But Lizzie wasn’t listening. She went to sleep and dreamt of Max on his bathability chair, poised above a very deep bath. She saw the chair descending and, with Max still talking, slipping beneath the water and she watched the bubbles rising, imagining each word he spoke floating to the surface in the way that they drew speech bubbles in comics until one by one the bubbles slowed and stopped altogether. Then when he came to sit up to meals Max developed a startling list to the left, or mostly to the left. He continued to insist on feeding himself though his eye-hand co-ordination, never very good at the best of times, grew suddenly very much worse. He sat there, with knife and fork or spoon poised, protesting: ‘I’m perfectly competent, Lizzie. Old perhaps, but not yet enfeebled. I’ll do it myself, thank you very much.’ And even as he spoke he began feeding his chin, or his collar or his lapel, with egg and fish and meat.
‘If you go on leaning like that, Daddy,’ she warned him calmly, ‘I shall rope you to the chair and feed you myself.’
Max responded by feeding his ear. The yolk of his soft-boiled egg ran down his ear-lobe and into his collar.
‘Right, that’s it!’ She heard her voice, so cool, distant, that it did not seem to belong to her, so rational, so wonderfully calm. She found herself moving over to the kitchen drawer. Rope was actually out of the question – though she did think briefly of using the rope ladder that swung above his bed. Instead she took the roll of kitchen string, white and waxy to the touch, and began unpeeling it, listening with considerable satisfaction to its dry rattle. ‘Right,’ she said again, and she began winding the string, the thick white twine, around his arms and shoulders. ‘I warned you. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!’
And that was how Albert found him when he returned in the evening. Trussed so tightly that he appeared to be wearing some kind of special bodice or jacket – almost a kind of strait-jacket. There was Max, sitting bolt upright before his ice-cold egg, the yolk he’d spilt earlier that day dried now to a golden crust on his ear and neck. Only the steady blinking of his blue eyes showed that he was conscious at all.
After that it was clear to Albert that other arrangements would have to be made. Max’s only comment as Albert unwound the string strait-jacket was startlingly lucid: ‘I’m very concerned about Elizabeth. Do you think she’s getting old?’
‘She’s at the end of her tether, Max.’
‘A short tether.’
They put him in the back of Albert’s silver Jag and Elizabeth gazed steadfastly through the windscreen trying to pretend that she was invisible, that Max wasn’t there, that this wasn’t happening.
‘It’s a bit like the old days,’ he said, as they drew up outside the three-storey red-brick Victorian house on the corner of St Margaret Drive and Lord John Road, opposite the boys’ school. Max was pretending to be engrossed in a copy of Fealty. In the back of the car, with a tartan rug pulled over his knees, and his red tie knotted thickly beneath his Adam’s apple, he suddenly asked Albert: ‘Do you believe in euthanasia?’
Albert glanced at his wife, who closed her eyes. No help from her. ‘Yes. In certain circumstances. Intractable pain. Or a clear and rational desire on the part of the sufferer for release. Done with proper medical support. Competent but kindly supervision.’
‘What is this place?’
‘It’s called an eventide refuge, Max. Serenity House.’
‘Call it what you will.’
Max grinned in the rear view mirror. ‘The trouble with it is, was, always will be – the moment you legalise it – someone has to do the business. Then the trouble starts. You set up units. Someone has to do the job. You? Me? Her?’ And he jerked a thumb towards the back of the now frozen Elizabeth. ‘Anyway, someone. Someone trained to heal people gets entrusted. Someone decides. Left, right. No, yes. Efficiently, yes. But finishing them. And that’s where the problem lies. Of course it can be done. But for how long? The difficulty concerns those doing the killing. It’s very hard, believe me. The problem’s not with the dying. It’s always with the living. Let’s go home now.’
‘Let’s have a look first,’ said Albert firmly.
‘Do you think members of the Royal Family ever visit this place?’
‘We can ask inside,’ said Albert. He might have been addressing a small child. Elizabeth half expected to hear him add: ‘Only if you’re very good!’
‘The Princess of Wales might come by one day. She visited black babies born to drug-addicted mothers in New York. Surely she might call on her countrymen?’
‘Perhaps. I am not privy to the Princess of Wales’ engagements.’ With relief Albert spotted a parking place.
‘I have to use the lavatory.’
‘We’ll find one inside.’
‘I don’t need it then. Our primitive ancestors exposed their old and dying on the hillside. Some people call it cruel. But I tell you it was a bloody sight more humane than sticking them away in geriatric ghettos. Tell me – who does the selecting here?’
‘Selecting?’ Albert, concentrating on squeezing the Jag between two red Ford Escorts, found difficulty dealing with the question. ‘What are you talking about, Max?’
‘In all these institutions there’s always somebody who does the selecting.’
‘Selecting for what?’
‘For who lives and who dies.’
‘Let’s go and take a look. Can’t hurt to take a look.’ Albert got out and opened Max’s door. The old man sat there, illuminated by the car’s interior light, quite silently. He opened his mouth, reached into it to remove his false teeth and sat with them on his lap. With the tip of a moistened forefinger he began stroking a molar. Hunched in her coat, listening to him, hearing a small cry of moist flesh on plastic, Elizabeth thought she was going to scream.
CHAPTER FOUR
The New Boy
Once Albert and Elizabeth had got Max out of the car, he surprised them by asking for his suitcase.
‘But this is just a dry-run, Max,’ said Albert, soothingly. ‘No one’s committing themselves yet.’ Then he must have thought ‘committing’ was a bad word to use. He added quickly, ‘The choice is yours. Anyway, you didn’t bring a suitcase.’
‘Yes, I did,’ said Max. ‘Would you mind, Lizzie? You’ll find it in the boot. Next to it is a blue carpet bag – I will look after the carpet bag. The suitcase can be handed over to the authorities.’
The suitcase of dark red leather, chapped as an old cricket ball around the edges, stood in the hall of Serenity House. They all stared. Max had painted on the case in white letters: Max Montfalcon, b. 1909, Greyacres, Highgate, London N6.
‘May I see my case placed in your luggage depository after I’ve unpacked?’ Max asked Cledwyn Fox.
‘Perhaps you don’t have a depository?’ Elizabeth asked, embarrassed by her father’s assumption.
Mr Fox seemed surprised. ‘But we do! It’s essential.’
My God! thought Albert. A room chock full of the trunks and bags of the dearly departed.
Max seemed reassured. ‘Knew you must have one. These places always do.’
Tea was later produced by a large-shouldered nurse whom Mr Fox introduced as Night Matron, a tall, rather boxy woman with a tiny smile shaped like a safety-pin. Lizzie noticed the big muscles in her forearms, coiled steel sheathed in skin. Even so she felt she had to offer to help with her father’s suitcase.
‘It’s my pleasure, Mrs Turberville. The work of the Lord is light just as the love of the Lord is unending.’
‘Unending or unbending?’ Max asked.
Matron turned disconcertingly dark-green eyes towards Max who stood rigid in the corner, swallowing hard. ‘You must be the new boy.’ His Adam’s apple moved like a heart beat above the knot of his tie.
‘Sit, Mr Montfalcon,’ Night Matron said firmly, and, case in one hand, she lifted a heavy green leather chair as if it were made of cardboard and deposited it gently at his side. ‘The Lord bless you and keep you safe among us.’ Max settled in the chair. Mr Fox covered h
is legs in a green tartan rug. Night Matron disappeared with his case. Max would not let her touch his carpet bag. He hugged it to his chest and rested his cheek on it, cradling it like a baby.
Mr Fox rubbed his hands. ‘A Rhodesian lady full of fun and fire. Capable and energetic with a kind of inner resilience. A fine example of the old settler ethos. They live on a diet which is pretty much red meat from cradle to grave. And it shows! Believe you me. A saint and a carnivore is Night Matron.’
‘Now, if I can give you what I call my Serenity House spiel. Very well, here we go! Serenity House caters to all tastes. Meat eaters and grain preferrers. We take them all. What we do not take are sides. We welcome smokers and drinkers, except in their rooms. People ought not to be punished for their habits. But we cater. We try to incorporate the latest discoveries into our everyday lives. Our chef is well aware of the latest restrictive diet programmes in America. Chef will give those who wish it a kilojoule-cutting diet. Up to forty per cent reduction without risks of malnutrition. A diet rich in minerals and vitamins. A regime low in free radicals.’
‘Radicals?’ Albert woke briefly from his gloomy semi-comatose state. He felt adrift in a sea of mixed emotions. Silent loathing for the bouncy Welshman and his tricksy manner yet thorough-going approval for the House. This would sort out Max. Serenity House was the solution.
‘Cells containing a high count of reactive oxygen.’
‘Excuse me for asking,’ Albert murmured and Elizabeth gave him a sharp look.
‘We fight the free radicals with beta-carotene and Vitamin E. Part and parcel of the modern world order in health. People believe in healthy life-styles the way they once believed in God. Yet Serenity House refuses any policing role in the matter of diet. We treat the health agnostics the same as we do the health believers. Are there people who want meat and gravy? Meat and gravy they shall have. Serenity House, it is fair to say, caters. What does your father like in the way of food?’
It was on the tip of Albert’s tongue to say – ‘Keep him away from eggs’ – but a glance at Lizzie’s face stopped him.
Night Matron returned. She wore, Elizabeth noticed, immensely strong brown shoes with thick crêpe soles. Boatlike though they were, she made no sound at all when she moved. ‘I’ve unpacked Mr Montfalcon. I’ve switched on his electric blanket. His room is warm and waiting whenever he’d like to go up.’
‘Bless you, Matron,’ said Cledwyn Fox.
‘Bless you, Mr Fox,’ said Night Matron and withdrew as silently as she’d entered.
‘Would you like a short tour of your new home, Mr Montfalcon?’ said Cledwyn Fox, tucking in his apricot shirt with neat nimble gestures.
But Max had closed his eyes and appeared to have fallen asleep.
‘Let him sleep. This way, Mr and Mrs Turberville.’ Up sprang Mr Fox, so lithe, so agile, so brimming with energy it made you smile just to see him. With the light every so often glinting on his golden earring he danced ahead on a tour of inspection.
‘Never more than twenty guests. Though that number is seldom stable, for – well, for evident reasons. As Night Matron would say – “we know not the day nor the hour… ” Do you know who they are, Mr and Mrs Turberville? The guests of Serenity House? I shall tell you. They’re us! That’s who they are. If we’re lucky. In a way I regard them as veterans from the wars of life. And sometimes as spacemen or deep-sea divers, out of their usual atmosphere. Out of their depth. Do you think they need our pity? God forbid. Do you know what they do need? Equipment! Explorers venturing into another age, having to cope in a totally new environment. Our elders are also innovators, Mrs Turberville. That’s what they are. When I look at my guests, what do I feel for them? I’ll tell you – gratitude. That’s what I feel. Where they lead today we will surely follow tomorrow.’
It was like being led by a cricket, thought Elizabeth, a Welsh cricket. For Mr Fox chirruped and skipped ahead of them from kitchen to television room, to laundry, to toilets. ‘Very, very important, proper toileting arrangements!’ A walking, talking brochure.
Albert pointed to the television cameras poking their dark sleek little heads from corners and cupboard tops. ‘Do you run those?’
‘Eyes and ears, Mr Turberville.’
And so they went, with a hop, skip and jump, following merry Mr Fox who waved his petite little behind in a manner which made Albert flush and Elizabeth thought was really rather cute.
Nineteen ‘clients’ or ‘guests’ or ‘elders’ in Serenity House. ‘At the last count,’ said Mr Fox. ‘We’re missing dear Mrs Greengross. She went last night. Quite suddenly.’ Three storeys. A garden full of tall and rather gloomy beech trees. Cypresses lining the fence. All mod cons, sensors in the bedclothes to switch on the electric blanket. Bells to remind you to take your pills from the built-in hoppers which sprang out of walls above the special nursing beds. A selection of motorised wheelchairs, the pride of the fleet being the Gazelle; then the slightly smaller Antelope and even the homely little standard Terrapin. To each according to his need. Closed circuit TV cameras on every landing to monitor guests as they negotiated the stairs and corners lest they slip and fall. All, in Mr Fox’s words, ‘Very lovely. Very modern.’
Soon Elizabeth’s head was spinning with names and ailments. There was a very thin old lady in a blonde wig and pink silk dressing-gown, called Lady Divina. One of the very first ‘eco-freaks’, said Fox. Then there was old Maudie, who wept when she saw Fox and tried to kiss his hand. He was very patient with them and Elizabeth felt slightly ashamed of herself for feeling so angry towards her father but then immediately cheered up when she decided that Cledwyn Fox would take care of Max far better than ever she could have done. They were intrigued by Imelda, the little nurse-aide from the Philippines. They met, but did not speak to, the Reverend Alistair, Margaret and Sandra because they all appeared to be asleep, sitting upright in their chairs before the TV. Mr Fox introduced them as if they were really awake, and encouraged Elizabeth and Albert to do the same. She felt silly taking the limp hands of the sleepers in hers. Albert managed rather better, bending over the sleepers and saying cheerfully, ‘Albert Turberville, pleased to meet you.’ Just as he did at election time, taking no notice of their response. ‘They spend most of their days semi-comatose,’ Mr Fox explained. They met two fat, rather untidy men, one of whom had his fly buttons open and Elizabeth could have sworn he’d had his hand inside his trousers and quickly drew it out when Mr Fox coughed upon entering their room. ‘The Malherbe twins,’ Mr Fox announced. ‘Guests of long standing. Once very prominent in the Manchester wine trade.’ From down one of the corridors came the sound of machine-gun fire and the crump of exploding bombs. ‘Very realistic though clearly man-made. That’s Major Bobbno’, Mr Fox smiled gently, ‘still fighting the war.’
‘Most people find it hard to talk about incontinence,’ Mr Fox said. ‘We face it four-square. It may be stress-related. It may result from medication. We try various methods. Counselling. Exercise. Devices from the sheath to the catheter. Plenty of toilets, of course. One for two guests. That’s a big step up on the recommended ratio of one to four. Commodes wherever requested. Exercises for the pelvic muscles. With our disturbed patients it is sometimes just a case of reminding them to go to the toilet regularly. This often prevents accidents without the need for special treatment.’
‘Those TV cameras,’ Albert said as they walked back to Fox’s office. ‘I suppose you know they’re illegal?’
‘I did not know.’
‘Closed circuit cameras have been outlawed by the Department of Health. They constitute an invasion of privacy.’
‘News to me.’ Fox smiled thinly.
‘My husband is an MP,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Ah, yes . . . ’ Fox made it sound as if this explained some small but not very important mystery. ‘Would you like to see a copy of the House Rules, Mr Turberville? Firm but fair I think you’ll find them.’
Night Matron’s brilliant torch played over the mountain of s
uitcases stored in the cellar of Serenity House, a room faintly lit by an overhead strip of speckled fluorescent tubing. A hill of leather bones, thought Max. A luggage ossuary. He said as much to Night Matron, broad and brooding by his side. But she said it was not a word she knew. Not a word they used in Rhodesia.
‘Or if they did, not in my company. My father kept a bar, Mr Montfalcon. The words men used were shorter.’
‘Bones,’ said Max.
‘It was the drink. Men and drink. Serenity House has rather careful rules about liquor.’
‘Bones,’ said Max again.
‘Oh, bones!’ Her torch stabbed the dimly lit cellar. The hill of leather gleamed softly. It seemed to breathe, exhaling the bouquet of decades: cowhide, pigskin, alligator and kid. The memorial mountain of dead skins. Each bag, case, valise, trunk, portmanteau carefully and clearly labelled.
‘They take on the personality of their owners, past and present,’ Matron explained. ‘Like dogs do. I know a lot of them by heart. James Maclemman, born 1904; pigskin and silver, Prince of Wales Drive, Brighton; Dilys Jones, 1922, cream canvas and red buckles, The Crescent, Gwent. Mabel Greengross – dear Mrs Greengross. Just left us, Mr Montfalcon. She’s the rather ghastly leatherette with the strap around it.’
Max shivered.
‘We store them here,’ said Night Matron, ‘against the day our elders take their leave. The owners are given a receipt. We do try to persuade elders not to bring their best cases. But, as you see, they won’t listen. Elders like to put their best feet forward. You’d think they were off on a world cruise. This is where they wait. In the dark. Ready for the big day.’
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