Carradice Phil - Do not go gentle (Death of Dylan Thomas)

Do Not Go Gentle

Published by Accent Press Ltd 2014

ISBN 9781682990056

Copyright Phil Carradice 2014

The right of Phil Carradice 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 part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, The Old School, Upper High St, Bedlinog, Mid-Glamorgan, CF46 6RY.

The Quick Reads project in Wales is an initiative coordinated by the Welsh Books Council and supported by the Welsh Government.

Printed and bound in the UK Cover design by Midnight Designs

Do Not Go Gentle

Phil Carradice

ACCENT PRESS LTD

Quick Reads 2014

Congratulations on choosing a 2014 Quick Read.

The Quick Reads project, with bite-sized books, is designed to get readers back into the swing of reading, and reading for pleasure. So we hope you enjoy this book.

Whats your opinion?

Your feedback can make this project better. Once youve read one of the Quick Reads series, visit www.readingwales.org.uk or Twitter #quickreads2014 to post your feedback.

Why did you choose this book?

What did you like about it?

What do you think of the Quick Reads series?

Which Quick Reads would you like to see in the future?

What next?

Once youve finished one Quick Read have you got time for another?

Look out for other titles in the 2014 Quick Reads series.

The room is coldly white, like hospital rooms the world over. White walls, white bed, white sheets. Even the nurses are dressed in white, in stiff, starched uniforms that creak when they walk or bend over the figure in the bed. Like giant seagulls they hover and swoop at the faintest sound.

Above the headboard of the bed, half hidden by the oxygen tent, is a white nameplate. Dylan Marlais Thomas, admitted 11/5/1953 written the American way, with the month before the day. Not that anybody takes much notice. Such detail hardly matters to those who sit and wait.

He doesnt move, the figure in the bed, just lies there like a rock on the seashore. He breathes slowly, noisily, through his nose. The tubes and wires that snake away from his body to the side of the bed, and the oxygen tent, make him seem like some science fiction robot.

Visitors have come and gone all day but, apart from the nurse and the patient, at the moment there is just one person in the room. He is a bearded man of medium height. He waits and he watches, staring around the room as if he is waiting for somebody to jump out and attack him. Eventually he sighs. The nurse glances across at him.

It is sad, isnt it? she says. A writer like him, a man of such wonderful words. And now there are no words, no words at all.

The bearded man nods. I guess so, he says, his mid-west accent surprisingly strong. But itll come to us all, sooner or later. The one guarantee weve got in life is that well all leave it sometime.

The nurse stares at him, trying to work out if he is serious or trying to be funny with her. Finally she decides that his words are genuine. Are you a poet, too, Mr Berryman?

The man smiles, embarrassed but happy to be included.

A little poet. Not like him. He points to the patient and then they lapse into silence again. Only the heavy breathing of the man in the bed breaks the quiet of the hospital room. Berryman sighs again and yawns. He tries to hide the yawn behind his hand waiting for someone to die, even if he is a great poet is tiring.

Im going outside for a smoke, he says. Thats OK, isnt it?

The nurse nods. Thats fine, Mr Berryman. He doesnt know if youre sitting there or not. He cant see or hear anything.

Of course I can bloody hear. Im not dead. Not yet, at least. Ive just gone back, retreated, you could say, to somewhere safe, somewhere nobody can hurt me. Nothing unusual in that, Ive done it all my life. First sign of a cold or sniffle? Bed, with Mam feeding me milky bread and sugar. Caitlin, my Cat, used to do it too feed me, comfort me. But that was when she still loved me.

Its restful, lying here like this. No more decisions to make, no problems to sort out, and the world such a long way away. Its not telling a lie and, believe me, I know all about telling lies when I say Im happy to be here, happy for the first time since Dad died.

Ive always told lies. Why tell the truth, I think, when a lie can be so much more interesting? Except that waiting here like this, it doesnt seem important to make things up any more. So maybe its time for a little baring of the soul, a little telling of the truth. Ill try, anyway.

Childhood was magical. Not perfect, there were far too many rows and arguments for that rows between Mam and Dad, between Nancy and me, between me and everyone really, apart from Mam but still magical. Spoilt? You could say. Ruined to the point of cruelty, one very tidy uncle, a vicar and man of the church, used to say. He also said I ought to be in a madhouse. He may have had a point.

It was warm, that house in Cwmdonkin Drive, always warm, no matter what the weather outside was up to. And as I remember it, the wind was always blowing in from the Bristol Channel, battering the slates off the roofs. I suppose thats what comes of building houses so high up on the side of the hill they didnt name the area Uplands for nothing. Our house was Number 5. Number 5, Cwmdonkin Drive, in, what did I once call Swansea? That ugly, lovely town by the sea.

Its a winter Sunday evening, Dad in his study, marking school exercise books, Mam making tea in the scullery. The scullery is where the cooking and washing-up takes place, the kitchen being the room where we eat and live most of the time. That leaves the other room downstairs for best very important in any Welsh home at that time.

My sister Nancy is upstairs, dressing herself ready to go out. And me, sitting under the guttering kitchen gaslight, reading something I have pulled from Dads bookshelves. The wind blows and the rain beats, as it always does, against the windows of the house.

Dylan! Have you been in my bag again?

Nancys voice echoes around the house. I hear Dad swear and slam shut the study door to keep out the noise of the argument. Me? Been in Nancys bag? Of course I have. Shes always worth the odd half a crown or ten bob.

Not me, I shout as Nancy storms into the kitchen. Mam, tell her.

Leave the boy alone, Mam says, coming in from the scullery. He wouldnt steal off you, Nancy dear.

I smile, sweetly buckets of sick at them both. Mam takes her purse and pulls out a ten- shilling note.

Here, take this, dear, she says. You probably just mislaid it. But take this anyway. Nancy snatches the note. That boy will end up in a reformatory, she snaps. Or prison. You spoil him, mother. The door slams behind her and I go back to my book.

See what I mean about lies? I couldnt help myself back then and I cant help myself now. So although Ill try to be truthful, Im not promising anything. Perhaps its part of being a writer. You never know where the truth starts or ends, never know when your imagination is about to take over.

And stealing? Well, that came naturally, too. Ive always said that my job is to write poetry and stories, radio and film scripts and not to worry about things like money or jobs. Let the ravens feed us, Ive always thought, the soft, white silly ravens. By which I mean anyone out there who feels like helping. Or even those who dont.