She has one life, one chance, and for reasons she cannot precisely recall she’s following Plan B.
‘Mr Mock. Please take a seat.’ The phone call came at work this afternoon. Would he be able to come right over. Dan sits silently, but can feel his heart thumping. He folds his shaking fingers decisively in his lap. Here it comes.
‘I have the results of your tests here, and I’ve discussed them with several colleagues.’ Not just young Doctor Dan’s word on this. ‘We all agree they are conclusive. I’m afraid you are going to have to make very serious adjustments to your expectations of your future life.’ Before he even finishes the sentence, Dan has begun to make exactly those adjustments. Reductions. Everything must go. ‘The tests indicate that you have amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.’ He silently extracts the acronym from this heavy bundle of syllables. ‘This is more commonly known as motor neurone disease. Have you heard of motor neurone disease?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you understand what this means?’
It means I’ll talk like a satnav. Head tipped forward, moist lower lip projecting. Commanding rapt attention. It means I’ll have to become a theorist if I want to keep working. Inhabit a world of mathematics. I could write books. I might live for decades. I might have a cameo in The Simpsons.
‘It means I’m going to die.’
‘Yes. I’m afraid so. It’s a terminal condition for which there is currently no cure. I’m very sorry. But we don’t know how long it will take. You could live for many years. Or just a year or two.’ A year. Or two. As though it doesn’t matter which. Perhaps it doesn’t.
‘This will take some time to sink in,’ adds Doctor Dan, his voice the voice of God. He’s rehearsed. Dan might even be his first. There’s a half-drunk mug of coffee on a shelf beside his desk, its slogan discreetly turned away. ‘There is no rush. I would advise you not to make any major decisions or life changes immediately. Take some time. Try to be open with family and friends and seek their support. We’ll schedule two follow-up appointments, and I’ll give you the details of some excellent organisations.’
Take some time. Time just became a scarcer resource. But in these first scarcer minutes Dan feels an unexpected lightness of spirit. Now that his future has been taken away from him, he realises what an insubstantial thing it was. A question mark. A blank sheet of paper now tossed in the flames. He was going to die anyway.
‘If there are any experimental drugs,’ he says, coolly, ‘blind trials, that sort of thing, I want to be on them. Even if I get the placebo.’ The doctor looks surprised.
‘Yes. Of course.’ His eyes fall on Dan’s helmet and gloves. ‘You’ll be alright riding home?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
In the hospital car park he passes a young family — harried mum in charge, useless-looking, well-intentioned dad, sleeping baby in a pushchair, solemn toddler riding on the back. Children. Not for him, after all. Probably for the best, that he and Nat haven’t got round to it. A clean break. For them both.
He climbs into the saddle, still calm. Checks his watch. He should go straight home — Nat will be home before him — but he doesn’t want to go straight home. He wants to ride. Be alone with this thing. Talk to it. Get to know it. Alone, he’s not afraid of it.
But he imagines Nat at this precise moment, perhaps waiting at the pedestrian crossing and chatting to an old lady she recognises, or just home, skimming through the junk mail she found on the doormat. Optimistic, unaware. This vision conjures a sadness more crushing than any other he’s felt. A parade of images follow: Nat helping him out of a chair; Nat — his proud, beautiful Nat — spooning food into his mouth; Nat unable to make out what he’s trying to say. It’s now that he feels his face twitch, his eyes prickle with tears. He has to go home.
On the twenty-minute rush-hour journey, he sees laughing children everywhere. Dads. Grandads. Old men. The world has changed.
‘Alumni office. Martha speaking.’ Natalie takes a breath.
‘Hi. I wonder if you can help me. I’m trying to trace one of your alumni. I’m an old friend but we’ve lost touch. I thought you might be able to look him up on your system.’
‘I’m afraid that wouldn’t be possible,’ says Martha, with exaggerated sympathy. ‘We can’t give out any personal information.’
‘Right. I thought you might say that.’ Stupid idea in the first place. Finito.
‘Have you tried social media — mutual friends, that sort of thing? You can find almost anyone these days.’
‘Yes, I’ve tried. Oh well. Thanks for your time.’
‘Wait a moment.’ Martha is the sort of girl who wants to help — a problem-solver. ‘This is a little off-piste, but if you give me your own name and contact details, and your friend’s name and their graduation year, I could try to contact your friend, and ask if he wants to be put in touch. You did say he was a he, didn’t you? That’s the best I can offer you.’
Natalie wasn’t expecting this. It’s too much, too fast. Too direct, too suggestive. Too downright unfaithful. Or is it?
‘Um. That’s very kind of you. Let me just think a moment.’
Suddenly, Dan’s key scrapes in the lock. He’s home early.
‘I’ll think about it thanks again bye.’
Dan closes the front door, turns slowly and looks at her with a rather solemn, disappointed smile. He overheard and is going to confront her. No. Something else.
‘Hi. Dan? What is it?’
He puts his helmet down on the side table and lays his gloves on top. Eases off his heavy jacket.
‘I’ve just come from the hospital,’ he says calmly, his back to her as he hangs up the jacket. ‘My results came.’
Something isn’t quite right, so Natalie says nothing. Waits. The boots come off. Slim under all that armour. He pads over to her in his socks, still with the calm, solemn smile. The usual kiss.
‘It’s bad news.’ Natalie’s heart lurches. He was right, she was wrong. Doubly wrong. A needle of shame.
‘Oh, love. What is it? What did they say?’ She reaches a hand up to his face. His eyes are bloodshot. The shame is forgotten.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers, no longer calm, no longer himself. ‘You don’t deserve this.’
‘Me? What do you mean?’ He stares down at her. ‘Dan?’ At last the words come choking out of him.
‘Everything’s going to be completely fucked.’
15. Nervous system
‘We sweat, we tremble, we turn pale, we flush, beneath our imagination’s impact.’
Brenda surveys her bedroom. James says he’s coming to visit — he’s going to hire a car for the weekend. Four hundred miles, just to see her.
The main thing wrong with her bedroom, she decides, is that there are too many sticks in it. Brenda collects forked sticks — Y for Yggdrasil, the world tree. Or V for Vickers. Fir cones, too, and bark. She makes a large artistic arrangement in the corner of the main downstairs room, obscuring the stolen race flags, then rejumbles her clothes until all the drawers close; drags her capacious laundry basket into the spare room. Much better. Presumably she should change the sheets, shave her legs.
She does a careful visual sweep downstairs and spots a couple of books and leaflets that must be hidden away in the drawer now heavy with what she calls her loony library. What about food? Maybe she can order a Tesco delivery on her computer, since James probably expects more than malt loaf and PG Tips. Venison is cheap at this time of year, but how do you cook it? What’s a good wine?