Simon's Choice Read online

  But a merry trip to a restaurant it was not. They ordered room service, the food lying largely uneaten as Melissa and Simon, two thirds of Team Bailey, had cried with a ferocity neither would have thought possible, until finally falling asleep, their pillows sodden.

  Now, the ethereality of night had passed and dawn’s raw reality had broken.

  “Simon.” Melissa looked up at her husband, repeating his name as if for strength. “How do we tell Sarah?”

  Chapter 9

  Discharged and told only that she had finished her chemo session, Sarah returned home, a little weak, but upbeat and wildly excited about her longed-for trip to Disneyland. Her grandparents, now fully informed of the situation, defiantly threw off the ‘no spoiling Sarah’ rule and deluged the delighted child in sweets, DVDs and extravagant gifts.

  Porridge abandoned his lovingly chewed basket to sleep by Sarah’s bed each night. The normally docile dog had surprised everybody by baring his fangs like a hellhound one evening when Melissa had tried to remove him from the room, having finished their evening installment of Harry Potter. Porridge remained, the Tinkerbell rug becoming unarguably his.

  * * *

  Simon heaved the last bag into the back of Robert’s old Audi Estate. “That’s the lot, Robert. I’ll do a quick run around the house, check the TVs are unplugged and then we can get off. You set, Sarah?”

  Sarah, who had been voluntarily sitting in the car since teatime, now almost two hours ago, cheered. She was dressed in a replica Cinderella costume, complete with matching princess head-scarf (cannibalized from a Disney pillowcase) topped with a jauntily balanced tiara. Her hand luggage, a miniature airhostess style trolley emblazoned with Disney princesses, had been packed around ten times, before she had finally decided on the toys, books and ‘essentials’ she deemed necessary for the one-hour flight to Paris. One Nintendo DS, one Nintendo DS Dogz game, one notepad, one pencil-case, one Disneyland map, one tube of fruit pastilles. “Bye, Porridge! Bye, Grandma Aitch! Don’t forget, Porridge likes to watch Ben Ten in the mornings and he doesn’t like Pedigree Chum in gravy …” Porridge, fully aware that he was being excluded from some pleasant excursion, huffed and turned back into the house.

  Inside, Simon did last minute checks, pulling out plugs and checking windows were shut. He mentally ticked off the list of required documents and felt his inside pocket, reassuring himself that his Euros were where he had put them. In their bedroom, he found Melissa frantically scrabbling in one of her dressing table drawers. “You ready for off then, Mel? Want to go through the checklist?”

  “I can’t find my bloody passport anywhere. I swear I put it in here. I separated it from the others when I used it for ID the other day. Oh, where is it?” Mel dragged open another drawer, randomly flinging bottles and make-up stained scrunchies onto the bed.

  “I’ve got it here, Mel. I put them all together this morning.”

  “Oh great! Oh, that’s just fantastic, Simon. So you’ve let me spend the entire morning searching for it, when you had it all the time? Oh marvelous, that’s just wonderful. Thanks ever so much.” Melissa’s eyes narrowed, a sneer contorting her usually attractive mouth.

  “Hang on, Mel. I thought I was helping. I didn’t know that you were looking for it.”

  “No, because you don’t notice anything do you, Simon? Did it not cross your mind to ask why every conversation we have had today has been conducted while I turn out the contents of a drawer?”

  “Well why didn’t you ask me? I would have…”

  “Because!” Melissa exploded, “I didn’t know you had been rifling through my dressing table. How was I supposed to know that you were dealing with the documents? I normally do that.”

  “Melissa. It’s not a problem. You’ve got it, your Dad’s waiting, let’s go.” Simon backed away from his wife and made his way back down the stairs, chewing the insides of his mouth, a habit that had recently left them ridged and sore.

  For the past fortnight, living with Melissa had been like living with a spitting cobra. Whilst she managed to keep from striking in Sarah’s presence, venom poured forth regularly and always in Simon’s direction. It was exhausting and hurtful. He understood that this was part of Melissa’s grieving process and as such, desperately tried to let the shockwaves of anger bounce off him, but it was hard not to absorb some of Mel’s ire.

  With the exception of his wife’s vitriol, for Simon the last month had been a period of strange calm. Granted an indeterminate length of compassionate leave from the surgery, Simon had enjoyed three precious weeks with his daughter, who, though clearly slowing down, remained her usual, bright, funny self. From time to time thoughts of the future crept up on him and, when they did, he simply pushed them away.

  Sarah’s voice broke his thoughts. “Come on! Honk the horn, Granddad Aitch. Daddy!” Simon gallantly held the door open for Melissa, locked up, kissed his mother-in-law, shouted a farewell to the sulking Porridge and joined his family in the car, ready for Robert to drive them to the airport.

  The Audi pulled out of the drive, Simon and Melissa waving back at Diana, who waved them off from their front door.

  “Now, everyone.” An authoritative little voice piped up from the back. “I thought we could start with Ten Green Bottles.”

  * * *

  Mercifully, the trip to Leeds Bradford Airport was short, allowing for only two rounds of ‘Ging Gang Goolie’.

  On landing at Charles de Gaulle, an executive car took them straight from Arrivals to The Disney Hotel. The expensive transfer meant that Sarah would need only to walk from the luggage carousels to the exit, from whence they would be taken directly and in comfort to their hotel.

  The airport was situated in the industrial part of town, and the Mercedes S Class crawled through the heavy Parisian traffic. The car was large enough to allow all three of the Baileys to sit together in the back and Sarah, exhausted by the short journey, slept soundly between her parents, her mouth open and her breathing shallow.

  “Putin!” The driver gesticulated out of his window, a Gallic display of road-rage erupting between three or four cars.

  “Sorry I was a bitch.” Melissa gave Simon a little smile.

  Simon shared a reciprocal grin. “Forget it.”

  “So, are you dreading your descent into a cartoon character nightmare?”

  “Actually, I’m almost beginning to look forward to it, though I do suspect it may be the outer ring of Hell. I’m Dante and our driver friend here is Virgil.”

  “Surely he is Charon, the ferryman?”

  “And this bloody traffic jam the river Acheron.” Simon looked at his sleeping child between them. “Then Sarah must be Virgil. Sarah is our guide.”

  * * *

  Sarah, unaware of her promotion to tour-guide of the underworld, slept soundly. She woke an hour later as the car turned into the entrance to the park. Simon had chosen The Disney Hotel, grandest and most traditional of the numerous hostelries serving the parks. The imposing building dominated the entrance, negating the need for shuttle buses or long walks. In the early dusk, lights sparkled from the roof, giving it the appearance of a lit up wedding cake. Its profile was somehow reminiscent of a great Indian palace.

  Sarah scooted over onto her father’s knee and pressed her face against the car window. Simon kissed the back of her scarf-wrapped head, inhaling deeply, enjoying the little girl smell of Sailor Matey bubble bath and dressing-up box musk.

  The Mercedes pulled up to the grand porticoed entrance of the hotel and an American-styled busboy immediately appeared, greeting the driver as he climbed out of the car. “Mademoiselle.” The chauffeur opened the door next to Sarah and, as he did so, made a little bow, an indulgent smile flicking across his face.

  “Wow.” Sarah stared wide-eyed at the chauffeur. “Oh, wow!”

  Simon tipped the driver who signaled to two other busboys. There was a rapid exchange of French leading the young men to look at Sarah quizzically. Simon bristled, his protective in
stincts rearing up irrationally. Sarah, resplendent in her pale blue satin dress, her tiara only slightly off kilter; stared up rapturously at the neon palace. One of the busboys retreated back into the hotel as the other loaded the luggage onto a brass-domed trolley, the type seen in Hollywood movies.

  Everything about the moment was, in fact, like stepping into a film. As the bellboys scurried to and fro, their burgundy livery immaculate, the hotel gleamed before them, its windows glowing with welcome. The giant illuminated clock on the façade suggested somehow that here in this magical place, time could be distorted.

  A gasp of pleasure from Sarah alerted Simon’s attention and he groaned inwardly as a giant Minnie Mouse, with ears the size of dinner plates, appeared in the door of the hotel, greeting guests returning from a day’s fun-making. The costumed actors were a key part of the experience and an aspect the shy and serious Simon had been dreading.

  “Monsieur, celui-ci est pour la petite.” Simon turned toward the quiet voice.

  The busboy addressing him pushed a wheelchair, the footrests cumbersome and mechanical, a high head support and drip stand attached to the backrest. It was, Simon realized, a wheelchair used more commonly for those requiring neck support. A leather strap hung down from one side.

  “No, Daddy.” Sarah looked aghast, Minnie Mouse forgotten as she backed instinctively behind her father’s legs. “I don’t want it.”

  A large family in German football tops, making their way into the hotel, paused. Their sticky, junk food fuelled children stared unabashedly at Sarah over the top of their Augustus Gloop style lollypops.

  “Daddy. They’re looking at me.”

  Simon eyed the clinical contraption, its ugliness exaggerated by the shiny, cinematic backdrop of the hotel. He put a hand on Sarah’s shoulder, drawing her in close, no words available to him. Melissa moved forward seamlessly, crouching to Sarah’s height and taking her hand. She grinned at her daughter and gave her a conspiratorial wink. “They are looking, Sarah, because you look so beautiful in that dress. Shall we go in?” She pulled her child towards the door, steadfastly ignoring the gawping group of guests and the ten-foot mouse. “Chin up, Sarah. Princesses always keep their chins up.”

  Simon watched with relief and fierce pride as his wife, more regal than any Disney royal creation, led Sarah up the steps and into the hotel. A bellboy approached him, gesturing at the chair, irritation belying his pretence of servitude.

  “My daughter,” Simon said, speaking clearly but quietly, “is not ill.”

  Chapter 10

  When Simon was eight, his pet terrapin, George, died. An inhabitant of 31 Primrose Close for only months, George had succumbed (despite Simon’s care and attention) to a respiratory infection. No amount of tank cleaning or freshly dug earth worms could save the little amphibian.

  One day Simon returned from school lugging with him a beach bucket full of worms, pilfered from his father’s compost heap. He peered through the glass, noting with interest that the dandelion greens he had provided the day before were untouched. Simon pushed his NHS spectacles back up his nose, and tapped the side of the glass. George lay on the raised, dry area of his tank. Simon stared at the tiny turtle, willing it to respond. Still, George remained motionless, his flippers ominously facing upwards.

  Simon bit the inside of his mouth, a tic he habitually performed when concentrating or concerned. He thought methodically through the available options.

  One, his pet was dead.

  Two, George had got even poorlier than yesterday and was having a very long nap.

  Three, George was better and was having a very long nap.

  Pushing possibility number one to the back of his mind, Simon plumped for option two.

  He lifted George gently out of the tank and placed him in a shoebox lined with cotton wool and loo-roll. He cleaned out the tank meticulously, removing the uneaten food and replacing it with fresh. Dropping one of the pilfered earthworms into the tank, he stowed the rest in an old ice-cream box in his wardrobe. Then he carefully replaced George back on the rock on which he had found him.

  Three days later, George had yet to stir. Simon’s research in the library of Shelton Park Primary had produced limited information. A tatty collection of out-of-date encyclopedias had finally provided some data - terrapins did not hibernate. Terrapins were not supposed to smell - George stank.

  Returning from school that day with a heavy heart and an even heavier book-laden bag, he was mildly surprised to find Barbara and Terry waiting for him at the kitchen table. A large plastic margarine container took centre place on the table, and nestled amongst strips of newspaper and tissue lay George.

  His mother sniffed. “Simon, sit down, lovey. We’ve got something to tell you.”

  Simon wrinkled his nose. George really did pong. “I know,” he said simply.

  “Simon, lad.” His father began, disconcerted by Simon’s calm. “Your mother found George today. She smelt something funny in your room and when she took a look at George, well, I’m sorry to tell you lad, but George is dead.”

  “I know,” repeated Simon.

  Terry cleared his throat, briefly catching the eye of his wife. “Well, what the devil were you keeping him for, lad? He must have been gone a week.”

  Simon shrugged, uncomfortable under his parents' perplexed gaze. He chewed his cheek and stared at his shoes. “I thought he might wake up if I gave him long enough. I thought I might make it better.”

  Terry sighed. “You should have told us, lad. That was a right stink your mother’s had to clear. Now, we’ve made him a coffin and I’ve dug a hole. I thought you might like to be the man to put the lid on it. He was your terrapin and that. Then we’ll pop him in his grave in the garden and you can say a few words if you like. Your mum’s taken some cuttings. You can lay some flowers on the grave, right proper like.”

  “No.” Simon looked at his father staunchly.

  “No? Well, I can do it alone if you’d like. If you think you’d find it too upsetting, like. Perhaps that’s a better idea.”

  “No. I don’t want him to be buried. He won’t like it out there.”

  Terry looked at Barbara again, the well-rehearsed scenario not playing as it was meant to. “He’s dead, laddie. He doesn’t know anything.”

  “I don’t care. He’s not going in a hole. He’ll be lonely.” Simon held his father’s gaze steadily, chewing his inside cheek furiously until he tasted the tang of blood. He knew his pet was dead. He was not stupid. But he was not going to let George be alone in the dark and in the cold. George would not like it, dead or not.

  “Simon,” his mother began tentatively, “Simon, lovey. George is in heaven now. It’s only his little body that’s left here. Think of it more as an overcoat. Just a big old overcoat he’s taken off. It’s just a shell.”

  “He’s not going in the ground.”

  Terry let out an exasperated sigh. “Simon, be reasonable now. You can’t keep him. He’s stinks to high heaven. Now I know you're upset, lad, but it can’t be helped. I’m sorry you lost your pet, he was a nice little terrapin and you looked after him ever so well, but sometimes our pets die and when they do it is just as important that we behave responsibly about their burial as we did when we were caring for them.”

  “I want him to be buried at sea.” Simon said simply. “He’ll like that, will George. Much better. It has to be a burial at sea.”

  “Simon!” Barbara exclaimed, both relieved and perturbed. “We live seventy miles away from the sea.”

  “He has to be buried at sea,” Simon said evenly, and taking the Stork tub in which his reeking terrapin lay, walked back up to his room to do his homework.

  It was nearing midday the next day when Simon, Terry, Barbara and George The Putrid Terrapin, arrived at Cleethorpes. Terry, purple with rage, having followed a caravan at thirty miles an hour for the entire four-hour journey, parked their Austin Allegro on the sea front. Negotiations the previous evening had gone in the seven-year old Sim
on’s favor and eventually, exhausted, Terry had agreed to make the one hundred and forty mile round trip to the seaside, to bury his son’s pet terrapin at sea.

  Cleethorpes, whilst commonly referred to as a seaside resort, was actually situated on the mouth of the Humber River, the vast and filthy expanse of water that served the industrial port town of Hull. Had Simon been aware of this geographical quirk, he would almost certainly have insisted they travel on to the sea proper, but as it were, he was blissfully unaware of the geography of his country. Water was water.

  “Right then, lad,” said Terry, looking out over the horizon, “let’s say goodbye to George.”

  The tide was out. The initial sandy beach giving out after a hundred yards, there then sprawled black polluted sludge for the next four hundred yards. Terry sighed and looked down at his suede loafers. Then, taking his son’s hand, he started the long walk out to the water.

  * * *

  “My daughter,” Simon repeated to himself, “is not ill.” And ignoring, the bellboy and his wheelchair, headed into the lobby of the hotel.

  Chapter 11

  Simon pushed three postcards into the Disney post box and turned in the direction of the restaurant where he had agreed to meet Melissa and Sarah.

  29th March 2009

  Dear Mum & Dad,

  Well, tomorrow is the last day and we’ve actually had a great time.

  I’m writing this in a café with a beer (7 Euros!!!!). Mel and Sarah have gone for a well-earned nap and I’m meeting them for tea later. Sarah’s had an amazing time and even I have to say it’s been fun.

  See you on Saturday, Sime.

  The Mexican restaurant was packed with early diners, the sombrero-wearing waiters irritable. Simon settled in a corner table, ordered a beer, winced at the price, and took out his holiday paperback.