That Elusive Cure 27

I woke up and didn’t move for a long time. Yesterday’s turn of events still had me in a state of shock. We’d concocted a story to fool Mum. My mission was to talk in an exaggerated way about how Margret was carrying on with one of the other Old Codgers. Dad was going to spend the afternoon at the boat club, cleaning his dingy, and that’s when I was scheduled to corner my mother and put her mind at ease.

 

My phone beeped and I grabbed it from the bedside cabinet. Oh, God. It was Janie.

 

One more session to go! Are you excited for tomorrow?

 

Damn her and her attentiveness. How on earth was I going to fool her into thinking I was cured after tomorrow? Shit.

 

Jimmy was in his study banging away on his keyboard and whistling tunelessly along to whatever music was coming through his headphones. It occurred to me that I didn’t know Jimmy’s plan to fix the pod. I put the phone down and chose to ignore the message for now. Maybe Jimmy would fix the machine and I could text her screams and shouts about how I was cured. Maybe pigs would fly.

 

“Oi, Jimmy.” Feeling lazy, or maybe chemo tiredness, I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t feel like going to him. “Jimmy!” I shouted.

 

“What?”

 

“Come here, I want to talk to you.”

 

I heard a sigh, then a clunk as the headphones landed on the desk.

 

“What? Some of us are trying to work, you know.”

 

I smiled, this was his daily disclaimer. My guess was he was scanning The Daily Mail headlines. He came into the room, went around the bed and opened the curtains a little. The sun came in, making me blink as Jimmy leaned up against the window sill.

 

“What’s going on with the machine?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

I rolled my eyes. “Your plan, dummy. To mend it.”

 

“Well, I took a sample of the gas and sent it off to a lab I found this morning.”

 

“You’ve sent it off?” Surprised, I glanced at my clock. It wasn’t even ten o’clock. That was dedication, even for Jimmy.

 

He nodded. “I found a research lab where this Dr Evans is experimenting with nanotechnology. We’ve been chatting over the email, and he agreed to test the vial of gas.”

 

“How much did you tell him?” Visions of a gang of white-coated scientists breaking into the church and stealing the pod made me tense up.

 

Jimmy must have noticed my stress and said, “Don’t worry, he has only a few details. He certainly doesn’t know about the pod, and he doesn’t know about the church.”

 

“Then how did you explain the gas?”

 

“Ah-ha!” Jimmy beamed a wide smile at me. “I told him I was doing my own experimentation and needed a better lab to test what I managed to produce. He was so curious about what a ‘civilian’ might be able to come up that I didn’t even have to ask. Evans told me to courier over the sample. So I did.”

 

He gave me a Cheshire Cat grin. He did remember that if it wasn’t for him he wouldn’t have any need to be pulling the wool over that poor scientist’s eyes? I’d be nearly fixed and ready to live to an old age.

 

“Well, I’ve got my own research to do. Who knows, maybe I’ll be able to get some information which can help you.”

 

Jimmy cocked his head ever so slightly. “What are you up to?”

 

“Let me do my research and I’ll let you know.” I rolled out of bed. “Now back to your study. Some of us have work to do, you know.”

 

Was this forgiveness? Jimmy certainly took it that way, giving my backside a gentle slap as he left the room. Did I think it was forgiveness? No, not really. More like forced acceptance. All the anger in the world wasn’t going to fix that pod.

 

I shrugged on my dressing gown and made my way downstairs. First things first, I filled the kettle and set it to boil. Then I got my laptop out and opened it up. On the Google page I typed in: find out who owns a house. The results came up. Of course, Land Registry. I clicked the link and read the page. £3 to find out who owned a property. I opened up a new page and pulled up a map of Birkenhead. I found the road the church was on and then Googled that for more information. I was rewarded with the street number and a post code. Back on the Land Registry site, I plugged in the info, paid my £3 and waited for the email with the information.

 

Amazing, just a minute later and I had my information. My heart beat surprisingly quickly as I clicked the link opened a webpage. A basic white form told me the on the third line that the owner was Richard Neil Newland and listed his address.

 

This was too easy I thought as I jotted the information down on a piece of paper. Richard Newland lived in Calday, according to this, but the purchase had been made in 2002. Would he still be there eleven years later? The phone book didn’t list him, but that didn’t mean anything. It might simply mean he was ex-directory. Calday was just a few villages away from where I lived, no reason why I couldn’t go to his house or… send him a letter, of course!

 

Feeling rather like a stalker, I composed a letter to Mr Newland. I crumpled it up and wrote another. That one ended up in the bin as well. What could I say that didn’t make me sound odd? Odd would not get me an audience with him. Needing some time to think I had a long shower and got dressed leisurely, mulling over words and phrases. I settled for this:

 

Dear Mr Newland,

I hope you don’t mind me writing to you. I am very lucky to have possession of the key to your church. I am so grateful of your generous gift of the machine, and hope to be cancer-free in the near future.

My curiosity about the machine is tremendous, and I was wondering if you would be willing to tell me the history of how you came across it? All information will of course be treated as confidential.

I hope to hear from you soon.

Warm regards,

Kath Wyatt

 

With my contact details listed, giving him a choice of email, text, phone or letter, I figured I might have a shot of a reply. I sealed up my letter, stuck on a stamp and before I lost my nerve walked it down to the post box.

 

Now to deal with Mum. I checked my watch, Dad would have left for the boat club by now. I had about two hours to have my chat. Finding the address for Mr Newland had buoyed me. I felt lucky, like I should be buying lottery tickets kind of lucky. Mum was going to be a doddle. All I had to do was explain about Margret, give Mum a cuddle as she cried with relief, then leave as Dad got home so they could have an evening of making up. Easy-peasy.

 

I walked home from the post box whistling, the sun on my face, a warm breeze blowing through my hair. There was an anniversary to plan, a mother to reassure, a baby to look forward to, and a scan to amaze the doctors with. I might not be cured yet, but life was good.