Andalucia. Richard W Hardwick

at each other and continued climbing, turned round to convince ourselves we were really there. I touched the top of her sun darkened back, her shoulder that glistened with sweat. I pretended to pull her up, an excuse to hold her hand while she laughed along, and Ricky got the sack back down below. It took us three hours to arrive at the top, another hour to make our way back to Afiq. But there, climbing that dusty road under deep blue skies, unable to venture off track because of signs that warned of landmines, we were as happy as we ever could be.

      •

      Anna goes off to Newcastle for her hastily arranged appointment with a breast care nurse, hoping to find something for Isla’s birthday beforehand. I pick Joe up from school, ask if he wants a story cd for the car as we’re going to get Isla from nursery.

      He wants “rock-star” music, asks if I have any.

      “Of course.” I walk over to my music collection. “I’ve got lots”

      “Yes Daddy, but does it have guitars?”

      “Oh yes”

      “And drums as well? Does it have drums?”

      I smile to myself. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. He didn’t like “noisy” music before. He preferred classical.

      “All rock-star music has guitars and drums Joe”

      Fifteen minutes later we’re driving through North Shields listening to The Ramones on high volume and I find myself disappointed that Joe isn’t trying to jump out of his booster seat, that he hasn’t commented how cool the police siren start to Psycho Therapy is. Isla’s overjoyed to see her big brother, rushes to cuddle him. I stand there, proud parent of two beautiful, intelligent and sensitive children. Things are different on the way home though. If Isla isn’t shouting then Joe’s moaning. And if Joe isn’t moaning then Isla’s shouting. Most of the time though, there’s both shouting and moaning. When they start hitting each other I lose my temper, yell at them to behave and keep quiet. But then we turn into our street and Joe spots Anna out the window. His moaning stops instantly and I haven’t applied the handbrake before he’s running down the street towards her. Isla’s not far behind, screaming in delight. I look down the pavement at them all hugging, seatbelt tight to my chest, stopping my heart from falling out. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. They don’t have a clue about what’s to come, about what their Mammy has to go through, about how it could kill her.

      Anna’s been reassured by the nurse but can’t remember anything she was told. Later she remembers the nurse has worked in breast care for over eleven years and only once has seen cancer spread from one breast to the other. In all other instances of two breasts being infected they’ve been separate cases of cancer. We look at each other, smile weakly. Every time we’ve received news so far it’s been terrible, the situation worsening. People say ‘don’t worry, she’s young and healthy, she’ll fight it off.’ I’ve heard it numerous times. Don’t they realise? When you’re younger your cells multiply faster. Cancer spreads quicker. But then, what did I know about cancer, even just a few days ago? Since diagnosis she’s received mountains of cakes and chocolates from friends, all well-meaning and given with love. Tumours feed on sugars, devour them. It’s the worst possible thing you can eat. I look at her; that lost expression when the children aren’t around, when she’s not doing something to take her mind from it. She’s slim, small chested too. It wouldn’t have far to travel from one to the other. But I say something designed to be reassuring. She has another appointment on Tuesday, to see if she has cancer in the other breast. And, I presume, to ask about the likelihood of cancer elsewhere; and chances of survival. Tuesday is important for another reason too. It’s March 10th; Isla’s third birthday.

      •

      We were told to stay in the living room with the lights off until the military exercise was finished. A neighbouring kibbutz’s soldiers were going to invade and see if they could take over some of the houses. If we’d known what was to happen the very next night we wouldn’t have found it all so exciting, wouldn’t have smiled at the irony of such timing. The operation was over the other side of Afiq so we couldn’t see anything. Instead, we lit a candle and told ghost stories. It only took twenty minutes but nobody told us. We stayed like that for over two hours until someone saw Hagai wandering about. Then, with lights on, we talked about travelling. Anna said she couldn’t. It didn’t matter how much she wanted to. She had to move to Newcastle in January to start nursing training. Everything was organised. Helen said everyone was getting itchy feet because three weeks had elapsed and with it came the growing realisation that this was not a holiday. We’d signed up for the kibbutz way of life for three months though it was becoming obvious some wouldn’t make it that far. Natural groups had formed; me with Anna, Rob and Helen; Sharon with Shirley, Jane with Sarah and Pete by himself. Late at night Anna and I walked across the Golan to the pub at Bnei Yehuda, just the two of us. On the way back we walked beneath rockets that made strange hissing noises and lit up the night sky over the Syrian border. I wanted to take hold of her hand as we hurried along but didn’t dare, didn’t want her to realise how scared I was. Then back at the volunteer houses we found a scorpion in the shower room. Rob ushered it out with a broom before we shut all doors tight, checked beds and sleeping bags, clothes and boots as they prefer dark comfy places. And then we turned the lights off and crawled into beds with nerves on edge.