Wake Up Happy Every Day (13 page)

If you knew how Scarlett could tantrum. The whole thrashing, low-budget horror flick violence of it. Tantruming is definitely her thing. Like something from a gorier remake of
The Exorcist
. The body going rigid, the uncontrolled hitting, clawing, kicking. The wet mouth attempting to saw through your wrist. The face so purple it’s nearly black. The breath-holding. The nuclear rage of it all. It’s a sinister, unnatural thing. I can’t bear the thought of it, and neither can Sarah, and we find ourselves promising that Mary will be back real, real soon.

Fourteen

POLLY

‘Hello, doll, I’ve been waiting for you. Let’s celebrate.’

Daniel meets Polly before she even gets to the entrance of Sunny Bank. He’s there on the gravel practically hopping from foot to foot in his excitement. And when she asks what’s the occasion, he grins all over his face and whips something out of his pocket and holds it up with a flourish. A bit like a referee sending someone off in a big match. He looks puffed up with pride. Honestly, when he’s happy Daniel could pass for a teenager. And because he’s happy, Polly feels happy too.

She still can’t work out what he’s got in his hand though.

‘This, Polly my love, this is freedom.’

‘Is it?’ She says as he waves it about in her face. ‘It looks like a piece of plastic to me.’

‘And that is how freedom comes these days!’ he yells. He’s got the volume turned up to eleven again. But it’s early and they’re outside and it’s chilly, so Irina and the rest aren’t around to shush him. Sometimes you’d think shushing the residents is what they were actually paid to do. Whereas Polly, she’s at Sunny Bank to unshush them, kind of.

‘It’s a key,’ Daniel says finally. ‘It’s a car key.’

Five minutes later they’re off out in Daniel’s new Alfa Romeo Giulietta. It’s bright red and Polly’s trying to remember if she’s ever been in a brand-new car, and she doesn’t think she has. Her dad always had old Land Rovers because of the horses, and the boys she’s been out with have only ever had bangers.

It’s exciting, or it would be if she wasn’t so terrified. Daniel is an old man! He has a hole in his head!

What Daniel actually has is vascular dementia. This means that every so often he has a little stroke and the veins in his brain leak a bit. It’s like there’s some bad weather in there which damages the vein wall and then there are some days of confusion, of getting things wrong. Things like his own name.

Daniel says it is funny that he should be suffering because of badly put together pipework – ironic. You know, given what his job used to be. Polly doesn’t think it’s funny.

The progression with vascular dementia is stepwise, rather than the steady slippage downhill like it is with Alzheimer’s. With vascular dementia after a stroke the hole widens some more, the patient steps down to the next level and then there’s a plateau for a few days, weeks, months, until the next bit of proper turbulence in the pipework of the brain.

What’s amazing is that sometimes Daniel can step back up a level. It’s like the brain finds new ways around this hole in his head. The temporary traffic lights go up, those yellow diversion signs are put in place and all the pulses and messages and memories find clever new ways to work. Smart new rat runs to get to where they need to go. It can’t last though. Some day there’ll be a massive brain hurricane and he’ll be dead or as cabbage-like as the worst of them in Sunny Bank, but for now he’s got enough marbles to get by.

‘Don’t worry about me,’ he says now, ‘I’ve been driving sixty-two years.’ Which doesn’t actually make Polly feel better.

Truthfully, he does seem to be a decent driver. He gives it plenty of mirror-signal-manoeuvre when they’re in town anyway. In fact he’s very, very careful, almost a bit old ladyish, which is surprising. It’s only when they get into the countryside that he gets more calm and confident. He whistles a bit.

He tells Polly that it was Nicky dying that made him want a new car. Made him realise that life was short. And he tells her that he loves cars, that he did the Paris to Dakar rally once, that he used to race Minis in some special league, that he even collected Dinky cars as a kid and still has them all back in his room at Sunny Bank under his bed.

‘What? You’ve still got all those toy cars? Not in boxes?’

‘No, of course not still in their boxes. I was just a nipper, what sort of lunatic child would keep their toys in their boxes? But they’re in very good condition for their age. Not like their owner. Ha ha.’ And he chuckles to himself. Then he starts talking about the car they’re in, this red Alfa Giulietta. He says it’s got good handling, plenty of welly and that he’s pleased that he went for the limited-edition one with wood-veneer dashboard and leather-veneer steering wheel. ‘It’s the details that count, isn’t it?’ he says. And Polly is thinking yes, details like having a licence because it’s only just occurred to her that Daniel might not have one. Surely the hole in the head thing must disqualify him from driving? Surely they’ve taken his licence off him?

Apparently not though. They stop in a village out of town that Polly’s never been to before, at a pub called The Old English Gentleman. It’s a typical country pub with a Yorkshire terrier sleeping before a blazing coal-effect gas fire and lamb rogan josh with naan for just £6.99. Daniel says he’s going to treat her. And then it’s like he’s a mind-reader.

‘Amazing that I’ve still got my licence, isn’t it? Bureaucratic cock-up I’m sure, but I’m damn well going to make the most of it.’ And he sips his dark beer. Daniel is a real-ale man. He always has a bottle of London Pride with his lunch at the home, and then another at six o’ clock on the dot. Actually lots of residents have a drink at six. It’s like the last normal habit that a lot of them stick with. Even when they’re totally gaga in other ways, they’ll still demand wine, beer or sherry at six. They say that music is the last thing the demented can appreciate, that even when everything else has pretty much faded away they can still hum along with ‘In The Mood’ or whatever. Polly thinks that’s wrong though – the very last thing to go is the desire for a drink before dinner.

So they have lunch and then Daniel beats Polly at pool, and at darts, and wins £24 on the SmartAss quiz machine, and he has two more pints. If it was any other resident Polly would have been very strict and told him that he couldn’t have more than one if he was driving, but Daniel is completely in charge. He does banter with the woman behind the bar, he talks about football with some lads near the pool table. He’s so at home here. No one is ever really at home in a home.

Polly only remembers about drink driving when they’re back in the car park. Daniel blanks her when she tries to bring it up, and she thinks they’re only a few miles from home so it will probably be all right.

When they’re in the car it reeks of London Pride and she gets all nervous again, but she doesn’t have to say anything because suddenly Daniel goes, ‘Tell you what, my lovely, why don’t you drive us back?’ And she immediately sees why. There’s a police Astra in the car park with them. So Daniel gets out and strides round to the passenger side while Polly fumbles to find the seat-belt releasing thingy.

So now Polly feels properly scared. This is a fast, powerful, brand-new car – of course she’s going to crash it. She’s going to put them both in a ditch, or wrap them both around a tree. She can picture it very clearly. A stew of crumpled metal, squashed body parts, two different kinds of veneer and a mashed-up elm tree. Even walking to the driver’s side feels like the start of
Casualty.

But she doesn’t actually ever get in the driver’s seat. She’s about to when she sees the policeman walking over. They always make you feel guilty, don’t they, the police? Whenever the police want to talk to her she always thinks she’s somehow shoplifted a sandwich or accidentally manslaughtered someone. And actually it doesn’t even have to be a policeman. Community support officers, security guards in the shopping centre, traffic wardens, anyone in any kind of uniform really, they all make her somehow want to confess to stuff.

But this policeman isn’t interested in talking to Polly. He wants Daniel. So Daniel has to get out again and it’s a bit of a struggle. He’s still a tall, powerful man, which is something Polly hadn’t really noticed till today. Everyone in the home seems small to her, frail, but here now, in this pub car park, Daniel seems strong. He towers over the policeman in a way that makes Polly wonder if they’ve got rid of the height requirement in the police force now. She wouldn’t be surprised. And she remembers that she actually thought about joining the police after her GCSEs – she thought it would be a good way to ride horses and get paid for it – but her dad just laughed and that pretty much killed the idea.

Daniel is smiling. It’s a wide welcoming smile showing all of his teeth. And they’re all in good nick for his age. They’re pretty white and pretty even. Not perfect obviously and the smile is actually too big. Just a bit much. It looks desperate. The policeman is smiling too but it’s a tight, fake smile and it doesn’t reach his eyes, which are small and hard and starey like a birds. A starling maybe, or a seagull.

‘Hello, sir,’ he says, and he asks if it’s Daniel’s vehicle and then he asks if Daniel has had a drink.

‘Yes, it’s my car and of course I’ve had a drink,’ says Daniel. ‘We’ve just come out of the pub. I’ve had three pints.’

The policeman says in that case he’d like Daniel to take a breathalyser test. Daniel huffs and puffs.

‘But I’m not the driver.’

The policeman keeps his cool as he explains that he and his colleague had noticed them leave the pub and get into the red Alfa Romeo Giulietta, registration XL12YY. He explains that they both formed the impression that Daniel had been drinking, this was because of his unsteady gait.

‘I’m seventy-seven. I have a dodgy knee. And in any case, let me repeat: I’m not the driver.’

The policeman ignores him and carries on about how he now requires Daniel to take a breath test to determine whether he has a level of alcohol in his blood which would be deemed unlawful under the terms of the Dangerous Driving Act of 1979. Something like that anyway. Polly doesn’t catch the exact details because she’s watching Daniel’s face. It’s gone a scary purply red colour. He moves forward so he is in really close to the policeman. He leans down into his face and yells.

‘But I’m not the fucking driver!’ Little bits of spit zoom out and over the policeman. It can’t be very nice. There’s little flecks of rogan josh in there for a start. The policeman blinks twice very quickly. It’s the first time he’s looked properly human. He steps back and keeps his voice very calm as he explains that Daniel was in charge of the vehicle while he was behind the wheel and being in charge of a car while intoxicated is, under the terms of whichever Act it was, an offence.

‘Even when it’s not moving? Balls!’

Polly thinks Daniel is going to hit him, but he makes a big visible effort, takes a breath and decides to try and be reasonable. ‘Look, Officer, I’ll be honest. I was going to drive, but then I noticed you and your colleague and saw sense. Your presence in this car park did the trick. It acted as a deterrent. It prevented a crime being committed. So that’s a good thing, isn’t it? I saw you and decided that my wife should drive instead.’

Wife? Wife? Polly sees the policeman’s eyes widen a little. Wife. Cripes. Polly wonders how old this police guy is. It’s hard to tell, but he has a smooth well-moisturised face. Not too many lines and no bags under his eyes. She reckons he’s twenty-eight or so. Just a bit younger than her. She shakes her head but she doesn’t think he notices. He must know that her being Daniel’s wife is bollocks though, mustn’t he? I mean it’s not like she’s Asian or anything. Not like she could be a mail-order bride. Maybe she could be Russian or Bulgarian or something, but even so.

The policeman explains all over again that being in charge of a vehicle while being intoxicated is unlawful. Even if that vehicle is stationary.

‘Not just fucking stationary! The fucking engine wasn’t even turned on! We have just been fucking talking in the fucking car.’ Daniel’s eyes are red and burning. The copper’s eyes just twitch and flicker in that birdy way.

The policeman explains for the third time about the definition of the Act, and then there’s silence and again Polly wonders if Daniel is actually going to deck him. There’s a long, long moment where this seems the most likely thing. Then Daniel gives up. His shoulders sag. He gets about twenty years older in about half a second. He takes a step back. He says, ‘Well, let’s just get this bloody charade over with,’ and Polly’s heart hurts. All the fight has gone out of him and it’s hard. He only got that car today and now this nasty little twonk is going to take it off him.

The policeman unwraps the little cylinder and explains the procedure. Polly can tell he’s working hard at keeping the triumph out of his voice. Polly thinks how this breathalyser resembles the latest range of predictors you can get in Boots. The new ultra-accurate pregnancy-test sticks.

Daniel puts it between his teeth. He grins at Polly and makes like the breathalyser is a fat cigar. He waggles it and jiggles his eyebrows, which is when she notices that he’s trimmed them. They’re nowhere near as wild and bushy as they were the other day and it’s another sign of how Daniel wanted to look his best for this trip out in his new car. The fact that Daniel is now trying to make a joke of things is making Polly feel physical hurt in her tummy. The policeman tells Daniel to blow into the device properly and Polly finds herself starting to hate him and his stupid smooth plumped-up face. She wants to bite it. Puncture it somehow and watch it deflate.