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-fiancƩ, 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, Iām 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.
Ā 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. Itās not my car - Iām only a Professor of History. The Jagās owner, Mick Nicholson, often remarks how weāre like two peas in a pod, both in the same boat. He even refers to himself as a Historian. Heās 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.
āItās something to doā.
Ā Ā 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.
Ā Ā Mick has been mysteriously rich since we first met, doing time as university students (bonding over late-night screenings of āWithnail and Iā). 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 hasnāt progressed beyond behaving like schoolboys - yet I need him. To paraphrase The Pet Shop Boys: I love him, he pays my rent.
Ā Ā This was our dream house. Mine and Meredithās.
Ā Ā 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.
Ā Ā Iād not seen Mick much during the Meredith years. Out of necessity, mainly - I couldnāt expose her to Mickās 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.
Ā Ā Some men of a certain age create themselves a āman caveā; usually a shed at the bottom of their garden containing homemade beer, a dartboard and various throwback decorations from their youth. Mickās 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 doesnāt 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).
Ā Ā 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 Iām 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.
Ā Ā I can go for weeks without seeing Mick: heās either been speeding around country lanes with his blondes, or heās gone on holiday without realising.
Ā Yet even when Mick isnāt 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.
Ā I watch with an anxious thirst as strapping Mick Nicholson creates two cocktails like a clumsy showman. Iām on the edge of my seat as he flips a cocktail shaker, secretly hoping heāll 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.
Ā Ā With the prancing and winks over, Mick pours the results into two glasses. Iām in no mood for commiserating, but I do want that drink.
Mick raises his glass. āTo our fathers. May God bless them, and the wings of angels carry them onwards.ā
āI didnāt know your Dad was dead.ā
āNa, heās living in Eastbourne, might as well be, though. God bless the S.O.B. all the same.ā
Ā Mick knocks back his drink, exhaling a satisfied rasp. āRight! For dinner tonight we have some rather splendid slices of salty ham wrapped around some juicy pork with a lovely fennel puree.ā
āCanāt eat,ā I mumble.
āThen we must go out and alleviate this problem. Thereās a new nightclub opening tonight where The Old Cock Inn used to be. You can be the famous American film director Red Rydell and Iāll be regaled Peruvian Doctor Shamus Choletā¦ā
Ā Before I can pour cold water on Mickās debaucheries, he snaps his fingers loudly.
āOh. Yes. Which reminds me. I met a delectable young filly today. Got on like a spark at a petrol station. Reckons sheās got a friend, sounds right up your alley. Double-date next week! Lock it in!ā Ā Ā
Ā Mick extends a fist for me to punch. Instead, he receives a declining wave.
āIām getting too old for all that.ā
Ā 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 motherās illness lives in the back of my head, reminding me that we share the same fate. Probably.
Ā I bolster my position. āIām serious. People are a minefield best avoided.ā
āMmm. Donāt let the same dog bite you twice, mmmā¦ā Mick muses, and from his slightly mocking tone he hasnāt quite grasped where Iām currently at in my life, so I spell it out.
āIāve just got out of a relationshipā¦ā
Ā Mick erupts with a howl, yelling over me. āAnd how many years has it been! The past is the pastā¦ā
āThe past means nothing to me,ā I say, tired of Mickās persistence.
āFine words from a Professor of History!ā howls Mick.
āā¦ Iām using this time to be nice to myself. Itās quality time for me.ā
āMe time has become You time,ā says Mick, which prompts me to remove myself from this one-sided conversation.
Ā But then I remember something, and my voice cracks awkwardly as I raise a hand of caution.
āUh, Mickā¦ is there any chance you could pay your rent a few days earlier this month? Had a few unexpected out-goings which need coveringā¦ā
āMaybe, 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? Itāll be like the good old days!ā
The rush-hour train to Upminster is unsurprisingly crowded. Someone elseās 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 doesnāt apply to stars of the screen. I refocus my attention on the memory game app on my phone. Itās supposed to aid your brainās recall. According to the app, I have the mind of a nineteen-year-old, which surprises me. And Iām not even sure thatās meant to be a good thing, judging by some of my students.
Ā 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: āOh, didnāt I do it? Sorry.ā āOh, is it today? What is wrong with me?ā I didnāt 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, thatās when I really get goingā¦
Ā 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.
Ā Mick's friend placated me by saying āWe all forget things. Wallet, birthdays, the name of your teacher in year one infants. Doesnāt mean youāre ill. Youāre just human.ā
Ā 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 āFingermouseā, so how could I take him seriously?
Ā 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. Iām not sure if itās 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.
Ā 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 situationā¦ How I would lay in bed listening to them, swearing to God I would fix this one day. Make it alright so they wouldnāt scream at each other. They wouldnāt want for anything, Iād make sure of it.
Ā 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.
Ā 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.
Ā Ā The person on the desk said someone would be with me in a minute, and itās proving to be a long sixty seconds. I stand on the edge of the day room, where elderly people sit in high-backed chairs. Theyāre either watching television or staring out of one of the many windows.
Ā An old man calls to me with an āOi, you!ā I try to ignore him, but he keeps calling out. Against my better judgment, I look across at him. Heās sat closest to me looking frail and gaunt. He holds aloft what appears to be a handkerchief.
āSay hello to Mister Rabbit. Say hello, then!ā
Ā 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.
āHe thinks itās his rabbit.ā
āIt is!ā yells the old man.
āAlright, Derekā¦ā
Ā The carer leads me to a room where a bedraggled-looking woman sits by a window. My Mum, June.
Ā The carer leaves me to take a seat next to whoever the stranger is. She looks a bit like my Mum, but itās not her. My mum left years ago, even before her dementia diagnosis. Or maybe it was me who left? I donāt know where we went astray. Perhaps we fed each otherās insecurities with the things we did and didnāt 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?
Ā But now Mum is on another planet, and I donāt know what to say to her, or if sheāll even recognise me or respond. She doesnāt register my presence.
Ā I lean around into her field of vision, studying her expression. āMum. Itās me. Paul. Do you remember me?ā Itās been a while.ā
Ā June Angest looks at me, and a flutter of surprise races through me. June smiles, increasingly with warmth.
āElliot.ā
āPaul. Iām Paul. Elliot is your youngest. Thereās Wayne, your oldest. Then me. Then Brydie, your daughter. Then Elliot.ā
āYouāre my favourite.ā
Ā June holds my hand, her smile fixed upon me. I donāt know whether to just pretend Iām Elliot, to go along with it or try to put her right. I decide itās best to get to the point because at this point I doubt it will make any difference.
āIāve got some bad news. Itās about Dad. Ivor. Your husband. Heāsā¦ gone.ā
Ā Mum doesnāt say anything. I donāt even know if sheās 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. āThatās my Dad. Your husband. Ivor. Ivor Angest.ā
Mum shows no reaction. I could be showing her a photo of anyone, but still, I continue with the futile exercise. āDadās dead. He died. Heās dead.ā
Ā The words have no impact on June. I try to make it as plain and clear as possible. āWe wonāt see him again. Ever.ā
Ā I frown as she glances at me like Iām being silly as if she knows something I donāt. The carer eventually returns and asks if I would like to stick around for the music therapy session. Apparently āmy motherā really engages with it. āYou can see the joy in her eyes.ā
Ā The carer continues to explain a phenomenon called a āmemory bumpā.
āThe 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.ā
āSounds like budget time travelā¦ā I uncomfortably jest, not wanting to let on that I know itās true because I use these prompts every day. Movies. Music. Photos. Memories.
Ā I thank the carer and make an excuse to get out of there. Before I leave the room, Iām prompted to speak by some remote, detached part of me.
āShe always liked golden oldies,ā I say.
āI think weāve got some Duran Duran?ā offers the carer, uncertain. I grit my teeth slightly.
āNo, 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. Uhā¦ Del Shannonās āPoetry in Motionā. I mean, that was her era. Maybe you could try that.ā
Ā The carer scribbles down my suggestions. Sheās far younger than any of us, so I forgive the studious look on her face as she writes.
āI 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.ā
Ā The Carer is under the impression that I have a heart of gold. Iām here because nobody else in my family can handle their memories of Mum being tainted. Iām here because I can take it.
Once more the carer extends the offer to join the music therapy group. Maybe next time.
Copyright Ā© Andrew Wright 2023