Simon's Choice (22 page)

“Hang on a second,” Terry interjected. “Somebody had to tell her.”

“He was drunk and he told her that he would ‘go with her to heaven’, Terry.” Robert spoke crisply. “I don’t suppose he’s mentioned that little detail to you, has he?”

Barbara sighed. “Oh, Simon.”

Terry took a biscuit from a tin Melissa had placed on the table. “No, I didn’t know that. But I’m sure that he has his reasons. Don’t you, Simon?”

The group looked expectantly at Simon.

“Oh, I see. So I'm permitted to stand up for myself? Well. I certainly appreciate that. With all the caring about me that's going around, I wasn't sure if I was going to be permitted to speak. Thank you very much. As it happens, yes, I have reasons. She’s scared of being alone. Nobody she has ever known has died. Not even a pet. She doesn’t want to be on her own. She’s only seven.”

Simon took a biscuit and defiantly fed it to Porridge.

Melissa rolled her eyes. “Simon believes in a heaven with white fluffy clouds and cherubs with harps. He takes it all literally.”

“No, I don’t, but in fact it doesn't really matter how I perceive heaven.” Simon gnawed the inside of his cheek. “But I do find it astonishing that you don’t believe what your Christian faith has taught you. You’ve been going to church for years, Melissa. Why did you bother? Was it some kind of social climbing strategy, Melissa?” He frowned and picked up another biscuit, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. Then his brow lifted. “Do you know, I believe it was. It’s amazing how much clearer I’ve been seeing things recently. What, were you going to church because you thought that was something a doctor’s wife ‘did’? Was it because those poncy lawyer friends of yours went? Is that what it was all about? After all, your parents have never shown much interest. Diana spends more time choosing her outfit than she does actually in prayer.”

“How dare you!” Robert’s voice was raised.

“Simon, lad,” Terry lifted an admonitory hand, “you’ll be giving Robert another heart attack at this rate, and one tragic death is quite enough to cope with at the moment.” He gave his son a powerfully meaningful look. “So quiet down.”

“No, Dad. I’m not going to quiet down. I’m not having Melissa take the piss out of my faith. Right at the moment it’s
most
important to me. Yes, I believe there is an afterlife. I believe that after we leave here, we go onto another stage, another place – and that we meet again those that we once knew and loved. This is why, Melissa, I thought we got married in a church. Because we both believed in God and thought that we were sanctifying our marriage before Him. I realize now it was because you thought the acoustics would be better.”

Melissa spoke a little louder. “If you’re accusing me of not believing in a fairytale land where we all waft around banging into Elvis and Princess Diana, then you're right. There is no heaven. You’re a bloody
doctor
, Simon. You’re supposed to be a scientist. I thought you realized that a quiet display of faith was the decent and normal thing to do. Sarah gets a basis for her cultural education and we enhance our standing in the community. I didn’t realize you were a fully signed up member of the bloody God Squad.”

“And I only just realized what a shallow, one dimensional, self-absorbed social climber you are.”

“
Enough!”
Terry put his hand on Simon’s. “We’re not sat around this table to listen to this. This isn’t doing nobody any good at all. Simon,
calm down
, lad. What I want to know is exactly what you meant by ‘go with her to Heaven.’ Nobody is going to rubbish your faith …” Terry gave Melissa a warning look, “ … but I want to understand what you are trying to say, son.”

“I’m not trying to say anything. I do believe in heaven. I do believe that I will meet Sarah again one day. I believe that for the time being, God will look after her – but until then she is not going to know anybody. I really can’t explain it. I can cope with losing Sarah. Or rather, one day, I might be able to deal with it, but I can’t deal with the idea of her being scared or lonely.”

Diana spoke coldly. “The hospice says that she is reacting well to her prognosis. Melissa says that the psychologist is happy with her understanding of death. She’s not scared.”

“Do you really know that?” Simon turned to his mother-in-law sharply. “And even if she isn’t scared now, what about the moment of death? What if she knows the moment she leaves us. What if she is scared then?”

“What are you planning on doing?” Robert’s lip twitched in annoyance. “Are you going to hold her hand and shoot yourself as she dies? You’re being ridiculous, Simon.”

“Yes, I am being a bit ridiculous. I don’t know what’s come over me. My daughter’s dying and I’ve gone all philosophical on you. Ridiculous.”

“Sarcasm isn’t going to help anybody, Simon.” Diana reached into her bag. “Do you mind?” She took a packet of Silk Cut out and stood up, walking towards the back door. Porridge wagged his tail furiously and followed her. “Just stay there, Porridge. I’m only standing in the door.”

Melissa’s father took the floor again. “What we all want to know, Simon, is whether you are a threat to Sarah or a threat to yourself. Melissa believes that you have been behaving oddly and I must say your manner today is quite unlike you. My friend who is a psychiatrist…”

“Here we go … ” Simon rolled his eyes.

“Simon.” Terry gave his son a warning look.

“My friend who is an
eminent
psychiatrist, thinks that you are displaying
‘Magical Thinking’
, which is when …”

“I know what Magical Thinking is.”

Barbara pushed her cup across the table. “Well I haven’t got a clue what magical thinking is, but I very much doubt that my son’s got it. He was asked to leave a children’s birthday party when he was eight for heckling the magician. Can I have another cup of that coffee, lovey?” She pushed her cup towards Melissa. “Don’t you think we’re getting a bit carried away with all this? Simon’s upset. Of course he’s upset. We deal with things in different ways – thanks, love. No, just a sweetener, ta. Remember their wedding day? I didn’t think I’d get him down the aisle.”

Robert nodded as Melissa proffered the coffee jug. “There are some psychologists who believe that grief is more than a deep sadness. That it can be a temporary state of mental illness.”

Simon snorted into his coffee. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

“Why isn’t Melissa being accused of this, then?” Terry looked at his daughter-in-law accusingly. “Who’s to say that it’s Simon who is acting uncharacteristically? Melissa’s chucked him out of his own bloody home. She’s tried to have ‘im banned from the hospice. Not exactly usual, is it?”

“I’m not talking about topping myself to go and live on a cloud with Sarah, am I?” Melissa stood up, taking the empty jug to refill. “Simon has been behaving strangely for months.”

Simon’s father, Terry, leant forward. “But you’re not exactly yourself either, are you, my love? Throwing a grieving father out of his own house? Banning him from seeing his own daughter? Laughing about his faith when you know it’s what is keeping him going? All this …” he gestured round the table, “this cold, business-like summit. This is all your doing. Not my son’s.”

There was a silence, broken only by Diana banging the stable door shut. She returned to the table. “Simon’s been drinking. My daughter had to ask him to leave. Did you know he hurt her? Physically? In Disneyland?”

Terry paused and looked at Simon steadily, who in turn, stared miserably at his mug of tea. “No, I didn’t know that.” His was voice laden with disappointment.

“And did you know,” Diana sat back down at the table, “that he violently lost his temper at the hospice, kicking furniture and scattering papers around the Manager’s office?”

Terry retained eye contact with Simon. “No, I didn’t know that.”

“It wasn’t like that!” Simon threw his hands in the air.

“And then,” Diana leant forward, her forefinger stabbing the table, “he caused a commotion in Sarah’s bedroom, causing my granddaughter and apparently some of the other guests a great deal of distress.”

“It wasn’t like that.” Simon spoke quietly, once again feeling like a child. His father’s disappointment bored into him.

Diana leant back in her chair. “No, I didn’t think he would have told you that. I’m sorry, Barbara. But you always have been completely blinkered when it comes to your son. I sometimes think he could stand over a dead body with a smoking gun in his hand and you’d still be protesting his innocence.”

“What do you mean?” Barbara sounded shocked. “I’ve never said my Simon was perfect. Nobody is. I always thought that you thought the sun shined out of your daughter’s arse, but then, I thought you thought the sun shined out of your own arse as well.”

“How bloody dare you speak to my wife like that.” Melissa’s father rose from the table.

“Don’t you raise your voice at Barbara!” Terry rose as well.

Diana sniffed. “Well, Melissa, if I’d known we’d been invited to be treated like this …”

The voices swelled, indignant comments merging into one raucous cry. Twelve years of petty jealousies, minor slights, unspoken annoyances and previously forgivable idiosyncrasies rose like bile, insults spattering the family with emotional burns that would scar.

Simon slipped out the back door. Nobody made any effort to stop him, or perhaps they didn't even notice. Porridge, following, picked up a squeaky toy and in his haste to follow his master, swept a framed wedding photo off a low table with his tail.

It smashed.

Chapter 26

Simon wrapped a small towel around his waist. His shower had been lukewarm and feeble. The water pressure was similar to that of a dripping tap.

Dressing quickly, he flicked on the kettle in his dingy kitchen, remembered there was no milk and turned it off again.

He had just rung Sarah and had been pleased to be able to talk to her. She was weak and monosyllabic but cheerful. Melissa had
graciously
agreed that he should be allowed to speak to her whenever he wished – or rather whenever he could, given that she was so often asleep. Visits were still to be supervised.

He left the kitchen and headed through the violently orange corridor into his bedroom, which had been painted a more soothing shade of lilac. The furniture was simple - 1950s wardrobes and a basic double bed - but it was clean and provided all he needed. It might almost have been pleasant had it not been for the botched attempt at a giant Chinese character, which some artistically minded bar-hand had daubed in black gloss paint on the wall.

Shrugging on a crumpled shirt and brushing dog hairs off his suit, Simon finished dressing and went back into the kitchen where he poured dog biscuits into Porridge’s bowl. Porridge looked at him mournfully.

“I’m sorry, boy. You can’t come with me. Steve is going to come and get you in a bit and then you can be Chief Pub Dog. He’ll take you out for a walk. Porridge, don’t look at me like that. I’m trying my best. He’ll take you out for a good walk and I’ll be back later and then we’ll go for one. Please don’t look at me like that, lad.”

Simon picked a tie up from the floor, where he had evidently pulled it off the night before. He winced as blood rushed into his dehydrated head.
Drank too much again last night.

He followed Porridge into the flat’s sitting room, painted a virulent purple, the shade children often use to paint witches’ cloaks. Further attempts at Chinese characters graffitied the walls.

Porridge jumped resignedly onto the saggy sofa they had inherited, along with an ancient television, an assortment of half-burned candles which littered the fire hearth, and the sticky pub table and chairs that provided a dining area.

The evening before, having escaped the outraged howls of his warring family, Simon had perched on his usual barstool in The Whippet. He had pulled a scrap of paper and a pen out of his pocket and added a name to the left hand side.
Porridge.

“Do you want the telly on, Podge? Right.
‘Jeremy Kyle’, ‘Bob the Builder’, ‘Homes under the Hammer’
or something about people trying to lose twenty stone? No preference? Right. Fat people it is then. Give you something to think about.”

Simon took his medical bag from the hallway. He had home visits all morning and would not be returning to the surgery until lunchtime. He took out the itinerary that the office had printed for him the day before and consulted it.
Mrs. Beardsley, aged ninety-eight, diabetic, emphysema, bad cold.
It was nearby and would allow a stop at the McDonald’s drive in.

Shoving his list of visits back in the bag and shrugging his jacket on, Simon patted Porridge’s big head. The Labrador looked at him with mournful eyes. He tracked his car keys down, checked the dog’s water bowl and let himself out onto the shaky iron fire escape. Simon wasn't fond of heights. He grimaced as the metal groaned under his weight and the small platform leaned visibly away from the side of the house. Simon stuck his head back into the flat.

“Bye, Porridge. Have a nice day.”

* * *

Simon’s first patient lived in a modest bungalow on a small council estate. A community nurse opened the door. “Dr. Bailey? Come in. We’re having a bit of a bad day today.” The nurse grinned.
She’s being a pain in the bum and nothing you or I can say is going to be good enough
, was the unspoken meaning.

Simon nodded his understanding and made his way through the tiny hallway. The house smelled strongly of discarded incontinence pads. A cheap floral air freshener attempted, and failed, to mask it.

“We’re in here.” The nurse showed him into the sitting room, where her charge sat before a gas fire, a crocheted blanket covering her legs. Oxygen cylinders cluttered the room, already crowded with furniture, knick-knacks and assorted cats.

“Good morning, Mrs. Beardsley. How are we today?” Simon put down his bag.

Mrs. Beardsley wheezed. “Been better.” She eyed Simon suspiciously. “Where’s Dr. Calvert?”