CHAPTER 50
We changed onto the faster train at New Street, the old Commer left behind on our drive in Cannock as Dad refused outright to even think of trying to drive it through London, much less park it. The train wasn’t that fast in the end, but we finally stepped out onto a platform in Euston, people surging around us in a clear hurry, and equally as clear in their idea of the right way to go. I had asked around at work, and so we headed down Euston Road towards King’s Cross, where I had been told there were a number of cheaper guest houses.

We found a half-reasonable one in a side road, Crestfield Street, and my room turned out to be an obvious attic or outhouse conversion with a sloping ceiling, a single bed, a kettle and a tiny portable television. We ate that night in a café on Grays Inn Road, and almost by telepathy agreed we would head straight to bed. None of us were looking forward to the next day’s appointment.

There was a thunderstorm in the night, and it woke me just in time to see the bulge forming in my ceiling, immediately over the telly, which I managed to unplug and haul out of the way just before the lining paper burst to release a steady flow of rainwater onto the little table.

It was almost a mirror to my life: forever skirting the edge of disaster, but so far avoiding the very worst. Mam had pulled me back from that edge; could we manage the same trick again? The thunder spoke once more, but only the once, and by the time I woke again, the little flood had ended. I shambled down to breakfast, which wasn’t great, and passed a sly comment to the receptionist about the cost of a new television versus the price of the room for a night, but it sailed right over her head. It summed up so much of London, in my minimal experience.

There was a bus directly from the railway station to Bart’s, which was handy, and the hospital staff were so delightful I found that opinion of Londoners shifting upwards several notches. Mam was into the special scanner device slightly ahead of time, as there had been a cancellation, and in a surprisingly short time we were handed a number of large envelopes, with an assurance that detailed reports and interpretations had been sent to Mr Hemmings’ office by fax.

We found a little place in the hospital itself for a midday meal, and then walked down towards St Paul’s for the Underground to Oxford Circus, passing so many famous sights that I felt more like a tourist than someone on more important business. Mam, however, said almost nothing in all that time, her gaze fixed a little ahead of her feet as her hand stayed clamped to Dad’s.

I had learned a little from my previous visit, so we walked north from the tube station rather than measuring the whole length of Harley Street, and as we approached the surgeon’s office, I finally saw Mam start responding to her surroundings.

“This is a bit bloody posh, Debbie!”

“Yeah. I got to see all of it last time; walked down from the other end. Bloody good job I was in my comfy boots. It’s a long street”

Nonsense conversation, nothing but filler, but at least she was talking. I led the two of them to the surgery door and walked in ahead of them, realising as I did so that I was acting as if there were some danger I needed to scout out for Mam.

“Ah! Hello again, Ms Wells! You are early, but not by too much. Mr Hemmings is in consultation. He has received the fax from Bart’s, however, and I would imagine that he will wish to spend some time in preparation. Would you like some refreshments? Tea? Coffee? Water?”

Mam looked at me and Dad in turn, then turned back to the receptionist.

“Don’t know about these two, Miss…”

“Julia”

“Ta, love. I could murder a decent cup of tea. Deb? Ken?”

We both nodded, and after giving Julia our order, she disappeared for a couple of minutes, returning with a tray bearing cups, pot and the rest of the necessaries for the traditional go-to for the stressed. We were most of the way through the pot when the buzzer went on Julia’s intercom thing.

“Certainly, Mr Hemmings. I will send them right in”

As we all looked over, she smiled and indicated a door I remembered well, and we rose and headed for it as a family. The surgeon was waiting by the door, rather than sitting behind his desk, and his smile of welcome held real warmth.

“Hello again, Debbie. These must be your parents. Lorraine, and?”

Dad held out his hand, which Hemmings shook firmly.

“Ken Petrie, Doctor. Debbie’s dad”

“Right. Fine. Julia provided you all with refreshments? Do you need anything further?”

We all shook our heads.

“Fine, fine. Now, if it is acceptable, I would like to speak to Lorraine alone. It is for my protection, given the times we live in. I wish to be absolutely certain that what I share with the rest of your family is entirely in accordance with your wishes”

Dad bristled slightly at Hemmings’ words, but Mam simply nodded slowly.

“I see where he’s coming from, love. It’ll only be a few minutes, I’m sure. I’ll be fine. Grab another cuppa while you wait, if that’s OK, Doctor?”

“Not a problem at all, Lorraine. Simply ask Julia”

He opened the door once again, and I led Dad back to the armchairs we had been occupying only a minute before, Julia looking up as we passed.

“More tea, then?”

I gave her my best smile.

“Please”

It turned out be well over twenty minutes before Julia’s intercom buzzed again, and at her signal, Dad and I rose and went to the opening door, where Mr Hemmings waved us in and across to a couple of chairs. Mam was sitting, and I saw immediately that she had been crying. My heart was in my mouth, but it was Dad who concerned me just then, as he collapsed into his chair next to Mam, rather than sitting down carefully. His voice was faint, with a quaver to it.

“That’s what this was, then, Doctor? It’s bad news, isn’t it?”

Mam nodded once to the doctor, the movement a lot sharper than her earlier agreement, and he picked up a bundle of papers from his blotter.

“Ken, Debbie; I have talked through the situation with Lorraine in some detail, so I will spare you unnecessary technicalities. The new scanning techniques are rather wonderful in terms of what they can tell us, but I am afraid that the actual message is not glad tidings. The team at Bart’s has been most efficient in their analysis, which explains the thickness of the bundle I am holding”

He looked down at his desk, removing his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I am not going to give an absolute comment here, as I try and avoid such things, in such circumstances. I have agreed with Lorraine that I will share these results with a fellow surgeon, and seek a second opinion. I… I do not believe that opinion is likely to differ from mine”

He put his glasses back on, and when he spoke again, it was in a far faster delivery, almost as if he didn’t want his own words.

“Lorraine has indeed got a tumour in her brain. I will not go into the technicalities; I promised that. There are two major issues. The first is that the object in question is in a particularly difficult place in which to operate. It is very likely that any attempt to do so will kill her. The second issue is actually several things, which are what I feared, what you were worried about, Debbie, when you contacted me”

I was having difficulty swallowing as he spoke, but I got the words out at last.

“Metawhatsits?”

He nodded, clearly trying to keep his expression neutral but failing badly at doing so.

“Yes. Secondaries, people call them. Bart’s scanner man has identified at least three more small growths in the brain, as well as another two definitely on the spine, and there were a couple of other anomalous areas in the thorax. I plan to refer the results, as I have already said, to a friend of mine who specialises in neurosurgery to a far greater depth than I do, as well as to an oncologist of my acquaintance. An oncologist is a cancer specialist”

Dad was weeping gently, Mam slumped like a sack of coal, face blank and eyes looking far beyond the walls of Hemmings’ little office. I had dad’s left hand, his right gripping Mam’s left as if it were a lifeline to a drowning woman. I seemed to be the only one able to talk, so I asked the obvious question.

“What can we do, Doctor?”

His shoulders slumped.

“What can you do? Debbie, I will start making calls as soon as you have left me. I can make no promises beyond saying that I will do my utmost for you all. What can you do? Prepare. That is the only advice I can give, I am afraid. Prepare for the worst, and hope for something better. Pray, if that is your way. I estimate that… Given the timescale you have already described, from the initial effects on kinetic memory--- the dancing and driving--- given that rate of change, I would estimate that it will reach, things will develop, the…”

Once more, he removed his glasses, and his own gaze went somewhere with Mam’s.

“Six months, my friends. Probably rather less”