I do remember for sure him looking up at me and visibly cowering; suddenly his whole demeanour had changed: he looked like he was scared to death. The coward had shown himself for what he really was—a sorry and pathetic bully who had been stripped of his so-called might. I threw down the chair and walked out.
As the big heavy classroom door thud shut behind me with the help of one of those big brass cantilever arms that no one ever knows the name of, I found myself transported from chaos and calamity to calmness and serenity. I was suddenly alone. The corridors, often so busy during changeover and break times were now deathly quiet.
It was all very poignant.
I took one last look inside the classroom at the scene of bewilderment.
You can have that, I thought.
I was by no means a model student, but nor was I one of the bad lads and I certainly didn’t deserve what had just happened to me.
I turned and started to walk, the hollow sound of my own footsteps reminding me to keep on going. I can still picture it now, like a perfectly framed shot from a Luc Besson movie—the long, highly polished expanse of dark parquet flooring stretching out into the infinite distance, leading to a white light of hope, in my case the two huge main school doors which I was about to exit for the very last time, never to return.
When I woke up that morning I had no idea that by the end of the day, something would have taken place that would change my life for ever.
I would now need to find a new school, and the next school in question would have the added bonus of having girls—and one girl in particular.
But first let’s get death out of the way.
10 Elvis Presley
9 Princess Diana (sorry, but it’s true*)
8 My dog Max
7 My friend Ronnie
6 Uncle Harry
5 John Lennon
4 My friend James
3 My dog Rita
2 My dog Enzo
1 My dad
And so to the early death of my father—Martin Joseph Evans.
First of all let me I apologise for using the term ‘early death’ as I’m not quite sure whether that’s right, it’s just something we’ve always said about Dad. None of us know when we are supposed to die in the first place; therefore how can anyone’s passing really be declared ‘early’. Surely we are all meant to die when we do die and that’s why it happens when it does. The reason I suppose we refer to Dad’s death as being early is because he was relatively young, still in his fifties, when he was plucked out for promotion to that higher office in the sky.
Dad, like Mum, smoked twenty cigarettes a day—at least. Woodbines, evil non-tipped things. I often had a go on his dog-ends when he wasn’t looking. Enough to put anyone off smoking for life—not that it did. Martin J was also marginally overweight, maybe a tad more than marginally if I’m brutally honest. He had a marvellous squishy belly that my finger used to disappear into whenever I would check it out. (I have one of those bellies now.) My inspection of Dad’s belly would usually take place while I was draped over him on the sofa, using it as a pillow. Another feature of this experience is that I would be able to hear his breathing loudly up against my ear. He always had a whistling wheeze at the end of each breath, like the last puffs of air faintly draining from a set of bagpipes.
When it came to Dad’s diet, it wasn’t the best in the world but by no means was it the worst either. He did, however, lead what was for the majority of his days a sedentary lifestyle, which couldn’t have been good for him. He was either sat in his car driving to and from work, sat at home in his favourite chair or sat at work doing his sums as a wages clerk for the local health authority.
On the face of it, maybe not such a healthy existence, but then again he didn’t drink, he went to bed at 10.30 every night, he led a nine to five existence which seemed pretty stress-free, and he enjoyed a steadfastly sound and happy marriage.
In short, I think the things he did do that were bad for him were counteracted by countless other things that he didn’t do that could have been bad for him. I’m guessing he might have expected to make his early seventies at least.
Smoking is obviously the main suspect when it comes to the demise of people like Dad and can be merciless, but when my father died the docs said he had the lungs of a non-smoker—a fact Mum loves to reel out to anyone who will listen. She has a library of such facts from her life that she never wants us to forget, but this is perhaps her favourite.
Dad was hardly ever ill. In fact I only ever recall him being ill twice. Once with the thing that eventually killed him and the other time when he had earache.
I remember the occasion when he had earache as if it were yesterday. I was attending the grammar school when out of nowhere one morning, Dad said he would be able to give me a lift, something he had not been able to do since my leaving the juniors. I usually took the bus.
He had taken the morning off work to go to the doctors and found himself with half an hour to spare. This was another one of those all-round cool situations—a total win-win, it meant I got to be with Dad for an extra fifteen minutes, plus it spared me the bus fare, which gave me extra sweet purchasing power—whoopee!
Dad drove us both proudly on our journey in our usual car mode of near silence. We didn’t talk much. For my part I didn’t feel we needed to. I have no idea of Dad’s thoughts on the matter. Was I the quiet one or was I quiet because he was quiet? Dad didn’t do car radios either—‘They only attract attention,’ he would say—hilarious!
Three miles later and there we were pulling up outside the main gates of the grammar school in our big, old, navy blue Vauxhall Victor. What a fine motor car that was—there’s nothing like the smell of vinyl in the morning.
After bidding each other farewell, Dad drove off to his doctor’s appointment while my mind turned to focusing on the far more important task of sweet selection with the spare cash I now had in my pocket.
The doctor duly examined both Dad and his ear but to no avail, he could find nothing wrong with either. Consequently he did what most doctors do in such circumstances and ordered a series of ‘tests’, a phrase I learnt to dread. It was the same doctor who would fail to spot Dad’s bowel cancer.
Mum had noticed Dad was acting a little strangely, especially when it came to his private business. She confronted him one day, at first he was embarrassed, but being a nurse she persisted and discovered that things were not at all as they should be.
Dad said he’d been to see his doctor, something that Mum was furious about as he had not told her this until now. They were a couple that had few, if any, secrets and this revelation did not go down well. Dad went on to tell Mum that he had been sent for more tests but the results had proved inconclusive. His doctor’s prognosis therefore was simply that Dad had an irritable stomach and so was prescribed Epsom salts.
This last piece of news sent my mum into apoplexy. She was more than aware of how easily things could go wrong as the result of a misdiagnosis, having seen such episodes at work. She ordered Dad to go and see her doctor immediately.
Mum and Dad had always had different doctors. It was the one thing I never understood about them. All us kids went to Mum’s doctor as in her opinion he was the best in town; now it was Dad’s turn.
Our doctor referred Dad straight away. As a result he was admitted to hospital. Upon further examination it transpired that Dad was riddled with cancer and there was nothing anyone could do to help him.
Had