My wife is ill. This is a bit of a surprise, because she said nothing about it until the morning she appeared downstairs looking flushed and weak. She lacks my facility for keeping everyone apprised as my symptoms progress. No one is ever surprised when I am ill.
“I feel dizzy,” she says.
“I’ve heard about this,” I say. “It’s going around.”
My wife shuts the fridge and sits down at the table. She writes me a list of things to get, and tells me where to get them, and where not to get them, and what to get instead if any of them should be unavailable. My lips begin to purse involuntarily. She notices.
“I’m not faking,” she says.
“I don’t think you’re faking,” I say, but my lips are almost too bunched up to speak. I don’t mind her being too ill to do things. I just wish she was ill enough not to care whether I do them.
The next morning she feels worse, which is a problem, because we’re meant to go to the giant anti-Brexit march.
“I feel terrible,” she says. “Did you hear me coughing last night?”
“I certainly did,” I say.
“It’s not funny,” she says.
“I’m not laughing,” I say. “Are you sure you shouldn’t stay home?”
“I’ll go, and I can always leave if I have to,” she says.
Our marching group’s meeting point (shared with several hundred others) is a pub on a square, which feels like a backstage area. My wife looks both better and worse – she’s got a glass of white wine, but she’s also sitting on the pavement with her forehead on her knees. She remains determined to make it to Parliament Square, where our oldest son is serving in an official capacity.
We end up crossing the stream of the march twice, reaching Parliament Square quite near the head of the procession, and well before anything is scheduled to happen. Journey’s Don’t Stop Believin’ blasts from the public address system as we gather in front of Abraham Lincoln to wait.
“I have to sit,” my wife says, coughing. There is a raised grassy area beneath the statue, but it’s mostly taken up with news cameras and other marchers. I follow her as she searches for a spot, so I know where to find her.
By the time I return to our group, the oldest one is standing among them in his hi-vis vest.
“So are you basically in charge?” someone asks.
“I’ve got a radio,” he says, touching the wire emerging from his ear.
“When do things start?” I say.
“In about half an hour,” he says. “Where’s Mum?”
“She’s lying under that tree,” I say, pointing. I hear how this sounds. The oldest one’s eyes shift focus as someone speaks into his earpiece. He turns and melts into the crowd. I begin to worry about my wife expiring under an oak in the middle of a million people. The big screen is displaying a recorded message of support from the leader of Plaid Cymru.
“I think I should probably take her home,” I say suddenly. No one disagrees.
The crowd has thickened considerably in the intervening minutes. As I look for a gap where I can climb up on to the raised grassy area, I receive a text that says: “Can you come and get me?” Now she’ll think I was only following orders.
It’s a long trek home on public transport. After my wife goes to bed, I drive to the supermarket, without a list.
The next day her health is slightly improved. The oldest one turns up, badly hungover from post-march celebrations. The three of us sit round the kitchen table, looking at aerial pictures of the crowds.
“There we are, cutting through the park,” I say.
“It was great,” my wife says. “I just wish I hadn’t been so ill.”
“Ugh,” says the oldest one, cradling his head in his palms.
“So did we fix it?” I say. “Is Brexit over?”
“Not quite,” the oldest one says.
“Well, anyway, good on everyone there,” I say. “It’s hard being right about everything all the time.”
“It’s a pain in the arse,” he says.
