13 Dates, page 26
Doing it is harder than I’d thought, mainly because when I get outside, my car won’t start. And while I hope that’s not a metaphor for me and Angel given how it was working perfectly yesterday – at least in this case, the solution is a phone call away.
After half an hour or so, the familiar yellow AA van pulls up outside, and a smiley, grey-haired man my father’s age jumps out.
‘It’s the MGB,’ I say, ‘parked outside the church hall on the corner,’ and as I lead him across to it, the man’s grin widens.
‘I used to have one of these. Nineteen sixty-eight. Wire wheels, the lot.’ He pats my car affectionately on the roof, then jumps into the driver’s seat and lets out a happy sigh, as if trying on a comfortable pair of shoes. ‘What seems to be the problem?’
I fold my arms and tilt my head to one side in the universal man-comments-to-another-man-on-a-mechanical-issue way. ‘It, um, won’t start.’
‘Right.’ The mechanic turns the key in the ignition, then cocks an ear. ‘Has it been running okay up until now?’
‘Yeah. I mean, occasionally it takes a couple of goes to fire, but generally . . .’ I glance up at the sky, which is still a threatening grey colour. ‘And it doesn’t seem to like the rain much.’
‘Who does?’ The AA man pops the bonnet, climbs stiffly out of the front seat, then marches around to the front of the car. ‘Try it again for me?’
I reach in and do as instructed, and he smiles knowingly. ‘Sounds like your distributor cap.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘Like I said – used to have one of these. Lovely car, but always breaking down, it was. After a while, you learn to read the signs.’
‘Can you fix it?’
He nods. ‘I can get you going again. Might be worth you investing in a new one soon, though.’
‘A new car?’
He grins. ‘Distributor cap. They’re only a few quid. In the meantime, I just need to employ a bit of specialist technology . . .’
I stand back and watch as he pops a couple of clips off a small, black plastic – well – thing, that looks like some robotic octopus, and pulls it from the engine bay. ‘Here,’ he says, showing me the octopus’s innards. ‘See that build-up of corrosion there? You just need to . . .’ He reaches in with the end of a screwdriver, scrapes away at a couple of the metal bits, gives it a squirt of WD-40, then puts it back where it came from. ‘Try it again,’ he says.
I cross my fingers, and turn the key again, widening my eyes as the car starts first time. ‘That’s amazing!’
The man shrugs. ‘Lovely thing like this wasn’t really built to last. It’s going to break down now and then. Trick is to know how to get it going again.’
As he hops back into his van and drives off, I catch sight of a poster on the noticeboard outside the church hall, and whether it’s fate, or an omen, or finally something going my way, the timing just couldn’t be better.
Mary’s right, of course – which is why I find myself waiting outside Angel’s office that evening. And while I perhaps wasn’t expecting to be welcomed back with open arms, her brusque ‘What do you want, Noah?’ when she eventually emerges is a little frostier than I was hoping for.
‘Um, to apologise?’
‘Are you asking me, or telling me?’
‘Telling you.’ I hand Angel one of the flat whites I’ve carried all the way from Starbucks, which are probably a bit too flat now, given that I miscalculated what time she’d be finishing. When she takes the coffee, I see that as a good sign, although it could simply be that she’s preparing to throw it back in my face, like it looks she’s planning to do with my apology.
As she peels the lid off the cup and peers inside, I glance nervously at my watch, conscious I’m in danger of missing the CPR class I’ve booked onto in the light of the AA man’s advice, though of course, if Angel doesn’t accept my apology, there’ll be no point me going.
‘So . . . Sorry.’
‘Is that it?’
‘What more do you want me to say?’
‘Quite a lot more, actually. I need to know that you’re not going to throw a fit every time you don’t get your own way. That you won’t keep bringing this up every chance you get. That I won’t have to constantly feel on edge that you’re suddenly going to go out and buy one of those awful eighties ‘Choose Life’ T-shirts and parade around the house in it. That I’m not going to be made to feel guilty for not wanting to undergo something that you seem to think is as straightforward as going to the dentist for a filling . . .’
‘I don’t.’
‘No?’
‘No. Not anymore, at least. I, um, watched the video again. And did a bit of research. And realised that it, you know, wasn’t, ahem, fair of me to try to enforce my ill-informed views on you. It showed a lack of respect for what you’re going through. Of course you know better. And I should understand that, rather than attempt to change your mind.’
Angel stares at me for a moment, then her expression softens. ‘Did you rehearse that?’
‘Once or twice. With Marlon.’
‘It was pretty good.’ She puts the coffee cup to her lips, takes a long drag, then grimaces. ‘It’s a bit lukewarm.’
‘You mean the coffee, right? And not my apology?’
‘Right.’
‘It’s just . . .’ I surreptitiously check the time again, then stare down at my shoes, wondering how long the sweet wrapper stuck to the sole of the left one has been there. ‘Being at my parents, seeing how happy they are, knowing they’ve been together for so long . . . Can you blame me for wanting some of that?’
‘You’ll have some of that.’
‘Yes, but how much some?’ I say, then frown at my bad English. ‘You could’ – I swallow hard – ‘go at any moment.’
‘So could anyone. Hit by a bus. Car crash. Terrorist attack.’ Angel’s counting them off on her fingers. ‘This is just another way. It could get me tomorrow; it might get me in twenty years’ time. As could any of those other things.’
‘Yes, but . . . you can’t avoid most of that lot.’
She drops her coffee into a nearby bin. ‘You seem to think I’m just standing in the bus lane, waiting for the number 49 to come along and run me over, and there’s a simple way I could step back onto the pavement, and yet I won’t do that, because the bus doesn’t look like it’s coming just yet, and I might trip on the kerb and kill myself that way.’
I replay what she’s just said a couple of times, then grin guiltily. ‘Yup.’
Angel grabs my hand and squeezes my fingers tightly. ‘I’m fine as I am, Noah. It’s a strategy you – and my parents – might not approve of, but it’s gotten me to thirty. Who’s to say it won’t get me to sixty? Or even further?’ She smiles grimly at me. ‘Can’t you just accept this?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘Of course you do.’
I know what she means. That I can walk away from her right now, out of her life, and get on with mine. But I already know there’s no way that’s going to happen. ‘Actually, I don’t,’ I say. ‘Because I love you.’
Angel stares at me for a second, then she takes a quick step forward and kisses me, but I don’t know whether it’s an ‘apology accepted’ kiss, or a ‘goodbye’ one, because she follows it with: ‘That might not be enough.’
I look at my watch a third time, and Angel sighs exasperatedly. ‘Is there somewhere you need to be?’
By your side, I want to tell her, but instead, I say, ‘Actually, yes,’ and Angel’s eyes flash.
‘Where?’
‘I’d rather not—’
‘Noah, what could possibly be more important than this?’
‘I’m, um, doing a CPR course. I’ve just signed up. It’s tonight. In the church hall at the end of my—’
‘What?’
‘CPR. It stands for Cardio—’
‘I know what it stands for,’ says Angel, looking at me in disbelief. ‘What on earth are you doing that for?’
‘Because I respect your decision. And I realise it’s your decision. And . . .’
‘And what?’
‘And I don’t want to lose you.’
And if I wasn’t sure before, as she grabs me ever-so-tightly and pulls me close, even though she’s burst into tears, I suddenly know a hundred per cent that Angel and I are back on.
26.
The church hall is somewhere I’ve never even stuck my head inside in the five or so years I’ve lived here, despite the hundreds of badly designed posters that have appeared on the noticeboard by the door, advertising everything from Keep Fit to Karate, Ballet to Badminton, and Jumble Sales to Judo, and as soon as I walk through the door, I can see I haven’t been missing anything: it’s draughty, and dusty, and the ‘Toddlers Tae Kwon Do’ class that’s preceded us has left a strange smell of cheesy feet and wee in the air. But I’m here for an important reason, I remind myself: to turn myself into Angel’s ‘AA man’. And this is the quickest – and cheapest, given the added bonus that it’s free – way to do that.
There’s a dozen of us sitting in a semicircle on uncomfortable stackable chairs, their seats worn smooth by a decade or more’s succession of bottoms, and at the front, a bouncy, middle-aged woman – the type you see in sitcoms as the overly-helpful-but-ultimately-annoying next-door neighbour – is standing over one of those rubber CPR dummies, waiting for the murmuring from the other attendees to die down.
I’m the youngest in the group by about thirty years – the rest are pensioners, obviously hoping they’ll learn enough to keep their other halves going in case of an incident, which, let’s face it, is exactly why I’m here.
The woman standing in front of us – Mandy, so her name tag tells us – glances up at the large clock on the wall, double-checks the time on her watch, then claps her hands together, causing the old man next to me to start awake.
‘Is everybody here?’
There’s a muted grumble from the assembled pensioners, along with the sound of creaking – furniture, and joints – as a few of them haul themselves upright in their chairs, and Mandy beams at us. Then an old man sitting two seats to my left raises his hand, and Mandy nods in acknowledgement.
‘It’s our first week. So unless that’s addressed to the people who aren’t, and therefore who can’t answer because they’re not here, how would we know?’
Mandy eyes him as a shopkeeper might an awkward customer. ‘Well . . . you might have friends who are supposed to be coming, and aren’t here yet. Or you might have come with someone who’s still parking the car.’
She smiles, pleased with her answer, until an old lady at the back pipes up with: ‘It’s residents’ parking around here. So chances are, people walked.’
‘Or came on the bus,’ says someone else.
‘Besides, there was only twelve chairs put out,’ says the gruff old man next to me.
Mandy’s looking a little put-out herself. ‘Well, in any case, shall we begin?’ she says, not quite as cheerfully. Then, when there’s no dissent: ‘So, thank you for coming. For those of you who don’t know me, or with poor eyesight’ – she lets out a loud, slightly maniacal laugh as she taps her name badge – ‘my name’s Mandy.’ She pauses to allow a muted chorus of ‘Evening, Mandy’ to die down. ‘Now, a question. What’s the most valuable skill anyone can have?’
There’s silence around the room, then a croaky voice says, ‘Knowing how to make crystal meth?’
‘Pardon?’
The old man next to me has got his hand up. ‘I seen it on that Breaking Bad on TV. And it seemed like a pretty valuable skill to me.’
Mandy frowns at him. ‘Oh-kay,’ she says, evidently not a Breaking Bad fan. ‘Something else?’
I peer around the group. People are looking at their shoes, the floor, the hall’s stained-glass windows. Anything to avoid answering the question.
‘Anyone?’ says Mandy, her cheerful veneer looking like it’s about to crack. ‘Anyone at all?’
With a sigh, I put my hand up, and she flashes a smile in my direction. ‘Yes?’
‘CPR?’
Mandy beams at me. ‘CPR. Well done. What’s your name?’
‘Noah.’
‘Thank you, Noah. Now, everyone, what does CPR stand for?’
The old man next to me leans across and lowers his voice. ‘If she doesn’t know, what’s she doing teaching the class?’
‘Anyone?’ says Mandy. She’s looking hopefully in my direction, and while I don’t want to hog the limelight, if someone doesn’t answer, I fear we might be here all night.
‘Cardiopulmonary resuscitation.’
As Mandy looks at me like I’ve saved her life, there’s a mumbled ‘Teacher’s pet’ from behind me.
‘Well done, Noah! And “cardio” is to do with . . . ?’
I’m willing someone else to answer. Anyone. But by the looks of them, the course is interrupting what would normally be nap-in-front-of-the-telly time.
‘The heart,’ I say. ‘And, um, pulmonary is to do with breathing.’
I’ve anticipated her next question, mainly because I’m trying to hurry things along, but Mandy looks a little miffed, as if I’ve deviated off-script.
‘So, that’s the heart, and breathing. Now, what might be the signs of an episode?’ she says, though I take it she doesn’t mean of Breaking Bad.
‘Well, there aren’t any, are there?’ says the man who answered the first question, and Mandy frowns.
‘Pardon?’
‘If someone’s had an “episode”. There won’t be any signs. That’s what we’re here for. To learn how to get them going again.’
‘Oh-kay,’ says Mandy, again. ‘Well, what signs won’t there be?’
There’s a polite cough behind me, from a grey-haired old lady with her hand up. ‘Can I ask a question?’ she says.
‘Of course.’ Mandy beams encouragingly at her. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘It’s just that you seem to be asking all the questions. All the time. And they’re questions we don’t know the answers to. Otherwise we wouldn’t be here. Obviously.’
Mandy’s still looking at her, as if she’s waiting for an actual question.
‘So, could you perhaps just tell us about CPR? Rather than asking us about it? Otherwise we’re never going to get anywhere, are we?’
‘Including home,’ says the man next to me.
Mandy’s smile is beginning to falter, but to her credit, she manages to hold it together. ‘Yes. Of course. I didn’t realise you were all complete beginners.’
‘Is there any other kind?’ says the man two seats to my left. ‘I mean, you’re either a beginner or you’ve done it before. So to suggest there’s such a thing as a complete beginner . . .’
‘Exactly.’ The old man next to the woman who’s just taken Mandy to task – her husband, possibly, given how she’s picking a bit of fluff from his jumper – pipes up. ‘Plus the course is called “Beginners CPR”.’
‘I know that,’ says Mandy, with a hint of exasperation. ‘Seeing as I’m the tutor.’
‘So who did you expect to turn up?’ the old man behind me continues. ‘A hall full of retired doctors who just wanted a bit of a refresher?’
Mandy surveys the class in an ‘I’ve got your number’ kind of way. ‘Right,’ she says, through gritted teeth. ‘So, you walk into your front room, and you see that your partner has had an episode.’
Another hand goes up – the same man two seats away. ‘I don’t have a partner.’
‘Really,’ says Mandy, sounding not-at-all-surprised. ‘Well, imagine you walk into a room – any room – and you see someone – anyone – having an episode, which you’ll be able to tell, because they’ll be non-responsive . . .’
‘That sounds like my ex-wife,’ says a man at the back, to a round of tittering.
‘So, first of all, you need to check their breathing. See if their chest is rising and falling; put your ear to their nose and mouth and see whether you can hear anything . . .’ She looks around the class, reminding herself of the average age. ‘Actually, forget that. Look to see if they’ve got blue lips. Or you might want to check their pulse, either at the neck . . .’ Mandy strides across to the man who made the Breaking Bad comment, and jabs a couple of fingers into the side of his neck. ‘Or at the wrist,’ she says, grabbing his arm and roughly twisting it upwards.
As the man rubs his shoulder, Mandy peers threateningly down at him. ‘Then, the first thing you need to do is get them onto the floor,’ she says, strolling back over to the dummy, much to the relief of the man she’s just assaulted.
‘What if they’re already on the floor?’
This comes from a woman in the corner, and to tell the truth, I’m feeling a bit sorry for Mandy now, especially when a few of the other attendees start to murmur in agreement.
‘Pardon?’
‘If they’ve had an episode, like you say,’ suggests someone else, ‘they’re probably going to be on the floor, aren’t they?’
‘They may have had it in a chair. Or a bed.’
‘But they could have fallen out,’ adds a man from the opposite side of the room.
As a debate starts amongst the attendees as to the most likely scenario, Mandy glances towards the fire exit, and I can’t blame her – it’s like it’s open season. ‘Okay,’ she almost shouts. ‘Let’s assume they’re on the floor. The first thing you do is check for a response.’ She kneels down, grabs the dummy by the shoulders and shakes it violently, accompanied by a loud ‘Can you hear me?’, which the wag to my left points out is ‘a waste of time as it hasn’t got any ears’.
‘So, we’ve established they’re non-responsive, and breathing erratically, or not at all. And perhaps you can’t feel a pulse . . .’ She glances up to make sure no one is about to interrupt. ‘Now, are there any circumstances when you don’t want to begin CPR?’
‘If you don’t like them?’
‘If they’ve left you a lot of money in their will?’
‘If they’ve just eaten garlic?’
As a ripple of laughter runs around the room, Mandy sighs. ‘Nooo,’ she says, drawing the word out like a schoolteacher in front of a class of five-year-olds might. ‘If there’s any danger to you. If they’ve been electrocuted, for example, or are lying in the middle of a busy road.’ She looks around the room and fixes a couple of the troublemakers with a murderous glance. ‘If not, and it’s safe to proceed, the first thing you do is . . . ?’
