Free A Trick I Learned From Dead Men by Kitty Aldridge

clinic who had discovered how to successfully shrink tumours using her own patented breathing techniques, had been threatened, burgled, bombed. By who? Mercenaries hired by the major pharmaceuticals. It was a disgrace, a scandal, a conspiracy; a famous naturopath said so. The cat was out of the bag. Remember: Your doctor has NOT been trained in using natural substances in the treatment of disease .
    I lay with her on the settee. Her eyes are closed. I hold her hand. It’s the expense of the treatments, she says, that’s the worry. This makes me laugh.
    Arseholes, I say. Skanks. Knobs to that. This makes her laugh.
    On this me and Les agree. Never mind the cost if it works, he says.
    Course it works. This is the miracle path. Stay positive! Be cured! She was a survivor, she would fight. She would cure herself by working with nature, not against it. There were a billion vitamins available on the internet, she just had to find the right ones. If you live long enough to take full doses of our potent cancer treatment for TWO MONTHS there is a very good chance you WILL beat your cancer!
    A good chance, good enough. Belief was everything. She believed. We believed. We became a family of believers overnight.
    A few years before her cancer was diagnosed, Les performed the duties of our local Cancer Research charity shop’s Christmas Santa. As a member of the Laughing Mask Players he offered his services each year. He stood with his charity bucket on the High Street shouting, ’Tis the season to be jolly. Fa la la la la la la la la! The life and soul, our mother called him. This is not what me and Ned called him, but we didn’t want to spoil it with our niggling doubts.
    He slipped an arm around her waist. Everything to play for, Les always used to say, like he had a dice in his hand. He assumed his position as head of the family. His optimism was embarrassing.
    Whoever’s with me, say Aye! he used to call. Ned and me were left with no alternative.
    Aye, I replied.
    He was nervous of Ned. He spoke through me as if Ned was an alien: Tell him it’s on the table. Ask him is that a tattoo on his neck or dirt? If I speak like this, s-l-o-w-l-y, will he know what I’m saying?
    No, Les. He’s deaf not stupid.
    He began to get shirty with me.
    Lee
. That’s a girl’s name, isn’t it?
    He had a decent singing voice, granted. He admired Bruce Springsteen, Tom Jones. He had a lust for life. He had bonhomie when the mood took him. He liked to throw his arms wide,
What’s New Pussycat!
and take you by surprise.
    Don’t get me wrong, Lester was decent to her, she allowed him to sweep her off her feet, albeit to a Harvester Inn. It’s just that she could’ve done better. In my humble opinion.
    You don’t sign as well as him, do you, Lee? Don’t worry. I wasn’t my mum’s favourite either, he said.
    A sharp tongue he had. Bodysnatcher, he called me when I got the trainee position.
    Look out. Bodysnatcher’s about.
    This was before.
    Then her diagnosis, then her prognosis. Lester announced we would fight it as a family, he stood up to say it. He sold his caravan, a Buccaneer Elan, and bought a Coachman Pastiche, a five-berth tourer with carpet, oak fitted cupboards, ample seating, double glazing and a sun awning. He stuck his head through the little window and shouted, The whole of the UK is ours for the taking! like he was Dick Turpin. We went to Cornwall in the June and then he sold it before Christmas to fund her treatments. There’s always another caravan, he said. Respect for that. Some of us only earn respect after death. Better late than never.
    For example, I knew a kid at school, Daniel Atkinson. A nobody. A zero. Dies unexpectedly and hey presto! Instant fame. Fact was he was nothing special, no one rated him. Then, soon as he was gone he became an overnight sensation. Belter of a funeral. Everyone had a story, everyone knew his name. If only I could have remembered something, anything about Daniel. I remembered his