The White Family (21 page)

‘We had assumed your problems were circulatory – That is to say, we thought you’d had a stroke.’

‘Didn’t I, then? Is that good news?’ But he already knew it was not good news.

There was a pause. The thin man had looked at the nurse, as if her face would give him strength. ‘I’m afraid we have discovered some obstructions in the tissues of the brain. We shall therefore pursue a different course of treatment.’

That sounded all right; but it wasn’t all right. Alfred waited, but nothing was forthcoming.

‘Do you have any questions you’d like to ask, Mr … Er?’ He had already forgotten Alfred’s name.

‘Well I’m not going to die, am I?’ Alfred laughed, making a joke of it, as you must. It was serious, yes, but as long as it wasn’t fatal –

‘We shall do our very best for you,’ the doctor replied, not meeting his eyes.

‘I don’t mind being operated on,’ said Alfred, hearing his voice sounding hoarse, desperate, not his voice at all, a frightened voice.

(But he refused to be frightened. Even of the knife. He had had his appendix out after the war. Nothing to it, really. He had woken up singing an army song, which was the effect of the gas. He’d been good as new, after that. And the surgeons were wonderful, nowadays.)

‘We don’t think an operation would be helpful.’

Another punch of cold ice in his stomach.

‘You’d better tell me what’s going on. The full whack. Go on, I can take it.’

And the thin cold voice, perhaps trying to be kind, awkward, scientific, reluctant, told him what was the matter with him. But Alfred couldn’t listen. After ‘a number of small tumours’ he heard no more.

Until the consultant talked himself to a standstill.

Then Alfred swallowed, and fixed him with his eye. The doctor was looking at the lino. ‘So it’s cancer, you’re saying. And you can’t operate.’

‘We don’t think an operation would be helpful.’ He repeated himself, politely, firmly. Alfred said nothing. ‘At your age, you see …’

‘So I’m a goner because of my age. You’re going to throw me on the scrap-heap, are you?’ A brief spurt of temper made Alfred feel better.

The doctor and nurse both looked embarrassed. ‘Not at all, Mr White, I do assure you. We’ll do everything we can to make you comfortable.’

‘So it’s hemlock, is it?’ Alfred crowed at them. At least he was in control of them now.

‘I don’t quite follow,’ said the doctor, wearily.

‘I know about history. I went to school. I think you understand me, doctor.’

But suddenly all his energy left him, and the cold fluid began to leak through him, filling his veins with icy fear, and he had to lie back on the pillow, exhausted, which the doctor took as a sign to depart, saying ‘I’ll be back before long if you have any more questions.’

He’ll be back before long my arse, thought Alfred. He’ll be back if we’re lucky in two days’ time, and then he’ll be telling some other poor sod they’re not worth saving, same as me.

Shirley had brought him flowers, yesterday. A huge great boatful of snowy-white flowers. The only thing was, they stood on the table between him and Pamela, so he couldn’t see her properly without straining round. It had been quite pleasant, having a chat, just now and then, when he felt like it, or when she felt like it, because she was chatty. Bit forward, maybe, though that hadn’t struck him till May came in and started looking daggers. (But May was just jealous, of course. Why shouldn’t a woman try to look her best?)

Women always liked me, he thought to himself. I always had a bit of charm.

All in the past, the cold voice said, the chilly liquid that coursed through his veins.

White as snow; white as clouds. They were a beautiful bunch. Must have cost a packet. No one could ever say his daughter was mean. She was a good girl in lots of respects, though they hadn’t always seen eye to eye …

It’ll break May’s heart. How shall I tell her? Perhaps I’ll ask the doctor to have a word
.

They do their best. They’re professional men. I don’t suppose it’s an easy job. Perhaps I was a bit short with him. Lucky no one was listening. I didn’t really show myself to advantage. That’s what my mother always used to say: ‘Try and show yourself to advantage, Alfred.’ And she was right. That’s what we’re put here for. I always said to the kids: ‘Just do your best. Fear no man, and do your best.’

The trouble is, I was – afraid. I don’t remember being so afraid, since I was young, in Palestine. You need time, to be brave. And I wasn’t ready. When the big battle comes, I want to be ready. I shan’t be short with anyone, then.

I was short with Shirley yesterday too. If I have a fault, it’s a touch of temper. A man gets tired, a man with a job, a man who is doing a difficult job. With the various pressures that job entails. May understood. She’s a good woman. May knew a man has to let off steam.

I wasn’t the easiest man at home. I tried to be fair, I was hard but fair – I hope I was fair. I did my best. Things happened I’m not entirely proud of, now. Still a father has to take the lead. And boys get cocky, and their heads get swelled. Need to be taken down a peg or two. It was all quickly over. Over and done with. None of our family ever bore a grudge.

But I think I was remiss in hitting Shirley. Never hurt her, of course. But hitting a girl …

I never lost my rag in the Park, all the same. In the Park I had to be calm as Job. (I think it was Job. May would know.)

Those flowers. Shirley thought I wouldn’t like the whiteness. I remember the Park, covered with snow. The perfect place. Suddenly perfect. Everything clean and shining bright. Not a mark on it, first thing in the morning. And the café turned into a magic palace.

Kids think they know you. When they don’t at all. They can’t get to know you, because they’re bored. They think they know the answers, so they don’t ask questions. They go deaf if you talk about anything that matters to you … They’re afraid you’ll go on about it, you see. They’re afraid that you’ll embarrass them. (Though Dirk was a bit different. That boy could listen.)

The flowers in the Park were always a joy. Very bright, of course, all the colours of the rainbow. We didn’t go in for white, in the Park. You have to make a show, it’s a different thing. That’s probably what Shirley was thinking of. As if the Park was me, which it isn’t.

(Funny thing is, that’s been said to me. And I do confess to a certain pride. More than once, by a member of the public. ‘You
are
the Park, Alfred. Can’t imagine it without you.’ But I know the truth. I’m not irreplaceable. Any good man could hold the fort. That’s what they need. When all’s said and done. They could train someone up alongside me. I’d be happy with that. Life goes on. I’m already over age. It stands to reason … And it’d be nice to have company. Like the old days when we went out in pairs. You had someone to have a chat and a laugh with. They’re good men, in the Parks Service. Better than average. The cream of the crop. Probably because it’s a job to be proud of. Serving the public, maddening as they are. Even if they’re coloured, even if they’re barmy, even if they’re like the unfortunate woman who came and sat in my hut for a chat and the next thing I knew she had taken her blouse off – I had to cover her up double-quick. It takes a good man to cope with things like that.)

The flowers in the Park are a little bit special. Lovely reds and pinks and blues, tulips, geraniums, hyacinths … And yellow primroses and golden polyanthus and hundreds of daffodils in February. ‘Yellow Gold’. That was one of May’s poems. She was shy about them, but it was one of her best. It was after she’d seen the daffs in the Park. I’d forgotten my flask, and she brought it in, and when she saw the lines of daffodils, she just said, ‘Ooh. Ooh, that’s lovely.’ And went away and wrote her poem.

I found it that evening on the Basildon Bond. She liked to have a nice pad to write on. I always told her she should publish them, but she laughed at me, and said I knew nothing about it. Which wasn’t very nice; I can have my opinion. But she always thought herself better than me, better than all of us I suppose, with her books and her reading and her poetry.

I suppose I’ll see the daffs next year
. A sudden uprush of choking fear. But of course I’m going back to work. That’s the good thing about them not operating. I ought to get back to work a lot sooner.

I might have years. People have years. People go on for years with cancer.

Most things turn out all right in the end. We won the war, coming from behind. I got the job I always wanted. May married me, which I thought she never would. We had three kids, all of them healthy. Shirley got over her childhood asthma. I’ve always been fit. It’ll help me now. If anyone’s got a good chance, it’s me.

Besides, I’m – needed. The Park needs me. Until they’ve trained up another man. There used to be six of us. Unbelievable. They cut the jobs down one by one. Now there’s just me. And if I go – I’ve sometimes wondered if they’d ever replace me.

They’d soon find out. What every Park Keeper knows. Given half a chance, it goes back to jungle. Fences get broken. Flowers get picked. Disgusting things get dumped in the shrubbery. Girls get frightened. Windows get smashed. People can be nice, they can be very nice, but give them an inch and they’ll take a mile. There’s good and there’s bad, but the bad will win if men like me don’t keep a look out.

To say any different is lazy rubbish.

You have to be tough. You have to be strong. That’s how the British got their empire. And maybe we’ve lost it by going soft. Just like the fall of the Roman Empire. The best of the Romans died at their posts. Died fighting for what they believed in. Too few Romans, there were by then, and great dark hordes pouring over the walls …

They’ve kept cutting down, the council have, they’ve gone on weakening us, year by year. The new idea is, authority is bad. The new idea is all
softly softly
. ‘For fear of upsetting people,’ they say. For fear of upsetting the
coloured
people. That’s who they mean; call a spade a spade. That’s why they took the dogs away. The whole of the building at the back of our yard used to be kennels for the Alsatians. We used to patrol the Park in pairs, and each pair had an Alsatian with them. But no, they said people were getting upset, they said people felt we looked like policemen. They meant coloured people were getting upset. It’s coloured people who don’t like policemen, and ask yourself why? Why don’t they like policemen? If you don’t like the police, you’ve got something to hide.

The bloody coloureds, that’s all they care about, down at the town hall these days. It’s because of them they took our uniforms away. We had proper uniforms, till a few years ago, uniforms you would call uniforms, nice black serge, very warm in winter, with silver buttons and a decent peaked cap and the badge of the Parks Service on the front. Those uniforms were a godsend to us. One look and people could see what was what. So they didn’t argue the toss, did they?

The old days. The good old days.

There weren’t any coloureds when I was a kid. It was just a normal part of London. We were all the same. We were all one. No one was rich. We stuck together …

May says I do too much looking back. But sometimes I don’t like to think about the future.

Sometimes I think our world is ending. All the things we believed in, gone.

But it’s me that’s ending. Me that’s going
.

Nonsense. I’ll be back in the Park next week. Make sure the gardeners haven’t been slacking. Good boys, all of them. Decent boys. When I started in the Park, I was young, so young. Younger than these young boys I work with.

Alfred still felt as young as any of them. He still walked fast, you had to walk fast to keep the whole Park covered on your own (would he still walk fast when he got out of here? Of course he would; in his head he did; in his head he walked up and down the ward, keeping an eye on things, touching his cap.) He still felt young, when there was no one around he would even have a little dance, in his hut, when the radio played one of the good old tunes – but he knew his children didn’t think he was young. Parents were people who had never been young.

(
I wish I’d had more time to play with the kids.

I wish I hadn’t been so hard on them
.)

I was young, and hopeful that the world would get better. We were sure there would be miracles, after the war. I thought we’d all walk into a golden future.

Where did it go? What happened to our future, the one so many people suffered and died for? There was something wonderful we all meant to share, after going through so much together. But it just … evaporated. That was it. The free orange juice, the milk, the ration-books, the things we had in the nineteen fifties. The National Health spectacles; they were free, little round wonky ones that sat on people’s noses. Pale blue and pink ones for the kids. The National Health. It was for everybody. That was a miracle, we all thought so. Nit shampoo and aspirin when you needed them. And then they began to charge for prescriptions, pennies, at first, then just a few bob, and now they come asking for paper money, and most people just do without. And yet it’s still here. Just about still there. The National Health Service, waiting for me. Even if I’ve left it a bit late to ask.

Was it to this ward that my life was pointing
?

Alfred closed his eyes against the glare of the lights. Visiting time would soon be beginning. He mustn’t drift off, he looked up again, but he couldn’t lie staring at the bar of fluorescent, he turned on his side for a moment’s respite, propping his eyelid on the slope of the pillow, closing the eye that faced the light, but the pillow was blinding, too soft, too white, he’d liked a flat pillow ever since the war when they’d slept on the concrete floor of the shelter, but that was all over, things had gone soft, softer, softness, sucking him down …

And Alfred slept, despite himself. Slept until a quiet coughing woke him.

He was rather put out to see Thomas Lovell. ‘I thought you’d be May,’ Alfred said. ‘Are you early, lad? If visiting’s started, May would be here.’

He didn’t like the feeling of being looked down on. They all came gawping, once you were ill. And he wanted May. He wanted her badly. What the hell was she playing at, not being here? He craned his neck round to look at the doors. Typical woman, never there when you needed them. Though to be fair, she had always been there, ever since they were little more than kids together. When he lost his mum. When his brother got cancer. May nursed his brother until he died … But now, when Alfred needed her more than ever, she’d skipped off and left him. Damn her, damn her –