Feb.2023
We meet on Praed Street in Paddington by the bus stop. Me and the two Tony’s. It is busy – lots of traffic, lots of people, road works, building works. It is a grey February morning and there is a slight drizzle.
The hospital is a warren of buildings new and old. Almost impossible to navigate around but we know our way. For the last year we have been coming here for appointments with the Oncology team. The reception staff know us now – the three old white men, they call us the three musketeers. Tony no longer exclaims that he is unhappy to be here because he has got cancer, every time they say “Hello, how are you.” It was true and it was funny, and it had an edge of performance in it. No wonder they remember us. But it would be an old joke now.
The Consultant sits with his entourage. All young women. Well younger than us. He is a middle-aged alpha male holding court. He exudes all the confidence and bonhomie of a man in his position. Up until now he has been relentlessly positive and keen on operating. He is a man who loves his work, and he seemed genuinely disappointed when Tony wasn’t so keen. Tony is another big man, another alpha male, but I have to accept that he is old now, and somewhat reduced by what the GP says is mild cognitive impairment. It doesn’t seem mild. I suppose it depends where you start from – and Tony has been the most intelligent, witty, articulate wordsmith you could wish to meet. He even manages to be articulate still, describing objects or concepts beautifully or humorously, when he can’t find the actual words. We are sitting here. They don’t really know who he is. The extent of him. Or who we are. How we have lived. How we live. He is Tony Allen the master of alternative cabaret and we have both been his friends for nearly fifty years.
The Consultant manages to keep up the booming confident presentation, but I notice that his legs are nervous. His feet tapping the floor rapidly like a kid who can’t settle. Perhaps not surprising because he has bad news. The cancer has spread and is no longer operable. When pressed he says Tony has between 6 and 12 months to live. Tony is calm and doesn’t show much emotion. None of us do. Not here. He even thanks the Consultant when we leave.
They won’t see the three musketeers here again – perhaps they will wonder what happened to us. Perhaps they know – some recover and most die. They have been very kind to us three old men, and we appreciate it.
We go to the pub. It is still only 10.30 a.m. but the pub upstairs in Paddington station is open. The Bear and the Bishop – big and roomy and lots of space where we can sit and talk. Three pints of London Pride. I find myself sobbing. This sets off the other two. Tony hugs me. The old men cry into their beer. We talk about everything. Life, death, memories, fears. We tell stories in the way that men do with old comrades – stories about past loves, past adventures, and triumphs. We are loud and unrestrained. We are still there three hours later. Don’t judge the early morning drinkers I think, maybe they are just like us.