Search the Skies on Christmas Eve - 5. Gallagher & Martin

Gallagher & Martin

Gallagher came out of the bathroom and noticed Martin had neither moved nor made any attempt to dress for dinner. Still sat on the side of the bed with a towel wrapped around his waist, he leant forward with his head in his hands, elbows on his knees, staring out the window. Fading light accentuated the serenity of the loch, the smooth surface as still as a mirror. In contrast, the ribs of Martin's back stood out as sharp ridges in the snowy white flesh as did the severe curved scar of the operation which ran beneath his shoulder, purple and livid. According to Stephen, their doctor friend, the operation had gone well, and the scarring would heal given time and care and patience.

But all too often wounds under such circumstances went far deeper than the flesh.

Rubbing his hair with a towel, Gallagher had a fair idea of what was going through his partner's mind and made a point of steering clear.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he said.

On the first floor of the lodge, their spacious semi-circular bedroom patio windows overlooked the sprawling water with Ben Nevis rising beyond, a backdrop of majesty and magnificence. Gallagher had a feeling they had been gifted the best bedroom in the lodge.

"We take so much for granted, don't we?” said Martin. “I'm glad we finally made it to Scotland."

"Even if only for a couple of nights."

Still without turning, Martin sighed deeply.

"We never got to see New York in Winter. Or to visit Saint Lucia or Barbados in the Caribbean. There's so much I wish we could have—"

"Don't do that, Martin."

Gallagher instantly regretted the harshness of his voice. Martin began to turn but winced at the movement. Eight months since the operation to remove cancer from his lung, and Martin still considered the original diagnosis, a death sentence. Gallagher half suspected Martin felt no real pain when moving—maybe a tightness—but had become so accustomed to being over-cautious he avoided any action which might cause him to aggravate the scar.

"I'm not—"

"Yes, you are. You promised to stay positive. I know we should have had the full report by now, but I'm sure we'll get it soon enough. Stephen said there's every reason to be optimistic—"

"Stephen is a doctor, not God. Look at Sebastian."

Sebastian had been Stephen's former lover, who died of oesophagal cancer.

"Not the same, love. Sebastian's cancer was diagnosed in the late stages when it had already spread. Yours has been caught early. You have every reason, we have every reason to be optimistic. You know this already, Marty. I realise this has been tough on you, but I need you—"

Gallagher's voice broke, a sudden wave of emotion overcoming him, and through the threat of tears saw Martin finally rise, to come over and place his thin arms around him.

"Oh God, I'm sorry, Gal. I know this has been tough on you, too. But you know why I'm worried. My father died of exactly the same thing in his early fifties. And, like me, he never smoked a day in his life. What with the op and then that hideous course of chemo, I'm shattered and exhausted and running on empty. So if I'm being a pathetic old sod, having moments of doubt and self-pity, please just humour me."

Gallagher clung to his lover and squeezed his eyes shut when he felt them begin to sting. Every step of the way he had been there for Martin, had smiled encouragement through the diagnosis, held tight to his hand while he lay on the gurney in the soulless hospital corridor waiting to be taken in for the operation, had helped him through the worst of the appalling chemotherapy side effects. Stephen had warned them about the body's potential reactions—and poor Martin appeared to have suffered the very worst.

Gallagher had never complained, always there to clean up after him, to try and keep him positive. Truth is, as selfish as it sounded, the thought of losing the partner he had known and loved for more than half his life terrified him.

And the kicker? He had managed to hold everything stoically together, remained stalwart, made up adequate excuses why they couldn't attend functions such as Jaymes and Nathan's summer fête in June—that Martin had been feeling poorly—had even managed to keep both shops running while Martin recuperated at home.

But when Stephen and Anton brought the child they were in the process of adopting, Rauf, to visit, the shy six-year-old Ghanaian boy who had immediately taken to Martin and squeezed in beside him on the settee, a few bricks in the wall of Gallagher's fortress crumbled.

All together in the living room, a Winnie-the-Pooh movie on in the background, Stephen standing by the window on the phone talking to a patient, Martin not quite alert on his medication but trying hard to keep up with Anton chatting about something innocuous, a few simple lines between Pooh and Piglet on the television had blindsided Gallagher.

'We'll be friends forever, won't we, Pooh?' asked Piglet.

'Even longer,' Pooh answered. 'If ever there is tomorrow when we're not together...there is something you must always remember. You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. But the most important thing is, even if we're apart… I'll always be with you.'

Rauf had turned to look at Gallagher with such a piercing yet innocent stare, smiling his brilliant smile, clearly enjoying the scene. The sudden rush of emotions had overwhelmed Gallagher, and he quickly excused himself to use the bathroom.

Inside the small room, he had sat down on the lavatory seat, put his head into a hand towel and wept silently.

"Gal," said Martin quietly, not letting go their embrace. "If the report comes back and it's bad, I want you to know now that I am not going through another course of chemo. I simply won't. We'll just let nature take its course. And if that is the case, please don't do what Stephen did with Sebastian and set up a hospital bed for me at home. I'd rather be in a hospice, with carers on call. Please do this one thing for me. I love our house, the happiness and wonderful times we've shared there, and I don't want the memory tainted with disease and suffering."

"Oh, God, Marty. Stop now. You're killing me here—"

"Promise me. Because you know what Stephen's like. He'll push me to keep going. I need you on my side for this."

Gallagher pulled away from Martin so he could look him in the eye, but they still kept their hands locked. Gallagher had to dig deep to hold everything together.

"I promise."

"And when we get back home, let's sit down properly and discuss you."

"Me?"

"Yes, and what you're going to do. I can't leave this world thinking you're going to be all alone for the rest of your life. "

When Gallagher began to object, Martin pulled his hand up and placed his fingers gently over Gallagher's mouth.

"But not tonight. Tonight we're both going to get dolled up, go downstairs, and enjoy the evening. Only you, Stephen, and by default, Anton, know the truth about me and I'd like to leave things that way. So please be natural around me, like our old selves. Don't smother me with concern, or constantly ask how I'm feeling. I know you mean well, but sometimes it's suffocating. More importantly, even though I best not touch alcohol yet, I think my appetite's coming back. So let's have this one normal night and pretend nothing's wrong."

With longtime familiarity, they moved around each other, picking clothes out they had hung earlier and dressing without getting in each other's way. Gallagher stopped at one point as Martin pulled on his shirt, but held back his automatic response to help Martin with the sleeve. Even if he moved slower and more carefully than usual, Martin managed just fine. As Gallagher pulled on his sweater and checked himself in the mirror—and secretly peered over his shoulder at Martin sitting on the side of the bed tying a shoelace—a soft knock sounded on their bedroom door.

"Come in, whoever you are. We're both decent."

As the door opened, the face of little Rauf peered in.

"Uncle Martin, Uncle Gallagher. We've just arrived."

"Rauffy," said Gallagher. "How are you?"

"May I come in?"

Gallagher always delighted at the child's perfect politeness.

"Of course you can," said Martin, finishing tying his lace and sitting upright. "Come over here and give your Uncle Martin a hug."

Gallagher noticed Martin's face brighten for the first time since they had left home. If only he could bottle Rauf and keep him with them, to cheer Martin during his darker days. Rauf pushed the door open, rushed over and hugged Martin around the stomach. Gallagher looked around to see Anton standing in the doorway.

"Sorry about that, chaps," said Anton. "But when the hosts told us you were already here, he insisted on coming up."

"Nothing to apologise for," said Gallagher. "Always a pleasure to see your little man. And you and Stephen, of course."

"Doctor Stephen said I should come and fetch you. Told me to tell you—" Rauf stopped for a moment with a finger across his lips, appearing to check what he had been told to say. "Everybody's about to gather by the big windows in the living room to have cocktails and a can of peas."

Can of—?" Martin began, puzzled, and both he and Gallagher looked over at Anton who had already started chuckling.

"I think that's canapés, Rauffy," said Anton. "It's a French word and means small bite-sized finger food, like crackers with smoked salmon, cream cheese and capers; or pieces of bread with spicy ham and sun-dried tomatoes."

"Well, we're almost ready. But as you've been so nice as to come and fetch us, I think you deserve to have an early Christmas present. What do you think, Gallagher?"

"Who am I to disagree? I'll fetch it."

Gallagher knew exactly what Martin meant, and went to his case to bring out the box.

"Careful chaps," said Anton, leaning against the doorframe. "Stephen tells me off all the time for buying him things. Says I'm spoiling him."

"And while I agree with your husband, it is Christmas. And if you can't reward good behaviour at Christmas time, when can you?"

Gallagher brought the parcel wrapped in a red and green Christmas motif over to Martin, who in turn handed the box to Rauf. But Rauf did not open the packaging, holding the box reverently, and looking earnestly at Anton.

"May I?"

"Of course."

Without another word, Rauf pulled apart the packaging and lifted the box, to find a pair of white Nike basketball shoes, the same ones he had seen on television watching a basketball game and pointed out to Martin. His eyes went wide, and he drew in a breath. Everyone waited for him to say something.

"What do you say, Rauffy?" said Anton.

Rauf peered up at Anton before his head swung around to Martin, and he hugged him tightly once again, crushing the box of shoes between them.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you, Uncle Martin. And you Uncle Gallagher. I love them. Can I wear them now? Please?"

"Of course you can. We need to see if they fit okay, don't we?" said Martin.

Rauf sat next to Martin, while Gallagher helped take off Rauf's shoes and squeeze his small feet into his new ones. Dressed in his jeans, he hopped off the bed and stood admiring them, even went over to the full-length wardrobe mirror and checked himself out. Gallagher smiled over at Martin and Anton. Martin always did know how to pick out presents.

"Can I go and show Doctor Stephen, Anton?"

"Of course you can. And tell him we're one our way down."

Without another word, Rauf ran out the door and thundered down the stairs. Left alone, the three men chuckled together, before Anton spoke.

"This place is amazing, isn't it? I reckon your room's twice the size of ours."

"We can swap if you want," said Gallagher. "If you need the extra space?"

"Sorry, that's not what I was angling at. Ours is absolutely perfect. On the ground floor, near the kitchen, and more importantly has a single adjoining bedroom for Rauf. No, I'm just impressed with this whole building. Anyway, I haven't asked yet. How are you doing, Martin? You're looking good."

"He's much better—" began Gallagher, before looking apologetically at Martin.

"I am. Along with my hair, my appetite's returned, and I'm even dressing without Gallagher's help. So we're going to have a nice normal evening without anyone fussing over me. And I mean anyone, so I trust you'll tell Stephen. Now, how's Rauffy settling in at home and, more importantly, at school?"

Martin's diversion seemed to do the trick. Anton's smile slipped slightly, and he let out a world-weary sigh. Rauffy's adoption had finally been confirmed in October, so Stephen and Anton had managed to get him into a local school, while also taking turns to be with him as much as they could. But he'd initially had issues being left without them—abandonment issues, Stephen had called them, inherited from his mistreatment back in Accra in Ghana. Teachers often telephoned during the day to say he had become tearful, inconsolable, isolating himself from the other children. Anton had told Gallagher how Rauf often went into a panic whenever Anton dropped him off, which broke Anton's heart. Stephen knew Rauf would eventually settle and, fortunately, with him working full time for the medical aid charity back in England, he could spend more time with their son.

"His school grades are great. He's just not good at socialising with other kids. But things are getting slightly better. We think he's made a friend now, which is bound to help. Whenever one of us picks him up, he still runs over and clings on to us, shaking like a leaf, poor little guy. Still thinks one day we'll drop him off to school and never come back."

Gallagher had asked Stephen about his background. Stephen told him the little he had learned from the nurses in Kumasi, but only Rauf himself knew the true extent of the harshness he had suffered before coming to the International Relief Centre. When he was first brought in, Stephen still worked there and had noted how he spoke rarely. Found living on the streets, the nurses managed to learn snippets about his life before. His mother and father, apparently considerably wealthy from the sound of his living environment, had hired servants to teach and care for him and his sister.

Until one night, a fire had consumed their home. Everyone except Rauf perished. Police and relief workers suspected arson, expected that Rauf's father had been involved with a drugs gang and the fire had been a reprisal execution. Fortunately, Rauf slept at the back of the house and had been awoken by smoke when the fire took hold. From his bedroom window, he managed to climb into an overhanging tree and drop onto a pathway. From the cover of trees, he watched their house burn to the ground before running away into the night. With little choice and knowing of no relatives, he had spent several weeks on the street, begging for food, which is how he had been picked up by relief centre staff. Stephen noticed him early on, rarely talking, but smart and articulate whenever he did. An outsider—no match for the more street-smart kids at the centre—he could usually be found hidden away, sitting alone, while others played football or other games or simply chatted together.

"At the cottage, he's fine. Eats well, reads everything we give him, does his homework religiously—the perfect child. Unfortunately, nighttime is another matter. Not sure if we told you, but for the first couple of nights when we brought him home, we'd wake to find him sleeping on the carpet in our bedroom. He has his own room right next door to ours. Once or twice, when I checked on him in the evening after putting him to bed, and while Stephen and I watched television, I'd find him wide awake, staring terrified at the ceiling."

"Insomnia?"

"I thought so, but Stephen had a chat with one of his professional counsellor friends who said he might just be afraid of being alone at night, bearing in mind everything he's been through. Anyway, Stephen asked him if he wanted to move his single bed in with us—just for a short while until he's settled. Well, you'd have thought Christmas had come early. He jumped at the idea. Yes, it's not ideal for us, but he does sleep all through the night now. In the New Year, we'll try to start getting him used to sleeping in his own room again."

"You don't regret it, though, adopting him?" asked Martin.

"Good lord, no. He's a little diamond. I know he's only been with us since October, but I can't imagine life without him now. I just feel as though we're missing a trick with him if you know what I mean? Something simple that I just can't put my finger on. But no, to your question. I don't regret a single day."

"Good to hear. Sometimes I wish we'd adopted a kid when we had the chance—"

Martin stopped short and glanced apologetically at Gallagher.

"What I mean is, when we were both a little younger."

Gallagher knew Martin only clarified for his sake.

Well," began Anton, and Gallagher felt sure he had heard the innuendo in Martin's statement. "Think of yourselves as being the next best thing. Rauffy's favourite uncles. Which means you get to spoil him whenever you feel the need. And on that note, I need to ask you a favour. Stephen is due to speak at an international conference in Prague in April—a weekend thing. We told Rauf about it, and I could tell he wasn't enthused—it'll just be one boring talk after another for two days, but I'm still going to be there to support Stephen, to be by his side. Anyway, Rauf listened patiently, as he always does, and then asked if he could go and stay with his two favourite uncles instead. Not sure how you would feel about that, given everything."

Gallagher stilled a moment, unsure how to reply. If Martin refused further treatment—

"We would love to have him," said Martin, grinning broadly. "I could think of nothing nicer. Now come on, chaps, let's not stay in here nattering all night. We've got people to meet and food to eat."

When Martin walked out chatting with Anton, Gallagher stayed behind, standing alone, and took a moment to centre himself. Making promises to look after Rauf when his whole world felt about to collapse felt dishonest. And yet, he knew what Martin was doing, trying to provide an air of normality.

As he began to shut the bedroom door, he glanced out of the bedroom patio windows, at lights already twinkling in the darkened sky, just in time to witness a shooting star.