Andalucia

Richard W Hardwick

Description

When someone you love is diagnosed with cancer, every second you have left with them is precious.

Richard W Hardwick wrote about his partner's breast cancer to help him cope, and then he wrote about their past because he was scared she might not be there to help him remember it for their children. Andalucia tells the story of a young couple falling in love in the Golan Heights, bathing in the Sea of Galilee, living in the cheapest hostel in Amsterdam's red-light district and becoming homeless in Greece. Past and present is skilfully woven together to form a unique and beautiful portrait of a family facing the ultimate fear.

Gripping, heart-breaking, raw and inspiring, Andalucia is an unforgettable journey, both geographically and of the soul. It is also a life-affirming celebration of the strength of human spirit, the healing power of nature and the importance of community.

'Told with courage, humour and love, Andalucia weaves past and present with great skill so the pace of the narrative never falters. There is a zest for life on every page of this book which I found both moving and inspiring'
- Pat Barker, winner of the Booker Prize.

Sujets

• Santé et bien-être
• Santé du quotidien
• Diseases
• Health
• Fitness
• Cancer
• Santé au quotidien
• Santé au quotidien

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 21 février 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780956955517
• Langue: English

Extrait

PRAISE FOR KICKED OUT
 
A novel to stand up alongside Irvine Welsh’s Trainspotting, offering a window into the youth of today. A fantastic book expressing the cynicism and dissatisfaction of those on the edge of society
Waterstone's Recommended Read
 
The narrative is so strong, the characters and dialogue so real, the situation so heart-breaking. This is masterful and should win several literary prizes
Patricia J. Delois, author of Bufflehead Sisters
 
Hardwick’s writing has the power and humanity to make you wonder about the way you see the world, and to give voice to those whose stories usually remain untold
Laura Brewis, New Writing North
 
A truly compelling page-turner
Inside Time, the National Newspaper for Prisoners
 
Hard-hitting, at times hilarious...fantastic
The Crack
 


 
 
ANDALUCIA
 
 
 
 
RICHARD W HARDWICK
 
 
 


Lapwing Books
31 Southward
Seaton Sluice
Northumberland NE26 4DQ
 
ISBN 978-0-9569555-1-7
 
Copyright © Richard W Hardwick 2011
 
Published in eBook format by Lapwing Books
Converted by http://www.eBookIt.com
 
 
The right of Richard W Hardwick to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.
 
Cover by Tustin Design
 


 
 
For Anna, Joe and Isla…
 
 
PART I
 
 
She’s on her feet before her surname echoes off the wall behind. Towards the smiling nurse she strides. I get up slower, gather my book, my empty bottle of water, shuffle after. But then I’m spotted. And the nurse takes her gaze from Anna’s slim face, her long brown hair. And her expression changes as her hand comes up.
“She’s only going for the...”
Mumbles something like she doesn’t want to say the words.
I presume Anna's going to sign her name, check details, will be back in two minutes. Surely I’ll be allowed to support her all the way through? So I wander back across the waiting room, look round at faces that fall away rather than make eye contact. And I sit back down in Anna’s chair, still warm. The door does open two minutes later but it’s the nurse that comes out. I sling her a dirty look, turn to the telly, watch history unfolding. Barrack Obama smiles back at me. Helicopter pictures of the celebrating masses. Braving the weather, that’s what the presenter says. While around me, in warm silence, sit ten or so people; waiting to hear about themselves or their loved ones.
Inauguration:
To commence officially or formally; to initiate.
The doctor had said, “It doesn’t feel like cancer,” smiled affectionately. Anna returned the smile and then the nurse smiled too. I remembered to breathe out again. Everything’s going to be alright; that’s what all the smiles meant.
“But you need to have the mammogram,” he added. “Just in case”
And I’m still here. And it’s getting on for an hour now. And I couldn’t give a toss that the world might be changing for the better. Eventually she comes out, slower than she went in, a little unsteady on her feet, says they had to test some cells. They’d squished her this way and that. It was bigger than it seemed. They have to stick a needle into it, send it to the lab. I hold her hand, still warm and inviting; grip it tighter than I normally would.
Then we’re back in the same room as before and the doctor pushes a long thin needle into her breast and the tears come rolling down her cheeks as she grits her teeth against the pain. And the nurse holds her shaking hand while I sit uselessly at the foot of the bed.
“Pretty worried,” is what the doctor says this time. “That’s why they have the mammogram, the ultrasound. It’s difficult to tell just from feeling”
And then more waiting. Except this time we’ve moved along the conveyor belt and the silence has a thickness that’s rarely challenged. Now there’s just six, the lucky ones allowed to leave, take their relief with them, return to normal lives. A woman’s legs buckle. She’s picked off the floor and taken to a private room. The doctor rushes in. An hour later a nurse pushes her out in a wheelchair, past legs that move quickly, eyes averted elsewhere. Two more go in and then come out, just a quick five minutes for both of them. And then, second from last, after two more hours of waiting, two more hours of hand holding and leg rubbing, they call out her name again...
This time we go past the room we’ve already been in three times, the room we’ve seen others go in, come out of. Two doors down is where we go. A different nurse introduces herself, says the doctor will be along in a few minutes.
And we sit there. And we look around at the leaflets on the wall. And we know...
Cancer is your name. But many call you Big C.
It’s shorter. And easier.
Thirty-six years old with cancer. A girl that people always turn to when things fall apart. A girl that always knows the right thing to do, the right thing to say.
But she can’t answer the question the nurse asks her.
“Do you have any children?”
She breaks down and I answer instead. Explain we have a five year old boy called Joe. A two year old girl called Isla.
•
 
She asked if she had the right group, seemed a little nervous, sat down on carpet and crossed legs, black hat perched above dyed black hair, black clothes flowing all around. After a few seconds studying carpet pattern she looked up and across at the four blondes in designer clothes lined up on the chairs. Then she glanced at my flowery shirt, my slicked back pony tail, and she felt very different. And though it wasn’t love at first sight for me either, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t interested.
She sat next to Pete on the aeroplane, swapped with Helen because he was terrified of flying, held his hand while we took off. Over Western and Eastern Europe we went, out over the Mediterranean, round the south of Turkey and above Cyprus until eventually Tel Aviv slipped into sight down below. There was nothing political in my choice of destination. I’m not Jewish and I wasn’t going to work with oppressed Palestinians. I was simply going as far away from London as I could with what money I had, away from ecstasy and the dull blur of alcohol, away from the office job that was never as exciting as people pretended it was. I was twenty-one years old, going to work the land, sweep clean my mind. I was going for an adventure. And if love came around too; well, that would be a bonus. Anna was eighteen, had three months before starting nursing training. She wanted to go to Nepal with a lad she fancied, sold everything she had in a car boot sale but didn’t make enough money so joined the Sheffield kibbutz group instead. But they didn’t fly for another month and she wanted to leave straight away. The London group agreed to take her but needed to check availability, then quickly responded with the news that there was just one seat left on the plane. Anna got it.
On such small details whole lives and families are created.
A large cemetery came into focus as we descended, tiny rectangles of gravestones in orderly rows, trees greener than those in England, streets and fields drier, white buildings illuminated in a land used to fierce sun. Over a busy dual carriageway and down to a runway and a round of applause that brought bemused looks from nine young Brits. Past the suspicious questions of customs, the furrowed brows of armed soldiers, through a dark alley with railings on either side, staring people crushed outside, arms and legs flailing through. And into a waiting minibus.
The driver didn’t speak much, just straightened his gun on the dashboard, pressed down on accelerator. I sat next to Anna as we bounced on hard seats, looked out at wide streets, people drinking coffee outside cafes, white and pale modern buildings, military camps with high walls. Leaving the city behind, we journeyed through camel coloured fields, past clusters of houses as seen on tv , hitch-hiking soldiers and ancient gnarled trees. Shirley passed forward a Motown tape. Giggles turned to song. The driver looked in his mirror and smirked. Past Jenin and through Afula we went, round the southern tip of the Sea of Galilee as the last of the sun fell away behind us. Then, the tape finished, we drove up, up, up into the darkness of the Golan Heights. Aware we were on occupied territory the minibus fell into apprehensive silence as we started to wonder about our destination; Kibbutz Afiq. The woman at Kibbutz Representatives explained it was the nearest settlement to both Jordan and Syria, saw our concerned faces and said, ‘Don’t worry, there’s an army regiment based there the whole time.’ Eventually we reached the top and continued over flat land and what seemed like nothing else until we sighted small lights on our right beyond high barbed wire fences. The driver slowed. And we pulled up at large gates in front of a manned and armed watchtower, highlighted by our headlights in the darkness.
•
I push the trolley down the aisle looking for cooking chocolate. I push back the tears as well, as some cliché ridden pop song plays softly over the speakers, a song I would have ignored two days earlier, probably mocked.
She wants to stay positive she says, as we walk down the beach hand in hand.
I leave her at six thirty a.m. to drive to work, leave her for the first time since the news, leave her with both children because Joe has a temperature, is too unwell to go to school. I feel guilty but she wants everything to be as normal as possible, and anyway we need the money. And if I don’t go to work, I don’t get paid. I can’t focus; just stand there while everyone else makes small talk. Those that know why I was off two days ago come up and then push back their