Nostalgia - Chapter 2
Don't Forget to Remember
Nostalgia is my second novel, a magical-realism sci-fi drama about memories, family, addiction and the dangers of living in the past.
The story so far: Emotionally-detached History lecturer Paul Angest is informed by his estranged sister Brydie that their father Ivor has passed away. But Paul is unable to process the information, as his thoughts are constantly trapped in the past, especially with his ex-fiancé, Meredith. Paul buys a Christmas present he cannot afford for Meredith - an ornate locket - in the hope of reigniting their relationship. Meredith warns Paul to stay away from her.
Hauling my bike off the train, I’m compelled to cycle far and fast. I take a diversion to the ghostly seafront, peddling furiously along the esplanade, attempting to outrun the silvery high tide; waves crashing against the concrete seawall. Icy air bites against my skin, trailing tears from my eyes.
By the time I reach home, my face and hands are perfectly numb. An E-type Jaguar sits on the gravelled driveway of my three-storey mock Tudor house. It’s not my car - I’m only a Professor of History. The Jag’s owner, Mick Nicholson, often remarks how we’re like two peas in a pod, both in the same boat. He even refers to himself as a Historian. He’s not, and it never fails to piss me off when he declares himself as such. I have a First in history, whereas Mick is a professional student, stepping stones of education, one course after another, doing nothing with his knowledge.
‘It’s something to do’.
Mick is nearing the end of his latest course, after which he will be Mick Nicholson: Professor of music video history. Professional-student-of-blatantly-made-up-courses would be more appropriate.
Mick has been mysteriously rich since we first met, doing time as university students (bonding over late-night screenings of ‘Withnail and I’). At no time has he shown any positive signs of possessing a natural gift - now and then he fancies having a go at a job (artist, fashion photographer, film producer, coconut water tycoon), and our friendship hasn’t progressed beyond behaving like schoolboys - yet I need him. To paraphrase The Pet Shop Boys: I love him, he pays my rent.
This was our dream house. Mine and Meredith’s.
There was so much potential, and it still had the original Art Deco stained glass windows. Room for a family. I persisted with the purchase after we broke up as if turning this ramshackle property into her forever home would convince Meredith to come back. She was the one with the plans for this place. I saw it as a good investment. I bought it almost three years ago, and the walls are still flaky and the floorboards are still bare.
I’d not seen Mick much during the Meredith years. Out of necessity, mainly - I couldn’t expose her to Mick’s blustering ego and rampant desires through fear she would see something in me that would put her off. Luckily for me, we reconnected at the right time, or else the house would have been repossessed within months.
Some men of a certain age create themselves a “man cave”; usually a shed at the bottom of their garden containing homemade beer, a dartboard and various throwback decorations from their youth. Mick’s presence has turned my house into a glamorous squat. The car, the snooker AND pool tables, jukebox, the home cinema (with folding seats). Like his attitude towards women and university studies, Mick is always onto the next thing when it comes to technology. He doesn’t like old things. Always the first with the latest phone, console, or gadget. He used to buy every newly released DVD until streaming came along, after which it all became null and void. He offered his film collection to me, but there was nothing made before the year two thousand (and there have only been a handful of films released in the 21st century that are worth owning).
I do my best to avoid Mick. The noise of his fruity joie de vivre and rampant sexuality. His skateboard clacking along the uneven floorboards. When I’m not skulking the corridors like an unpopular prefect, I remain in my attic-conversion bedroom, surrounded by ever-increasing stacks of music cassettes and VHS videotapes. Mick thinks this is my one saving grace for scoring cool points because he collects vinyl. Collecting old formats is trendy to someone like Mick Nicholson. Little does he know.
I can go for weeks without seeing Mick: he’s either been speeding around country lanes with his blondes, or he’s gone on holiday without realising.
Yet even when Mick isn’t around and I could have the run of the house, I choose to stay in my humble domain. The remains of a dream gone bad.
The back garden is decorated with pretentious, modern sculptures courtesy of an upper-class hippy Mick once dated. Rattan furniture. Flaming torches. A thatched Tiki Hut. A Tiki Hut is what they have on Hawaiian beaches. Concrete back gardens in Southend, not so much.
I watch with an anxious thirst as strapping Mick Nicholson creates two cocktails like a clumsy showman. I’m on the edge of my seat as he flips a cocktail shaker, secretly hoping he’ll drop it. That lank blonde wavy hair, his enormous beard, perpetual green/navy striped rugby top and billowing pink trousers which resemble a deflated air balloon, all showered radioactive orange liquid.
With the prancing and winks over, Mick pours the results into two glasses. I’m in no mood for commiserating, but I do want that drink.
Mick raises his glass. ‘To our fathers. May God bless them, and the wings of angels carry them onwards.’
‘I didn’t know your Dad was dead.’
‘Na, he’s living in Eastbourne, might as well be, though. God bless the S.O.B. all the same.’
Mick knocks back his drink, exhaling a satisfied rasp. ‘Right! For dinner tonight we have some rather splendid slices of salty ham wrapped around some juicy pork with a lovely fennel puree.’
‘Can’t eat,’ I mumble.
‘Then we must go out and alleviate this problem. There’s a new nightclub opening tonight where The Old Cock Inn used to be. You can be the famous American film director Red Rydell and I’ll be regaled Peruvian Doctor Shamus Cholet…’
Before I can pour cold water on Mick’s debaucheries, he snaps his fingers loudly.
‘Oh. Yes. Which reminds me. I met a delectable young filly today. Got on like a spark at a petrol station. Reckons she’s got a friend, sounds right up your alley. Double-date next week! Lock it in!’
Mick extends a fist for me to punch. Instead, he receives a declining wave.
‘I’m getting too old for all that.’
Mick roars with laughter at my sincerity. Getting older has so far been a deeply unfunny joke. My body has constant low-level pain in all sorts of places, and my mother’s illness lives in the back of my head, reminding me that we share the same fate. Probably.
I bolster my position. ‘I’m serious. People are a minefield best avoided.’
‘Mmm. Don’t let the same dog bite you twice, mmm…’ Mick muses, and from his slightly mocking tone he hasn’t quite grasped where I’m currently at in my life, so I spell it out.
‘I’ve just got out of a relationship…’
Mick erupts with a howl, yelling over me. ‘And how many years has it been! The past is the past…’
‘The past means nothing to me,’ I say, tired of Mick’s persistence.
‘Fine words from a Professor of History!’ howls Mick.
‘… I’m using this time to be nice to myself. It’s quality time for me.’
‘Me time has become You time,’ says Mick, which prompts me to remove myself from this one-sided conversation.
But then I remember something, and my voice cracks awkwardly as I raise a hand of caution.
‘Uh, Mick… is there any chance you could pay your rent a few days earlier this month? Had a few unexpected out-goings which need covering…’
‘Maybe, if you let loose for five minutes. Uncle Mick has decreed it and lo it shall come to pass. They are lovely ladies, both divorced, and not looking to settle down. Could you ask for anything more? It’ll be like the good old days!’
The rush-hour train to Upminster is unsurprisingly crowded. Someone else’s shoulder is making contact with mine. I move my arm slowly and forcefully, making the point to get off me. I could have caught a later train, but sitting around the house waiting to get all of this over and done with was even less appealing. Clickbait on my mobile screams about actors - once-famous twenty years ago - who now look different these days, as if ageing doesn’t apply to stars of the screen. I refocus my attention on the memory game app on my phone. It’s supposed to aid your brain’s recall. According to the app, I have the mind of a nineteen-year-old, which surprises me. And I’m not even sure that’s meant to be a good thing, judging by some of my students.
When my Mum was diagnosed with dementia I became haunted by my memory. Every time I forget anything I would feel the pang of my heart snapping like a Christmas cracker. I was with Meredith at that time, and I became increasingly aware of how many times I uttered excuses to her: ‘Oh, didn’t I do it? Sorry.’ ‘Oh, is it today? What is wrong with me?’ I didn’t put the washing on. I forgot to tidy up. I accidentally tumble-dried one of her tops and ruined the sparkles on it. But ask me about the First World War, that’s when I really get going…
Mick recommended a therapist friend of his, even though Mick often surmises therapy is for cry babies who need to get over it, whatever it is.
Mick's friend placated me by saying ‘We all forget things. Wallet, birthdays, the name of your teacher in year one infants. Doesn’t mean you’re ill. You’re just human.’
A failing human. As he warmly encouraged me to live my life, all I could think was how this bearded, balding man in a grey turtle-neck jumper resembled Yoffy from ‘Fingermouse’, so how could I take him seriously?
These days I struggle to remember what Mum was like. Only an overview remains. But since she swapped the family home for the care home, I feel more of a connection. I’m not sure if it’s a morbid curiosity about my own plight, should I be correct in my assumption that I will eventually share the same fate as my Mum, but I feel the need to see her more now than I did when she was the dependable mum who would express her love through serving endless cups of tea and cake.
I end my memory game and immediately think about Dad. Not about him, more a random moment in his life. He used to work in finance until he lost his job and we had to move to a much smaller house in a worse area. That moment came to define him, for better or worse. The repetitive arguments between him and Mum over money, the stressful responsibility he felt over the situation… How I would lay in bed listening to them, swearing to God I would fix this one day. Make it alright so they wouldn’t scream at each other. They wouldn’t want for anything, I’d make sure of it.
Dad completely changed careers and wound up working in a hardware store on the high street. I never understood that. Why he turned his back on a far more lucrative job in finance for selling boxes of washers and drill bits. Eventually, Dad bought out the previous owner and ran the shop until Mum received her diagnosis. Then he sold up and looked after Mum for as long as he could.
My thoughts blur along with the passing scenery until I find myself standing in the corridor of a care home, barely able to recall how I got here.
The person on the desk said someone would be with me in a minute, and it’s proving to be a long sixty seconds. I stand on the edge of the day room, where elderly people sit in high-backed chairs. They’re either watching television or staring out of one of the many windows.
An old man calls to me with an ‘Oi, you!’ I try to ignore him, but he keeps calling out. Against my better judgment, I look across at him. He’s sat closest to me looking frail and gaunt. He holds aloft what appears to be a handkerchief.
‘Say hello to Mister Rabbit. Say hello, then!’
I nod an acknowledgement, smiling briefly so as not to engage in any more conversation. A uniformed carer arrives, explaining what that outburst was all about.
‘He thinks it’s his rabbit.’
‘It is!’ yells the old man.
‘Alright, Derek…’
The carer leads me to a room where a bedraggled-looking woman sits by a window. My Mum, June.
The carer leaves me to take a seat next to whoever the stranger is. She looks a bit like my Mum, but it’s not her. My mum left years ago, even before her dementia diagnosis. Or maybe it was me who left? I don’t know where we went astray. Perhaps we fed each other’s insecurities with the things we did and didn’t do or say. All I do know is there wasn't distance and disconnect when I was a child. Perhaps growing up is the biggest sin a child can commit towards a parent?
But now Mum is on another planet, and I don’t know what to say to her, or if she’ll even recognise me or respond. She doesn’t register my presence.
I lean around into her field of vision, studying her expression. ‘Mum. It’s me. Paul. Do you remember me?’ It’s been a while.’
June Angest looks at me, and a flutter of surprise races through me. June smiles, increasingly with warmth.
‘Elliot.’
‘Paul. I’m Paul. Elliot is your youngest. There’s Wayne, your oldest. Then me. Then Brydie, your daughter. Then Elliot.’
‘You’re my favourite.’
June holds my hand, her smile fixed upon me. I don’t know whether to just pretend I’m Elliot, to go along with it or try to put her right. I decide it’s best to get to the point because at this point I doubt it will make any difference.
‘I’ve got some bad news. It’s about Dad. Ivor. Your husband. He’s… gone.’
Mum doesn’t say anything. I don’t even know if she’s listening. I exhale as my eyes roll to heaven for help. All I get is the ceiling. I take a photo from inside my coat pocket and hold it up to June. ‘That’s my Dad. Your husband. Ivor. Ivor Angest.’
Mum shows no reaction. I could be showing her a photo of anyone, but still, I continue with the futile exercise. ‘Dad’s dead. He died. He’s dead.’
The words have no impact on June. I try to make it as plain and clear as possible. ‘We won’t see him again. Ever.’
I frown as she glances at me like I’m being silly as if she knows something I don’t. The carer eventually returns and asks if I would like to stick around for the music therapy session. Apparently “my mother” really engages with it. ‘You can see the joy in her eyes.’
The carer continues to explain a phenomenon called a ‘memory bump’.
‘The music we heard as young people retains an emotional connection, which can resonate with the listener. A favourite song from their youth can soothe the symptoms.’
‘Sounds like budget time travel…’ I uncomfortably jest, not wanting to let on that I know it’s true because I use these prompts every day. Movies. Music. Photos. Memories.
I thank the carer and make an excuse to get out of there. Before I leave the room, I’m prompted to speak by some remote, detached part of me.
‘She always liked golden oldies,’ I say.
‘I think we’ve got some Duran Duran?’ offers the carer, uncertain. I grit my teeth slightly.
‘No, I mean stuff like The Beatles. Their popular stuff, not the experimental, druggy stuff. She only liked the hits. You could try Frankie Valli and The Four Seasons. The Carpenters. Everly Brothers. Some of The Monkees. Uh… Del Shannon’s ‘Poetry in Motion’. I mean, that was her era. Maybe you could try that.’
The carer scribbles down my suggestions. She’s far younger than any of us, so I forgive the studious look on her face as she writes.
‘I know it may not seem like it, but your Mum does appreciate your visits. Not everyone in here is lucky to have a son so caring.’
The Carer is under the impression that I have a heart of gold. I’m here because nobody else in my family can handle their memories of Mum being tainted. I’m here because I can take it.
Once more the carer extends the offer to join the music therapy group. Maybe next time.
Copyright © Andrew Wright 2023