.'

My father looks at me. I feel tears welling in my eyes. I put my arms around my father once more. Two hugs in… what? Twenty years?

‘Thank you.'

We look at each other. I hear the words in my head, but I'm unsure if I can say them. My father seems to be searching for his own conclusion.

‘Look Dad, I'm hosting a surprise birthday party for Molly at her flat this evening. It's not far from Liverpool Street, you could stop by before you go back to Cambridge.'

‘Oh no… I wouldn't want to cramp your style.'

‘Just come for a quick drink.'

My father's face breaks into a smile.

‘Well… why not. I'll try. Thank you, Ian.'

My father pats my left shoulder, and turns to place his ticket in the machine. He takes the ticket, the gates open and he passes through. I watch my father walk slowly down the steps until the last bob of his head. Then he is gone.

I sit on a bench in the sunshine and watch the late-summer shoppers stroll through Soho Square. They seem so normal, so carefree. I wonder if they too are carrying secrets,
their everyday bodies harbouring diseases or derangements, microbes or viruses, terrors or confusions. I want to stop them, to ask. I want to know that my father is not alone. I want to know that my mother and I are not the only ones worrying. Not the only ones hurting.

In that moment, I remember the letter in Gemma's bedside drawer. The University College Hospital Women's Health Clinic. I should be brave and ask her if she's okay. Maybe she's hiding a terrible secret like my father.

I'm scared. My father seemed so helpless. I think ahead ten years. The Reverend John Thompson will need constant care. My mother will need support, she'll be lost without her husband to show her the way. It's up to me to save them. To provide salvation. I am their son, the only son of the father.

I pay £25 for a safety deposit box at my bank in Paddington, where I leave the map in a padded envelope. Then I return east to Gemma's house, shower, dress, and head out into the early September night.

I arrive at Molly's flat at 5 p.m., just before the caterers are due. The plan is simple. When she comes through the door, all her friends, some work colleagues and her mum and mum's boyfriend will be there. I've bought six crates of champagne, the nibbles are being catered. It's costing me £500 but it's worth it. Molly's been stressing about her birthday. This will help her feel that thirty-two is still young enough to enjoy yourself.

I've bought a new T-shirt from a shop off Carnaby Street that reads ‘What If I'm Not Paranoid?'. I've also dug out some old baggy Levi's that fit easily over my
plaster cast. Usually I feel a little embarrassed wearing them, but somehow, on this day, I feel they make me look cool – like Eminem or someone. Almost.

Picturing the diminutive Detroit rapper makes me think of Gemma, who for some reason likes his music. There's so much I want to tell her about Molly, about my father, about my hopes, fears and plans, but I recognize that this is a time when my best friend needs a bit of space. I can be selfless. And tonight I've planned a surprise for her, which I'm hoping will make her happy.

I go through my list, checking that everything is perfect. Molly is going to love this party, I'll make sure of it, and afterwards she will love me, in several passionate and creative ways. For this evening, at least, I need to forget about my father, about the future. This is about here, and now. It's about getting drunk, having fun and sex and not worrying about tomorrow.

It's allowed, isn't it?

I call the DJ's mobile, to verify he's on schedule. I check the cake (large and chocolate-laden, with strawberries – Molly's favourite). I put up the last of the gold streamers, and blow up the remaining twenty balloons. The barman arrives, and I go through the drinks list with him.

‘Do this for a living, mate?' the South African grins.

‘What?'

‘Party planning?'

‘No. I'm a travel writer.'

‘Wow. Cool.'

I nod, feigning false modesty, and attach the last balloon to the bathroom door.

*

The guests are all here, her old school friends and work colleagues. Her mum is sipping champagne in the corner with her ‘friend' Stanley Myers, who's wearing a bow tie and green-checked jacket. I attempt to be charming and deferential, and I'm pleased to see that my confidence seems to make her mother smile and then laugh. Stanley Myers shakes my hand firmly. I think I've made a good impression.

Justin Wilson is one of the first to arrive, carrying a bottle wrapped in shiny blue paper.

‘Gift for the birthday girl. I'm dying to meet her.'

I feel a small rush of affection for my friend, whom I haven't seen since the aborted lunch party at his house five months previously. He seemed excited to get the invitation when I called him, although he was worried about what to wear to ‘an uptown bash' as he insisted on calling it.

‘Casual. Whatever you'd normally wear to a bar.'

‘I only go to pubs. Not bars.'

Justin has evidently settled on his own version of
Dawson's Creek
chic – khaki trousers, finely checked shirt, and Timberland shoes; a look that sits uneasily between the smart Italian work suits of the bankers and the shabbily expensive glamour of Molly's friends who work in media and the arts.

‘Have a beer – it's all free.'

‘Thanks for inviting me, Ian. I haven't been out like this in months.'

I smile, wondering if Molly and I will ever be like Justin and Sarah – staying in every night to read bed-time stories to their children before collapsing into bed at 9 p.m. I can't see it.

I meet a few more of Molly's friends, who all compliment me on what a cool idea this surprise party is. Everyone seems to like the canapés I've chosen after going through seventeen different selections at the caterers. A pretty dark-haired waitress wearing low-slung jeans and a black vest top carries drinks to everyone, her careful, measured stride followed by lustful male gazes.

‘This flat's amazing,' Justin declares, watching the waitress's progress. I nod, sipping another beer. The waitress smiles at me as she passes, and I feel a surge of wellbeing, a feeling that tonight, for once in my life, everything is going to be perfect.

Justin and I chat briefly, catching up on his career and the kids, on the Wilson family's plans to move from Balham to Barnes, while I keep my old acquaintance well fed with chicken vol-au-vents and questions. As Justin speaks, I wonder if he feels like I do, that it's nice to see an old familiar face, but not so nice to realize how little you have in common any more.

Justin must realize that he's being overly zealous in talking about his children, because he pauses abruptly, sips his lager, and asks:

‘Enough about me. How's life with you, apart from the gorgeous squeeze? How's the travel writing lark?'

Justin, I note, is one of those people who consider any job that doesn't require you to take exams to be inferior, if not downright shady.

‘Fine. I was in South America, but I did the ankle… once the cast's off next week I should be able to start travelling again…'

Then, for some reason, I find myself making up an
intricate and impressive lie about a forthcoming travel writing commission from
The New York Times
. As I'm wondering why I feel the need to invent this story, Gemma appears at my side. I turn quickly, immediately grateful for her presence. She looks great – she's wearing clothes I've not seen her in before – a low-cut black top and faded combat trousers.

‘Everything's set, Ian. Molly's on her way.'

‘You look great, Gem. Remember Justin?'

She smiles at the balding doctor, who shakes her hand brusquely.

‘Hey, read my ass!' Gemma declares, turning to show us her backside. We peer closer. Across the seat of the combat trousers is emblazoned the word ‘VELVET'. She laughs, coquettishly, and struts over to get a drink. Beyond, her mother looks on disapprovingly.

‘Wow,' exhales Justin. ‘She looks great! I haven't seen Gemma in, what, eight years? She's lost weight. She's quite the babe.'

‘Gemma?'

‘Yeah. Quite the babe.'

Drinks are flowing, voices rising. I look at my watch. 7.35 p.m. Molly should be here in about twenty minutes, if I know her well enough. I'll have to tell everyone to be quiet, to hide for her entry. I look around for Gemma. She's standing chatting to the South African barman. As I start towards them, my father walks up to me.

‘Hello, Ian.'

‘Dad. How are you doing?'

My father attempts a smile, then looks around the apartment.

‘This is quite a pad…'

‘Yeah. Molly's done very well for herself.'

My father takes a glass of apple juice.

‘So… how was your afternoon?' I ask, falteringly.

‘Fine. It was just an initial consultation…'

I nod. We stand, three feet apart, as music pounds around us. I have a sudden urge to hug my father, but I can't, surrounded by all Molly's friends and work colleagues.