A Vintage Friendship

Chapter Five

As I walked home, I thought back to when I first met Ally, Jo and Mitch.

We went to the same convent grammar school and quickly found each other as like-minded spirits amongst the other new girls. Mitch stood out from the beginning; she wore her skirts too short and was always in trouble with the nuns for wearing lip-gloss or mascara. Ally stood out too. She seemed older than the rest of us, the grown-up in our gang, so composed, feet firmly on the ground and always self-assured. She never worried about fitting in and the latest fads or fashions. She was the middle child to two sisters, both boisterous: the elder one sarcastic, the younger beautiful. Ally, being more reserved, escaped from the pair of them into the world of books from an early age. Jo was a sweetheart from day one, one of life’s givers, too much so, in fact – she was always a sucker for a sob story, a puppy in need of rescue or an abandoned kitten. She cried if she came across a bird with a broken wing, couldn’t bear to think anyone was lonely or sad. She was funny too. All were good friends to have.

Those were innocent days. We used to hold sleepovers at each other’s houses, though mainly at Jo’s. We were always welcome there because she was an only child, and her parents were more than happy that she had friends. We spent hours talking about music and boy bands. My favourites were the Small Faces, Jo had a crush on Marc Bolan from Tyrannosaurus Rex, Mitch had a poster of Jim Morrison from The Doors on her wall, and in our first year at school, Ally liked Davy Jones from The Monkees, whom she claimed to love with a love that was true. We told her to keep quiet about that but she didn’t care. Mitch always seemed to be a few steps ahead – first to get her period, first to get a bra, then later a love bite, which got her into trouble when Mother Christina discovered it when checking name tags sewn in on the back of our school uniform.

Saturdays we’d go into town, hang out in Miss Selfridge and Chelsea Girl, trying on clothes that none of us could afford because our parents weren’t rich; then we’d head off to the wig department to try new hairstyles and hats and drive the shop assistants mad. Next was the perfume department to sample all the scents and, lastly, the lingerie department, where the lace and silk looked so much more appealing than the navy blue knickers we had to wear for school.

Once past puberty, we began to think about boys; there were endless earnest discussions about love and what we were going to do with our lives – careers or children? We got little sex education from the nuns. They told us two things about relationships. Firstly, if a boy wanted you to sit on his knee at a party, it was permissible as long as you placed a book at least the thickness of a telephone directory between his legs and your bottom. Secondly, again at a party, if anyone switched the lights off, we were to go to the nearest corner and shout, ‘I’m a Catholic.’ We thought that was hilarious because convent girls had a reputation as goers back then and shouting, ‘I’m a Catholic’ would only have alerted all the lads to where the game girls were. In my case, the racy reputation was unfounded. I was as green as anything, although not lacking in curiosity. We spent many hours discussing when we’d lose our virginity, how, where and with whom – which led on to meeting The One, how to recognize your soul mate, what fellatio was (not a character in Hamlet as Jo thought) and cunnilingus (not an exotic flower as I thought), and whether or not we’d do it. I have an image of Jo’s face during a discussion about blow jobs. ‘You what? You …? Ew. That’s disgusting.’

On Friday nights, we’d troop along to St Bernadette’s youth club, which was in the basement hall of the local church. There we’d dance in long lines to Tamla Motown and soul music. Afterwards it was back to one of our houses to discuss who’d kissed whom, which boys were gropers, which were to be admired and sought after. We rarely went back to Mitch’s house. Her dad was so strict and would complain if we played music too loudly or stayed out too late. Mitch always had some boy or other after her. She was a natural flirt and had her pick of the local talent. Most of them never lasted past two weeks, then she’d get bored and move on. Ally settled with a boy called Steven in the fifth form and went out with him until university and geography separated them. Jo and I were in awe of her having a proper grown-up relationship. It went way past anything Jo and I had experienced; we were late starters when it came to serious boyfriends. I was taller than most of the local lads and Jo was lacking in confidence. We both had a few admirers, we just weren’t sure what to do with them.

Our late school years were hard work, lots of homework, studying for A-levels that we all took seriously – we had no choice when the nuns ran the school – but there were respites between the studying, experimenting with drink at one of our houses. No one taught us that valuable lesson – don’t mix your drinks – and I would often end up lying behind the sofa with the room spinning, my head swirling after having sampled crème de menthe and lemonade, port and lemon, and – what we thought was the height of sophistication – vodka and orange.

Other nights, we’d discuss the state of the world. The Beatles went to India to see the long-haired Maharishi. A Buddhist centre opened locally. In 1972 when we were in sixth form, a hippie shop appeared on Oxford Road selling mung beans and muesli. We’d go in there and buy herbal teas and sit at our table, feeling ever so ‘with it’. Mitch’s sister Fi was always off to a demonstration of one sort or another. We asked ourselves if we should go that way too, get into politics, or should we learn to meditate and take the spiritual path?

I smiled to myself at the recollection of those days. Ally, Jo and Mitch were my best buddies, we’d sworn we’d be friends for life and, at that time, I couldn’t imagine existing without them. We shared everything: make-up, clothes, books, records, kissing tips, feelings – and god, there were lots of those, from angst, self-doubt, elation, frustration, to moments of just pure laughter because we were young and had the whole of our lives ahead of us.

I will get in touch with Ally and Jo, I told myself as I reached home. See if we can resurrect something of what we had and show them that I do still think of them and care. Ally’s probably in some chic little restaurant with Michael in the south of France sharing a bottle of good red wine. And Earth Mother Jo? I can envisage her in her kitchen, concocting something delicious for a houseful of family and friends, or on her land feeding chickens or ducks or sheep. I felt a sudden pang of envy for the lives that they’d created and a stab of regret for how mine had turned out. My fault. I’d been too reliant on Charles before he left, then too busy escaping into my career to keep up meaningful relationships.

Still … Ally, Jo and I went back a long way, knew each other before we hit the world or the world hit us. Nicholas was right, old friends are precious. It was time to pick up the phone.

Chapter Six

Ally

Present day

I awoke to find my husband Michael sitting on my side of the bed, shaking me. ‘What time is it?’ I asked.

‘About six,’ he said.

I groaned. ‘What is it?’

‘I don’t feel right.’

‘You probably had too much to drink last night,’ I said as I pulled the duvet up and turned over. ‘Go back to bed and sleep it off.’

‘No, Ally, something feels wrong.’

I sat up immediately. ‘Why? Are you in pain? What hurts?’

‘I feel weird—’

‘Breathless?’

He nodded.

‘Chest pains?’

‘Yes.’ I raced into the bathroom and got the blood-pressure machine. Something had been brewing for a few months now so I always kept a monitor nearby. At first Michael thought it was hay fever, an allergy causing a tightness in his chest. He’d suffered from allergies before, pollens causing asthma, shortness of breath, but it was now October and long past the pollen season in England. I’d finally persuaded him to see the GP, who told him it could be angina and organized for him to have tests. We were due at the hospital next week for a stress test. Friends made the joke about having a cute angina. We looked the condition up on the Internet and learnt that there were two types: stable and unstable. If the feeling of breathlessness came on after exertion but subsided on resting, it was stable angina and could be treated with rest and medication. If it came on randomly, not after exertion, it was unstable and more dangerous. Michael had just been asleep, hardly exerting himself.

I wrapped the blood-pressure cuff around his arm, pressed start and we waited. I glanced at Michael. He looked strained and anxious as the machine whirred, let out a puff of air and up came the result: 195/135.

Holy shit, that’s high, I thought. ‘I’m calling an ambulance,’ I said. ‘You stay here. Deep long breaths. I’ll get you a couple of aspirin.’

The rest of the morning was a blur. Two short fat bald men looking like Tweedledum and Tweedledee arrived at the door. Joe and Kev. Ambulance men. I’d no idea how long they had taken to reach us. I was in a daze, trying to remain calm, not panic, be practical. Nothing felt real. Joe and Kev were lovely. They made Michael laugh, reassured him, did tests, took his blood pressure again, glanced at each other in a way that confirmed to me that it was not good. They told me to pack a bag in case they needed to keep Michael in, carried him out to the road as if he was as light as a feather and into the ambulance. This can’t be happening, I thought. Michael was over six foot, fit as a fiddle, ex-rugby player, played cricket, tennis, went hiking, rarely ill.

‘I’ll follow on in the car,’ I said, ‘so I can bring him home.’

‘Good idea,’ said Kev, ‘though I expect they’ll keep him in until his blood pressure comes down. Bring what you need too.’

I gathered a few things and drove to the hospital, though I have no recollection of roads or traffic. When I got there, I found Michael in a cubicle in A&E, connected up to a heart monitor. He looked relieved to see me. I glanced over at the machine behind him. BP 200/135.

‘How is it?’ he asked.

‘I can’t see from here,’ I lied.

A young female doctor with dark hair in bunches came in, sat opposite and explained what was happening. She looked about fifteen years old. None of it was going in until I heard. ‘… heart attack.’

Michael and I were both shocked. We knew something was wrong but neither had suspected a heart attack. He hadn’t fallen on the floor clutching his chest. ‘Are you sure?’ Michael asked.

The doctor nodded. ‘We can tell from the blood test we did when you first came in.’

Michael glanced anxiously at me. ‘So what now?’

‘First thing is to get your blood pressure down, run a few more tests, then we can decide on the best course of treatment.’ She carried on talking and I tried my best to listen, take it in, ‘… take you up to ward, angiogram to see what’s going on.’

Michael reached out, took my hand. ‘Looks like I won’t be home today. Don’t worry. I’m feeling OK now. Could you bring me a couple of things in case I have to stay in a few days? Books, my laptop.’

‘Sure. I brought clothes, your wash bag. But I’ll wait. See you up to the ward. See where you’re going to be.’

*

The rest of the week went by in a haze. My dear friend Philippa, on hearing of Michael’s condition, was straight over. ‘You won’t drive, we won’t let you,’ she said and, true to her word, she organized a rota of friends to ferry me back and forth to the hospital. At first, I felt embarrassed. I could drive, there was nothing wrong with me, but Philippa insisted. ‘People want to help, let us. It won’t be for long.’

As the days went on, I was overwhelmed by friends’ kindness to the point of tears. Every day, another one would arrive at the door, then drive and drop me at the hospital. It was a relief not to have to go round in circles looking for parking spaces or worry if I’d gone over the meter time. Most friends came in, said hi to Michael, then diplomatically disappeared to give us time alone. ‘We are blessed, lucky,’ I told him. ‘We have the best friends in the world.’

In between hospital visits, I went into a cleaning frenzy at home, took every item out of the fridge-freezer, dusted, polished, wiped. The house had never been so spotless. I couldn’t sit. Something compelled me to keep busy because I didn’t want to face or hear the voices that appeared in the wee small hours, when friends had gone, the house was quiet and sleep hadn’t come. The voices saying, what if he doesn’t make it? What if he never comes home? And the reality would sink in. This was serious. Potentially life-changing. Maybe he’d make it this time but there might be another time when …

Some friends I expected to hear from, I didn’t. Others I didn’t expect to hear from, I did, like Sara Meyers, my old friend from school days. She called out of the blue, said she’d been thinking of old times and me. As soon as I told her the news, she offered to come down and stay. We had been close once, a long time ago, but we weren’t really part of each other’s lives any more, apart from Christmas cards and the occasional catch-up call. I’d see her on TV from time to time, of course, but less so lately, now I came to think of it. I’d missed her when she first drifted away; she was an upbeat person with a big smile and a bounce in her step, but her career had taken her away and I’d got used to living without her after all these years. The same went for our other school friend, Mitch, who had disappeared even earlier and seemingly dropped off the face of the earth, though Jo and I had never lost that bond. ‘No need. He’ll be home soon,’ I told her. I was touched by her offer, I’d always enjoyed her company, but I had my team around me and my daughter Alice, who had arrived from Sheffield, where she lived now. My son Anthony had also offered to come over from Hong Kong, where he lived and worked. I told him to wait, reassured him that his father was in good hands. There would be time for longer visits when Michael was out of the hospital.

As I left the ward on the fifth night of Michael’s hospital stay, I said goodbye, kissed him. ‘You’ll be home soon,’ I said. When I got to the door, I turned back. He was sitting up, watching me, the expression on his face unguarded and infinitely sad. It hit my heart. It was as if he was saying, here we are, my love, not in control of our lives at the moment. We’re in the hands of others now, of others who tell me what I can eat and drink, what pillow I lie on, what time I am woken, when I must sleep and when you can come and go. In the hands of others.

*

When I arrived on the cardiac ward at the hospital the next day, Michael’s bed was empty. I looked around for someone to ask where he was. One of the young nurses, Yaz, noticed me and dashed forward. She had poppy red hair and tattoos on her arms. I liked her and her cheeky nature and knew that Michael did too. She had a bit of banter going with all the patients, and was one of those many people for whom you feel so grateful that they work in the NHS. She looked anxious.

‘Can I have a word?’ she said, and led me into a small room at the top of the ward where she closed the door behind us.

‘Where’s Michael?’ I asked.

She took a deep breath. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Conway. He was a lovely man.’

Was a lovely man, was? ‘But where is he?’ I presumed that he had been taken for his angiogram or some test or other.

‘The doctor will come and see you in a moment.’

‘Has something happened?’

‘A massive heart attack about half an hour ago,’ she said as she reached out a hand to steady me.

‘Heart attack? No. Another one? But I just spoke to him on the phone this morning. He sounded fine. Is he all right?’

She shook her head. ‘We tried to call you but you must have been on your way here and there was no answer from your mobile phone. I’m so sorry. He didn’t make it. We did everything we could. Is there someone you can call?’

This time I got what she was saying. Michael had died. I felt my knees give way and I sat heavily on a chair in the corner. ‘My friend Philippa. She’s in the car park. I’ll call her now.’ With shaky hands, I fished my mobile phone out from the bottom of my handbag, where I noticed six missed calls from the hospital and the volume turned down too low to hear it.

This can’t be happening, I thought. Can’t be right. Can’t cope with this. I felt as if some malevolent force had blown a hole in my abdomen. The expression, hit by a train, came to mind. I couldn’t think, breathe or move. I was frozen.

Yaz brought me water in a plastic cup from the unit in the corner, then went to talk to Michael’s consultant who had appeared outside the glass partition separating the small office from the ward. He glanced at me then came in.

Philippa arrived I don’t know how many minutes later. She was out of breath from rushing. She sat and held my hand as various staff came in and gave us information or instructions. I wasn’t sure what. When the doctor came back to tell me something, I remember thinking, I don’t want to hear what you’re saying. I don’t want to hear this. I kept glancing at the bed on the ward, now empty, willing Michael to appear, be there again, sitting up, making cracks about the food and being given everything he didn’t get at home, like apple crumble and custard.