Threats and treats usually work, especially if they’re related to something he values, like pudding or telly or books. Isla will stare and stamp her feet. She’ll call your bluff or make a pre-emptive strike. If she doesn’t get books until she’s brushed her teeth then so be it; she’ll just go straight to bed instead. And she’ll do it with a swagger rather than a stomp. Her favourite hobby is changing her mind. And her favourite word is “actually.”
•
Disgruntled at having one bottle of wine between eleven at the Shabbat meal, Anna, Rob and I waited until everyone had left, then sneaked though the kitchens and stole seven unfinished bottles. At the time we felt little shame in this. After all, one opened bottle of wine was placed on every table and most Israelis drank very little. It wouldn’t keep for a whole week until the next Shabbat surely? However, like naughty children getting away with something and enjoying the rewards, this soon developed into a weekly habit, much to the amusement of the Golani. They came over to our table quite often, sometimes even ventured up to the far edge of the kibbutz where our volunteer houses were situated. Sharon, Shirley and Helen had been along to their section of houses, nicknamed The Bronx by the rest of the kibbutz. Of course the soldiers were more interested in females than males, and the girls didn’t seem to mind. Attention from swarthy young males with machine guns, with an underlying sensitivity too, captured in a situation beyond their control, inspired notions of romance and excitement. There were female soldiers too, and it always seemed odd to see girls younger than me, hair down their backs, carrying Uzi submachine guns. But they were content to stay within their group in the main, not venture out our way. With the exception of Marla and Denis, her American footballer husband who converted to Judaism to raise a family in the Golan, and a couple of others, the residents of Afiq said very little to us, just nodded or smiled or did neither. The soldiers though; they worked with us, were away from their homes too. About thirty in number, they were separated into eighteen year olds who had just joined the army and would soon have to see ‘real’ service, and those in their early twenties who were finishing their final year and were up at Afiq to recuperate before going home. They saw young people their same age, from another side of the world, and they looked at us in wonder, sometimes in envy. To be brought up in peace, to be free of paranoia as you walked down the street, to not have to worry about invasion of your country or being called upon to invade another, to be able to roam the earth and discover new worlds. This was all something they found difficult to comprehend.
•
My first day back at work. I walk alongside huge concrete walls, damp lichen curling over the top, climbing out from inside, rising from the bottom too, as if reaching out fingers to help. What look like barnacles crust into the middle, standing their ground. Fixed into position to keep the two growths apart. The singing of birds in nearby trees is disturbed by the barking of guard dogs stretching their vocal chords, straining at the leash. I walk into the staff entrance, take my shoes and belt off. Empty my pockets.
People want to know how the results went, expect good news. I’ve decided five is the maximum number of people I can speak to. I wanted to go out for dinner, get away from everyone, but there’s a leaving buffet. I’m eating crunchy bread and paté when someone slides up to me.
“Alright? Where have you been then? Off on holiday?”
He nearly spits his pork pie out when I tell him. Two minutes later, another colleague tells me dogs can smell cancer; start behaving differently. I feel blank in response, can’t think of anything to say. Can’t remember our dog acting any different.
We plan to spend the day in the garden, sorting out a timetable for the coming six months, how to get the vegetable plots bursting with goodness. But I need to send out invites for the launch of my first novel and Isla is off nursery sick and needs attention. So the day becomes a couple of hours instead. It’s Anna’s favourite place, the garden. Under these circumstances it could prove the difference between life and death. I pull old sprout plants out, cut them into the compost, tell myself I need to pull my weight in the garden more, research cancer and the immune system.
Joe’s watching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, climbing onto the arm of the couch and jumping off, seeing how far he can propel himself through the air before landing on the wooden floor. And all this without taking his eyes off the telly. Another text comes through, one of many, the same as phone calls. Anna replies to most of the texts, leaves the majority of phone calls unanswered. Says she can only manage one conversation a day. If she answered the phone every time, accepted all requests to pop round, she’d be talking about her own cancer from the moment she woke up to the moment she put her head down. I pick the Sunday paper up, see the headline, “Cancer deaths to double in next forty years,” put it down instead, turn the radio on to find football scores, find out Eastenders Wendy Richard died just hours ago from the same disease.
Walking Caffrey early morning I see Brian about fifty metres away, stick in air, border collie ready to spring into action. I turn left instead, head away from him, towards the dene and muddy puddles. He doesn’t see me. But I’m sure he’d understand.
I get a group e-mail from Richard, Anna’s brother, about the annual summer party weekend he throws. He updates everyone on his wife’s pregnancy, then tells about Anna, states “survival has been downgraded from very good to good.” The sentence sticks in my throat, highlights stark truth, no matter how positive I want to be. It sounds terrifying. I don’t see the larger percentage that makes up ‘good’ when I read that sentence. I see the removal of ‘very.’ I see the smaller percentage, the one that stands for death, the one that’s increased, that could still be growing. My brother-in-law works just a few corridors away from where Anna was diagnosed. He’s a doctor.
My sister phones, the first time I’ve spoken to her since Anna was diagnosed with cancer. She breaks down on the phone, eventually gets it together again, says she loves us all, will do anything she can to help. I’m on the Internet, researching. Anna doesn’t want to herself, says she’ll take advice from me but won’t alter her lifestyle too much. I don’t understand. Her basic knowledge is far greater than mine. I have to start from scratch. But maybe that’s part of the reason. I read how chemotherapy and radiotherapy destroy healthy cells as well as cancerous ones, how they do more harm than good according to some reports, how some people recommend going nowhere near them. I read that a study of more than six hundred cancer patients who died within thirty days of receiving treatment showed chemotherapy probably caused or hastened death in twenty-seven percent of cases. In only thirty-five percent of these cases was care judged to have been good by the inquiry’s advisors, with forty-nine percent having room for improvement and eight per cent receiving less than satisfactory care. I read a study that shows chemotherapy can change the blood flow and metabolism of the brain in ways that can linger for ten years or more after treatment, that this could help explain the confusion, sometimes called “chemo brain,” reported by many chemotherapy patients. And The Times’ website tells me 300,000 patients now receive chemotherapy in the uk each year, a sixty per cent increase compared to 2004. Furthermore, cancer causes thirteen percent of all human deaths. And according to the American Cancer Society, 7.6 million people throughout the world died from cancer during 2007. I don’t tell Anna about these findings. She’ll put her life in the hands of the medical profession. She comes from a medical background. It’s the only thing she can do. If there’s any complimentary medicine or vitamins on offer and the medical profession don’t argue against them, then she’ll have those too she says, as long as there aren’t too many.
I come up with four supplements that are said to be vital in fighting cancer, but then I find another four, and then more too. We can’t afford all of them and Anna won’t pop loads of pills each meal time anyway. I don’t know which ones to buy. I don’t know which would be more useful, which could be vital. So I click on four, close my eyes and hope for the best.
•
We bounced along on the back of a trailer, half asleep and holding on for dear life as the sunrise slowly announced itself and smoke from our cheap cigarettes curled upwards to meet it. Fifteen minutes later a large man with curly black hair and straight face introduced himself as Amit, showed us a square of wood with a circle cut out the middle. We were picking apples he said, and he didn’t expect any that