The Things You Think You Cannot Do

By Alastair Muir

Even in the darkest days can be found courage, love and the answers to our dreams.

The coronavirus virus pandemic has shut down the world, tearing lives asunder. Huddled indoors, fearful, we watch and wonder when, if ever, our lives will ever be the same again. Against this unheralded background, three individuals face their own, unique challenges to survive.

 

Kevin, a young man, struggling to find his place in the world, blighted by a loveless upbringing and bullying at school, now lives in London, a city gripped by dread. An introvert and loner at heart, he must form bonds with those around him to plot a way through lockdown, fulfilling a role which is vital to the future of the nation.

 

Jess, a lonely, childless woman, clings to a young refugee who has become so much more than a pupil to her, as she longs for love. Then she meets the dashing Todd, who simultaneously both offers a tantalising hope and threatens to separate her from the only person who has given meaning to her life. The dilemma she faces would send her halfway round the world, away from all she has ever known. How can she possibly choose?

 

Daniel dedicates his life as a doctor to helping all those, good and bad, who pass through his surgery. The only person he seems unable to help is himself; he lives a solitary life, cocooned against the pain of loves lost. As the sheer scale of the pandemic becomes horrifyingly clear, he faces a choice with potentially devastating consequences.

 

Like so many of us, these lives have been shaped by their pasts; they could never have foreseen how the momentous events of 2020 will present them with challenges and opportunities that will define their futures. Calling on all their wisdom, strength and imagination, they seek to rise above the chaos enveloping them, not only for their own survival but for that of those around them. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alastair Muir
• Release date: Sep 12, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393109396

Book preview

The things you think

you cannot do

‘You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself ‘I have lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along’. You must do the thing you think you cannot do’

Eleanor Roosevelt

Kevin

He moved through his life without casting a shadow. No one turned to acknowledge him, no one nodded or smiled when he passed by. Kevin turned anonymity into an art form; colourless, silent, cloaked in absence he eked out his existence in a solitary world entirely of his own devising. That was precisely what he desired.

Kevin was very much an introvert. He enjoyed having time to himself; in fact, he craved it. Being around a lot of people, like at school or at a party, left him drained. People often said he was difficult to get to know, but in fact he had a small, loyal group of like minded friends. Quiet time was a necessity, to allow him to think and concentrate, as well as to reflect on what mattered to him. He preferred to learn passively, by watching rather than participating and, although hugely competent in almost every academic field, he performed poorly when put in the spotlight, becoming tongue tied and awkward. If he spoke it was with purpose and gravitas; small talk was anathema to him.

The Hendersons were in so many ways your ‘typical family’, yet beneath the surface lay secrets and suffering which most would never have believed. Suburban idyll, semidetached house, front and back gardens, barbecue, respectable parents, two well mannered, intelligent children – point four short of statistical perfection if you were being pedantic – family hatchback, golden retriever and annual package holiday to the Costa Del Whatever.

Until recently the capacity of the home had been stretched by the residence, in the twilight of her life, of Kevin’s paternal grandmother; a harridan rendered blind by diabetes but with bat like hearing and a roar that could freeze you in your tracks. For the eighteen months she lived with the family, prior to the death for which everyone had longed, it was understood that no one made any sound, especially laughter, music or television, to disturb her contemplation of her impending demise. In fact, apart from ensuring the bare essentials of nutrition and hydration, Kevin’s father never went near her; instead, he delegated even these tasks to his wife, with his characteristic disdain. The district nurse, an unfailingly cheery soul who came every day to administer insulin and dress a leg ulcer, was regarded as ‘just doing her job’ and barely merited a nod from her patient’s son.

Kevin’s mum was a mousy, downtrodden woman. Shabbily dressed, devoid of cosmetics, she gave the impression that she had long since lost the will to keep up appearances. Kevin often wondered, in a ‘chicken and egg’ way, if she had always been like this and, as such, had been an attractive partner to his overbearing father, or had simply had whatever spirit she once possessed beaten (hopefully not literally) out of her after stumbling into a marriage from which there seemed no hope of escape. She taught in the primary school where both Kevin and his older brother, by two years, Danny were pupils, but as she worked with children with special needs both sons would be spared the intolerable situation of being educated by their mother. In a very rare moment of humour, she was once heard to say that she’d have loved to teach Danny as his handwriting (indeed his general level of literacy – although she did not say so in public) left much to be desired. It was left unspoken, but nevertheless clearly understood by all, that no such issues existed with Kevin’s academic portfolio.

It would be difficult to imagine two siblings, just eighteen months separated by age, who differed so greatly in almost every aspect of their beings. Even physically they were poles apart; Danny was tall, lithe and athletic, a testament to his developing sporting prowess, while Kevin presented a nondescript, modest frame, as if designed to foster the anonymity he craved. His straight, dark hair hung to the edge of his somewhat timid jaw, framing his face, with its permanently pensive expression.

While Danny loved being the centre of attention  - captaining the football team, leading all the worthwhile attempts at japery – Kevin sought the shadows, where he crept unnoticed and disregarded. Not that he was devoid of worthwhile attributes; Kevin was easily the most intelligent child in his year and showed promise as a musician and artist. He just never promoted any of these abilities which, to most pupils, were below the radar anyway. The cool kids, the ones to be seen with were the sporty types, the jokers and the rebels. Danny rarely came anywhere near Kevin at school, regarding him as an embarrassment. On one occasion he had inadvertently hit Kevin with a golf ball he was throwing at one of his friends. Forced to apologise by a teacher who had witnessed the event, he merely grunted ‘sorry’ in a tone more or less devoid of apology. Whenever Danny spoke, his words jousted and clashed with their emotional connotation.

Both Danny and Kevin’s father made the common mistake of labelling Kevin as ‘unhappy’, ‘quiet’, ‘shy’ or even ‘boring’; they frequently told him so to his face. Initially Kevin, railed against this, pointing out that the first three were over-simplistic and the third insulting. Quietness does not equate with insignificance, he would say. But as time went on and they continued unabated he retreated further into himself, questioning who he was and becoming subsumed with shame. All around him he found evidence to support his assertion that he lived in a society which not only discouraged his type of personality but regarded it as inferior or defective.

Kevin’s father was, to be charitable, a difficult man - cold, phlegmatic and parsimonious. He seemed incapable of telling Kevin that he was proud of him, of showing any positive emotions towards him at all. Kevin was a very bright child, excelling at school, winning many merit awards, yet he always sensed that it was never good enough – that he was never good enough. Furthermore, his father was, in everyone’s eyes, a pillar of the community. A stolidly practical man who believed in the logic of labour and was driven to work long, relentless days, year after year, without ever questioning the effects on those around him. Police sergeant in a small town, elder of the church, president of the Rotary Club. Only within the four walls of the family home did it emerge what a miserable bastard he really was. He could turn silence into an art form. When he didn't get his own way he would simply clam up and not speak; he could keep it going for days, even weeks. At these times, his long, mournful face wore an inward look, giving out the manner of the local undertaker; indeed, it seemed to Kevin that his father was embalming the family. Kevin would rather have had him shouting than that goddamned silence. It’s amazing how inhibiting and restrictive silence can be.

Kevin was afraid of his father. His father would have ridiculed him for such weakness but Kevin subscribed to the view that fear is wisdom in the face of danger. His father never hit him (at least he didn’t remember it) but his psychological intimidation was just as powerful and destructive, maybe even more so.  Kevin was so desperate for his approval that he was always afraid of upsetting him. He seemed so judgemental in everything he did that it seemed impossible he would ever accept Kevin for who he was. It was like he was toting around a mental report card and marking it ‘could do better’. Kevin could remember an actual comment on one such card from his early school days, which was actually meant to be a compliment; ‘Kevin does everything that is expected of him’. His dad used to scoff, adding ‘and not one bit more’. Was that true? Fair? Perhaps it reflected that it didn't matter how much Kevin tried as his father’s approval was forever unattainable.

He was always deriding people, people who crossed him at his work, those he deemed weak who served on his various committees, even individuals represented on TV or in the media, his speaking voice coming complete with exclamation marks and inherent menace. Kevin wanted to disagree with him but never felt able to; he always tried to see the good in people and felt ashamed for not speaking up. Underlying all of these complex emotions was a fear of becoming like his father. However, Kevin was wise enough to use this fear to a positive end, as a driver to self improvement, nurturing and valuing those very skills which, in his father were conspicuous by their absence – compassion, self awareness, humility. He reflected often, and with some irony, that his father would have regarded this kind of psychological wisdom as cheating.

The one person who always escaped the scathing vitriol which Kevin’s father so regularly dispensed was Danny – the blue eyed boy who could do no wrong. They were often seen, arm around shoulder, coming away from the match, celebrating Danny’s performance, while not missing the chance to ridicule the opposition, or raucously playing FIFA on the PlayStation, when winning was everything and the loser stormed off in a rage. Kevin accepted that his father was proud of Danny, he was too and told him so, but he drew the line at being frequently asked ‘Why can’t you be more like Danny?’. Neither his father nor his

brother showed the slightest interest in Kevin’s academic, musical or artistic efforts, it was as if he was both invisible and inaudible to them.

Perhaps his mother could have provided the support and encouragement which Kevin craved but, alas, she was wholly inadequate to the task. Sadly, inadequate just about summed her up; she was the kind of woman to whom a pile or ironing or a shopping trip to Asda was the pinnacle of human achievement. Small and bird like, she moved as if constantly evading detection, her eyebrows perched in thin arched lines above darting eyes, giving her a permanent look of surprise. She had long since learned to navigate a path of least resistance around her husband, adopting the view that his perennially jaundiced view of the world was not especially influenced by her merits or demerits and therefore striving to rise above mediocrity was futile and required expending more energy than she cared to surrender. She did not neglect her sons – at least not in a material sense – and always fed and clothed them on a par with their peers. To her credit, she treated each boy on equal terms; sadly, this involved minimal emotional sharing and superficial nurture or encouragement. Life was about survival, avoiding domestic dramas and excitement generated vicariously through the medium of television. The nearest she got to contentment was with a blanket round her legs on the sofa in front of the soaps, while the men who orbited around her like satellites were otherwise (hopefully quietly) engaged.

From such a milieu arose a quiet yet determined boy, driven to make the most of his education – if only to escape from the hell into which he had, through no fault of his own, been born. Being alone was a feeling so vast it echoed. Kevin was a boy already old and toughened beyond his years, as if life had bruised him. He longed to make an impact on a world that seemed oblivious to his existence. Many years hence, he would do exactly that.

Jess

Some of us cut great swathes through the world, affecting, influencing and modifying the people and places we encounter, leaving behind lingering impressions of being a force of nature. Everyone has an opinion, an anecdote, a memory of how we touched their lives, irrevocably altering them – for better or for worse.

Jess was the antithesis of this from the day she was born. Her mother delivered her in two hours, with a minimum of discomfort, and was so underwhelmed by the experience of motherhood that she pretty quickly elected to make it a one-off and as part-time as feasible. Her father was a man made of air, a life with no heft. He found his role in the charade of Jess’s creation so execrable that he departed within a year of Jess’s birth, never to return in any way, shape or form. Her mother, for whom the long drawn out process of being subsumed by ennui had rendered life devoid of all motivation, did the bare minimum, sufficient to protect Jess from physical harm, starvation or abuse, but wholly exiguous in terms of a nurturing, compassionate start in life. She unerringly made Jess feel inadequate, without even needing to speak. Too small, too thin, too messy. Not as she should be.

As Jess grew towards her school age years, she took on a frailty verging on transparency, an evanescence which meant that those few people with whom she was allowed to come in contact often later wondered if that little girl had really been there at all. In appearance, she resembled a garment, out of style or shoddy, which nevertheless must be put on as there’s nothing else available. Which suited Jess just fine, of course; ‘out of sight, out of mind’ might have been embroidered on her heart.

If she did pluck up the courage to request some of the riches bestowed upon other children her age – a trip to the park, an ice cream – then her mother, who could never make herself happy but excelled in making others around her miserable, had a stock answer – ‘maybe later’. Soon, Jess abandoned any hope of future pleasure; ‘later’ had become the heartless annihilator of ‘now’.

Starting school, where she was part of a class of thirty raucous, obstreperous peers was a bewildering experience, one in which Jess received little support from the teacher, whose meagre time and talents were absorbed by preventing the more exuberant pupils from inflicting damage on each other or the preciously scarce school resources. This suited Jess; no one really noticed the fawn-like waif with the perpetually startled eyes hiding in the undergrowth.

The paucity of her external life was diametrically opposed by an opulent inner life, one where daydream and fantasy, complete with imaginary friends, provided welcome escape. Believing in possibilities, by the dint of repetition, Jess learned to read; her main route to escape, at an early age and was a regular visitor to her library, where the kindly librarian became one of the few people to whom Jess would speak. A benevolent, matronly lady, she would smile sweetly at Jess, peering over her spectacles and enthusing about Jess’s latest selection. On one occasion, she had offered Jess a book which she thought she’d like; the act of someone deliberately showing forethought and kindness was so foreign to Jess that she had walked away, much to the librarian’s chagrin.

It was her ability to be autodidactic, rather than the quality of her schooling, that allowed Jess to enter secondary school with a well rounded education, and the experience of mixing with peers from different primaries - although daunting – brought her together with David. He was the first human being with whom Jess formed a meaningful relationship, one which grew to include hitherto foreign entities such as trust, kindness, honesty, affection. David was the first person who allowed Jess to see herself as intelligent, witty, compassionate and, eventually, attractive. Her willowy form had developed through puberty into a lithe asceticism; it was at first unsettling to be made aware that this was attractive to David, but the process of acceptance was made easier by his patience and understanding. When they progressed from shyly holding hands, to kissing and then to adolescent petting, Jess felt alive in ways hitherto denied her.

They remained a couple throughout school, committed to forging a life together. Jess’s concepts of a ‘normal’ adult relationship had been created largely through the media of books and television. Real life had served up a diet of crisis and dismay, so it was no surprise that she carved out a view of married life which was somewhat anodyne. No one was surprised when they announced they were leaving school at seventeen and getting married. Neither had achieved any qualifications; David had secured an engineering apprenticeship and his parents, always kindly disposed towards Jess, had assisted them financially into rented accommodation. Without the benefits of a work environment or peer group to meet with, there was no person-shaped social hole for Jess to slot into and, inevitably, she became increasingly dependent on David.

Jess’s mother reacted to her daughter leaving home with barely restrained glee. She had been pursuing a sordid affair with a married man and her daughter’s presence at home was a major obstacle in the path of her debauchery. On hearing that Jess was to be ‘taken off her hands’, she delivered a spectacular coup de grace to her rival and fled to Canada, taking her new partner’s children with her. She was gone long before Jess married; Jess felt a liberating sense of relief at her departure. For the first time in her adult life, she breathed without pain, felt something other than hurt.

Life with David was good; he was an attentive, caring, loving husband. Of a comely, convivial and lively disposition, affable and courteous in his manner, even to profusion, he adored Jess and treated her with a care beyond any she had ever imagined possible. The apprenticeship paid surprisingly well and Jess relished the role of homemaker, furnishing their flat with a simple elegance and taking pleasure in having a meal on the table for her husband coming home. From the outset, parenthood was Jess’s dream. Although David had provided so much flesh to the bare bones of her Dickensian upbringing, Jess knew that without a child, on which she would lavish all the love and affection which she herself had craved, she was merely partial, half drawn, fragmentary. And David shared her dreams too – they spent many happy evenings cuddled up in bed describing their future children, what they would look like, their names, how the family would grow together. It was the rock on which they both would founder...

Dr Peters – 1988

‘D aniel Peters’. He strode proudly across the stage, applause ringing in his ears. Knelt and felt the doffing of the cap. Rose again to accept a firm handshake from the rector. Accepted his scroll from a smiling professor and descended again, scanning the audience for the faces of his parents. His mother waving furiously, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. His father, standing erect and stoic, nodding quietly in satisfaction. As he shuffled along the row to take his seat, the student next to him ruffled his hair joyously. Bloody hell, Danny boy, we did it!

Less than an hour previously, the entire class had risen as one in this auditorium, raised their right hands and, in unison begun: ‘I swear by Apollo Physician, by Asclepius...". The Hippocratic oath, taken by all graduating doctors. It was then that the scale of his achievement really sank in; six years intensive studying and long hours of clinical practice and now he was about to become Dr. Daniel Peters. They had marched in, rank and file, to the strains of Brahms’ ‘Academic Overture’, which contributed wonderfully to the heightening sense of occasion. The time before the ceremony began had initially been taken up by cavorting and laughter, but increasingly each student had become more introspective, reflecting on the magnitude of the day.

St. Andrews had been a wonderful place to study. A beautiful Scottish seaside town, with picture perfect beaches, architectural gems such as the cathedral and castle, a fantastic selection of bars and restaurants and small enough to exude an effusive air of joviality all term long. Made famous by the romance of then students William and Kate, and a mecca for golfers – indeed the very ‘home’ of golf – Daniel had flourished during his time here, growing in confidence and developing his own love interest in Mandy, an English student who had followed him from school to university and graduated the previous year. She had stayed on to do her postgrad degree and support Daniel in the last year of his studies.

CHEERS! WELL DONE SON, we’re all so very proud of you. His father offered the toast, they all raised and clinked champagne glasses. They had been blessed by a spectacular Scottish summer day; cloudless blue sky towered above the quadrangle of the university halls with barely a flicker of breeze. The scene was a rainbow of colours, professors in their ceremonial robes, students in gowns, hoods and hats, proud families dressed up to celebrate the magnificent achievements of their loved ones. The setting was quintessentially academic and chronicled, a pearl hidden in the heart of this historic town. The pillars and pediments looked down approvingly on the latest set of graduates launching their new careers, providing welcome shadow from the heat of the day. Absorbing the scene, Daniel felt immense pride in himself for what he had achieved by dint of hard work and dedication. The year ahead, filled with long hours and emotional demands, would test the limits of his endurance but he felt replete with the necessary skills and attitudes and ready for the challenge.

What a lovely ceremony, Daniel, his mum twinkled. Did you see me waving - I’m only little! She was spot on; barely five feet tall, and now bowed down by the ravages of arthritis, she more than compensated by strength of character. Having a son as a doctor was something she regarded as the zenith of her life, her own career in teaching having been cruelly cut short by ill health. Now she lived vicariously through the achievements of her son.

His father coped wonderfully with her illness, indefatigable in his support, adamantine in his resolve to see his son succeed. Academia had passed him by; he was a grafter, an engineer who’d put in his shifts in the rail yards and was now nearing a well earned retirement. Today was the culmination of a life long desire to see his son realise a dream he’d first expressed as a young lad sitting on his father’s knee, promising he’d one day make mummy better. He occupied every corner of his six feet one inch frame, standing proud, chest puffed out, basking in the reflected glory of the son he loved with all his heart.

Beside Daniel stood Mandy, as always exuding elan. She was effortlessly, elegantly stylish - Daniel’s friends’ stock phrase was ‘out of his league’. Her eyes sparkled like diamonds in her delicate face, with high cheekbones framed by her perfectly coiffed golden locks. Their firm friendship, forged at school, had not only survived the transition to higher education, but grown into a deep seated love which showed every sign of lasting forever. She took his arm and steered him away for a moment, planting a kiss on his cheek. What a wonderful day. You’ve worked so hard for this moment. I’ve never seen your parents so happy!

Daniel smiled at her, I know, it’s wonderful. I couldn’t have got through it all without you by my side. Now it’s my preclinical year; sixty plus hour weeks, sleep deprivation, death and destruction. What’s not to love?

She laughed. "At least you’ll just be in Dundee. If you do get any spare hours, we’ll be able to hang out. I’ve every faith in you, you were born to be a doctor."

Daniel smiled, acknowledging her perspicacity. When had he decided he needed to spend his lie making things better? From his earliest memories, being a doctor had been the one thing that mattered to him. It had shaped his upbringing, not just providing the spur to study diligently and achieve the necessary grades, but also equipping him with high moral standards and a refined sense of compassion; he was profoundly moved by human suffering and, in contrast to the majority who admitted ‘that’s a shame’ and then moved on, Daniel was prepared to become involved in taking action. Importantly, those actions were helpful and responsible; he had taken a firm stand against student protests which degenerated into confrontation or violence. Daniel knew that with rights come responsibilities and saying something assertively wins over more people than