Quit Before It's Too Late

by Patsy Collins
^{(creative writers at www.morewriting.co.uk)}
I come in from school and head to my room.

"Jack, I want a word with you," Mum calls as I'm halfway up the stairs.

"I'll be there in a minute, Mum," I reply.

I wonder what she wants now. Maybe I've got time for a quick drag before I get my ears bent. Now where did I hide my cigarettes?

"Now, Jack."

She doesn't sound happy, but then she's often not happy with me. Always having a go or nagging about something. 'Do your homework', 'eat your veg' or 'brush your teeth.' Never stops she doesn't; treats me like a kid all the time. I'm not a kid. Next year I'll be old enough to join the Marines, well old enough to apply. They don't let you join until you've left school. She'll stop treating me like a kid then.

"Jack, are you coming down?"

Damn, I can't find the fags. I'd better go and see what she wants, then I can have a quiet smoke in peace.

Mum holds up my ciggies as I saunter into the kitchen. She reads from the pack.

"'Smoking kills,' now why do you suppose it says that?"

"To scare people?" I guess.

"But it doesn't scare you?"

"Nah, why would it?"

"So you think it's good for you?"

"Good for my image, gotta look tough if you're going to be a Royal Marine."

"I imagine it takes more than the right look. Others things will be important, such as good health?"

She has a point.

"Loads of people smoke and are fine, look at Granddad."

"That's supposed to cheer me up? You know your Granddad is ill?"

"Fuss over nothing he said, anyway he's old."

"Jack!"

"I didn't mean he's ready to die, you know I don't want that. I just meant it's not surprising that he's not healthy at his age."

"He's sixty nine."

"Exactly."

Granddad's a great old bloke, or used to be, but like I said, he's old. He can hardly say five words now without that awful wheezing starting up. Still, he's been smoking for years without any trouble. I hardly smoke any; I can't afford enough to do me any harm, so I don't know what the fuss is about.

"Can I have them back now, Mum?" I ask pretty reasonably.

"No you can't," she yells back and crumbles my fags up.

"Hey, they were expensive."

"You will not smoke in my house and you won't be getting any more pocket money until I'm sure you won't waste it on cigarettes."

"That's not fair."

"Oh grow up, Jack."

We don't really talk for a bit. That gives me time to wonder why she's so against smoking. Normally I can get round her all right, but not this time. Maybe it's because of Granddad. It's a shame he's not feeling too clever. He used to tell me loads of stories about being in the Royal Marines. He used to carry me on his back, pretending I was his rucksack and we'd go yomping. He taught me some self defence stuff and survival training. All kinds of stuff. He doesn't show off his medals, except for Remembrance Day, he lets me help clean them then. I want to make him proud when I join up.

"Jack, can we talk?" Mum asks eventually.

"What about?" I try not to sound too bolshy as I come back into the kitchen.

"I've been thinking about what you said, about your image, joining the military all that sort of thing. Perhaps you're right, I don't understand and I am protective of you. You know it's just because I want the best for you, though, don't you?"

"Yeah."

She looks like she might cry or kiss me or something.

"Fancy a cup of tea?" I ask and start filling the kettle. I'm not great at all the soppy stuff.

"Maybe you should stay with you're granddad for a while, he's a lot cooler than I am," Mum says.

"Granddad?"

I mean, sure he was something in his day, but not now.

"He must be, he understands about the Marines, he could help with your training and he wouldn't give you a hard time about smoking as he does it himself. I know he's not young, but we all get older, even you."

Mum looks sad and tired. She's always done her best for me and I know she hates it when we fall out. So do I.

"Sure Mum, I'll go to Granddad's for a while if you think it's a good idea."

She's all smiles now.

"He'll be pleased."

'Course, I should have thought, this isn't about me. Mum keeps telling me that not everything is about me. You'd think I'd have grasped that by now. Obviously, she's worried about Gramps and wants me to look after him for a bit. I can do that, then she'll see I'm responsible.

Living with Granddad isn't like being at home. It's more like being on exercise. Everything we eat is out of tins. We keep ourselves clean and the house tidy, but there's no polishing or arranging bunches of flowers. Granddad's as wheezy as ever and he keeps gobbing up loads of phlegm. The bins soon fill up with his disgusting tissues. I miss being at home.

He shows me some old photos, him in his RM uniform complete with Green Beret, some in ceremonial gear, some in camouflage clothing. With each one I get the full story, sometimes it all sounds a bit far fetched, until he comes across a whole bundle of medal presentation pictures.

There seems no end to the things he's done and the stories he has to tell. Lots of photographs aren't formal portraits, they're snaps of him and his mates. In everyone Gramps is smoking a roll up. Nearly always, the men are in uniform, often with their berets tucked into a belt loop and a smear of cam cream across their faces. They look so cool; I'm going to be just like that when I join.

"Proper hero you were," I tell him, but he doesn't think so.

"Just doing my job, lad."

"But you were brave."

"Not really. You get the training and when you're there," he gestures at the photos, "you just do what you have to."

"Do you ever see any of the others?"

"Yes Jack and so will you; we're off to the pub tonight."

This is more like it, instead of being at home doing my homework with mum, I'm down the pub with Granddad's ex-service mates. He's obviously told them about me. I get introduced to everyone.

"This is Road Runner, we call him that because he runs marathons."

"What about you, Jack, ever considered trying it?" the ex Marine Sergeant asks me.

"No, I couldn't do that."

"Thought you wanted to join The Corps, you can't become a Royal Marine if you're not fit."

"I'll start training and become as fit as you."

"I'd like to think you'd be a damn sight fitter than a chap of 69."

"69." I can't help repeating it like an idiot. This man is the same age as my Granddad.

It's great being treated like a grown up for a change. I have to drink coke of course, but that's the only difference. They don't look guilty if they swear, or keep the jokes clean for my benefit. No one says a word whenever I go outside with Granddad and a couple of the others for a smoke. Well, no one except Road Runner. He tells me Gramps is a fool to waste his cash on tobacco. He gets a pen and writes figures on a beer mat.

"What's a packet cost, at least a fiver now I bet?"

I agree.

"I bet the silly old duffer smokes the whole lot in a day?"

"More than one," I tell him.

"Two then, that's seventy quid a week."

Actually, Gramps often starts on a third, but I keep quiet. I'm beginning to see why he buys tinned soup and baked beans rather than steaks and takeaways.

"So, say there's 50 weeks in a year, just to make the maths easy, comes out at three and a half grand."

Hmm, maybe there are some advantages to not smoking.

Walking home is a slow business. Granddad's wheezing is worse than ever and he seems tired. I talk about Road Runner.

"What's his secret do you think?" I ask.

"No secret, he looks after his self that's all. Didn't you notice the difference between us?"

I don't know what he means, sure Road Runner was fitter, but he was doing the same as Gramps. They even drank the same brand of beer.

I'm still thinking about Road Runner is the following morning. Granddad points him out in one of the medal presentations. I don't know if he got as many as Gramps and I'm not going to ask, but he's certainly something to live up to.

"There's still one of my ex Marine buddies that I'm in touch with, who you haven't met. He got more medals n' me and Road Runner put together. I thought we could visit him today."

It's hard to believe that the shrivelled body under the oxygen mask was once a hero. He's got something called Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease. It doesn't sound or look pleasant. The bloke seems pleased we're there. Gramps chatters away to him, I can't understand the whispered responses. Granddad's friend is soon tired and we get up to leave.

A man in a white coat is coming in as we go out. He stops to talk to us.

"So have you quit smoking yet?" he asks Gramps.

"I've cut down a bit, but it's not easy, Doc."

Granddad sounds so weak, why doesn't he stand up to this bloke?

The doctor turns to me.

"Perhaps you'll talk some sense into him. If you don't want your Grandfather to end up like that chap in there, then get him to quit smoking."

"But, he ..."

I didn't want to think that the doctor could be right.

"His friend was a heavy smoker. Even when he developed COPD he didn't stop."

"But he can't smoke." I pointed out.

"Not now, but he's been unwell for years. It's a distressing condition that will kill him and about 25,000 other British people this year, don't let your Granddad or anyone else you care about add to the figures."

"You don't know Granddad will get that," I say, trying to convince myself.

"No, of course not, he could get lung cancer, heart disease, leukaemia, aneurysms ..."

"OK OK, I get it. Smoking can be bad for you."

"Not can be; is. Even if you don't get anything as serious as the things I've mentioned it will still be less healthy, symptoms of coughs and colds will often be worse for example. Your sense of taste and smell will be reduced and frankly you smell awful."

I really don't want to hear this, it's not exactly cheerful.

"You must have heard your grandfather coughing and wheezing as he tries to clear his lungs, do you imagine that's healthy?"

Granddad looks upset and I can't think of anything to say.

"Wait there," the doctor says.

"I know what you're thinking , Jack," Gramps says. "You're wondering why I let him say all that without sticking up for us."

Actually, I don't know what I'm thinking. I just look at Granddad.

"It's because I'm weak and because he's right."

"You're not weak."

"Yes I am, I know what the fags do, but I can't give them up. The addiction is stronger than I am. I know it's made me ill, but I don't want you to end up like him."

He pointed to the ward where his dying friend lay.

"Or like me, I want you to be another Road Runner."

The man in the white coat is soon back.

"Take these. It's not all bad news."

I look at the leaflets he offers. They're about giving up smoking.

"The sooner you stop the better, but it's never too late to quit. You lad," he points at me, "if you stop now, you should avoid all smoking related problems."

I don't ask how he knows I've started. He could probably tell from my reaction to what he said before. He points at Granddad, "For you, giving up can still make a big difference. Even if you do develop a serious condition it's likely your symptoms will be less severe and the chances of recovery, greater. Your breathing will start to improve very quickly. Quit before it's too late."

We don't say much on the bus ride home, because we're reading the leaflets.

"What do you say Jack, do you think that together we could learn to be stronger than a packet of fags?"

We don't go straight back to his house. We stop at the health centre on the way and make an appointment for the 'stop smoking' clinic. Gramps and I will make each other proud. Mum'll be happy too.