‘No way. But there are more important things in life than cleaning lavatories and hoovering under beds.’
‘Do people hoover under beds?’ she asked with a look of absolute astonishment.
‘Be serious, woman!’
‘Well, that’s rich, coming from you, I must say!’
‘Touché.’
‘Just you worry about the state of your desk and leave the domestic chaos to me.’
‘But will you at least consider it?’ I persisted.
‘I like having my home to myself. I like not having to constantly tidy up because someone’s coming in. I like being able to be slovenly when I feel like it.’
I stared at her in silence. She’d never by so much as a look betrayed the strain of my mother’s invasion in all the months of her cleaning campaign.
27 FEBRUARY—I’ve had a fantastically productive week: galloped ahead with revisions to Aidan’s story, written two features, and got up my speed on the new machine way beyond Dave’s target.
1 MARCH—Dave was impressed. Reckons I’m a natural at this remote control lark. Not much more he can tell me. It’s just a matter of practising.
4 MARCH—That’ll teach me to count my blessings!
Naomi started the week with a catalogue of symptoms ranging from aching all over to a blinding headache. Typically, she declined medical assistance, but by last night she was so feverish, I called in Doc Curtis.
Cardinal sin number one.
‘I can’t be ill,’ she croaked.
‘Maybe you can’t. But the fact remains that you are.’
Okay, I’d have been maddened too by the sheer insensitivity of the response.
It’s a chest infection. Bed rest, fluids, antibiotics, Curtis decreed.
Then, was there anyone who could help out? Should he send in the nurse?
Help! Toni with an ‘i’ I do not need!
He got the message.
After Curtis had gone, and in spite of having no voice to speak of, Naomi left me in no doubt that I’d erred in the sight of God and herself, by nominating her sister, Sally.
Cardinal sin number two.
‘She’s got enough responsibilities of her own. I’ll manage,’ croaked my furious wife.
It’s abundantly plain she couldn’t, even if she tried. So here I am, lurching around on my zimmer, endeavouring to keep the bare essentials for existence ongoing just within the limits of health and safety, and doing my best to keep the invalid cool and supplied with fresh sheets and fruit juice. Anything beyond the essentials is an optional extra as far as I’m concerned.
6 MARCH—I swear I gave as impassive an account of the situation to her sister as was possible when she rang to speak to Naomi last night, and I certainly didn’t so much as mention my own difficulties, but at 10 this morning, there was Sally at the door. By lunchtime she had the place in order, Naomi bathed and sleeping like a baby, and a meal ready for her when she woke.
She whirled off again to collect the girls from their respective ballet and swimming groups, taking with her a pile of ironing and my sense of security; leaving behind an assurance of her return in the morning – with oven-ready food.
I was left to deal with Naomi’s resentment alone.
‘I don’t try to take over your decisions!’
No amount of protestations as to my innocence had any effect on her annoyance.
12 MARCH—Sally has been wonderful this week. Preserving enough clutter to retain my ownership of my home, establishing enough order to make Naomi as well as me feel things are under control. I am hugely in her debt.
And she has confirmed to Naomi my version of events: I did not initiate her coming or even suggest it, but what kind of a sister would she be if she didn’t help out in a crisis?
An uneasy truce has been established but the tension of the last few days has undermined my efforts to get Naomi to take things easy.
Naomi smiled ruefully. She had been a difficult patient.
‘You need more help, Nay,’ Sally had said bluntly.
‘I’m coping.’
‘But looking after Adam is hard work.’
‘You don’t need to tell me that! I live here, remember?’
‘I know. I’m only saying, you ought to have more help now.’
‘Which you’re providing. And I’m terribly grateful, Sal.’
‘Occch, this is nothing – merely fighting fire. I’m talking about long-term help.’
‘It’s just because you aren’t used to it. We manage fine, normally.’
‘You’re exhausted. Look how much this infection has dragged you down.’
‘This is just a temporary blip. We’ve got into a routine. I don’t want any more people crowding us out of our own home.’
‘It would free you up to do some of the things you want to do.’
‘What I want is to be with Adam.’
And she’d remained adamant. Not yet. It would come – but not yet.
She’d been grateful for a second week of rest, thanks to Sally, though.
20 MARCH—We’re on our own today. So far so good. Sally left us ahead of the game as far as housework, laundry, ironing, etc, goes. And food – both the bought and the cooked variety. So between us we’ve just done the basics. No mishaps so far.
But in the confines of this confessional I can admit to a new problem ... well, maybe. I haven’t forgotten Devlin’s caveat. Three times now I’ve choked drinking plain water. I’m always careful about the amount of any fluid or food I take, but just a tiny quantity can catch me unawares. Is this the first sign of swallowing problems?
The books advise iced or fizzy drinks, sips before meals or between courses. I’ve tried that. And like they say, I fare better with sharp and spicy foods, rather than dry bland things. Presumably they stimulate the salivary flow.
I’m starting to dread mealtimes. I found it easier eating alone (when Naomi was ill), limiting the size of the meal, setting my own pace, quitting as and when I needed to. No temptation to talk and eat at the same time. But I can’t start opting out of yet another sociable activity. Not yet. Not with her.
So it hadn’t been her fevered imagination.
22 MARCH—Naomi insisted I kept my rendezvous with Devlin this afternoon.
In my effort to put on a good show and not feel pressured, I arrived far too early. Coffee seemed a good idea but I found myself eerily invisible to the harassed waitresses – but simultaneously too visible to other diners.
One hour and forty-five minutes I sat in the clinic. The longer I waited, the more reluctant I was to go to the loo in case I missed my turn. Discomfort compounded my agitation.
By the time my name was called I was sweating profusely and trying to summon up the courage to ask Devlin to excuse me for ten minutes. But… the big chief was not in attendance today. My hackles rose. I was on his list! My date has been fixed for three months!
The specialist registrar, Dr Rodney Stedeford, was most definitely not the man I needed. Pompous as well as patronising. A few platitudes, promises of ‘excellent care’ and it was over. Fifty minutes travelling, one hundred and five minutes waiting, for eleven minutes of garbage.
‘We’ll see you in three months’ time.’
Not if I have anything to do with it!
But the taxi driver who brought me home reversed my bad mood. He made it seem as effortless to decipher my speech as to manhandle me into his cab. His genial conversation roamed over everything from concrete jungles to homosexual priests. Just as he pulled up outside our house, he turned to look directly at me and asked, ‘What did you do for a livin’ then, Guv?’
I told him I was still a writer. Only then did I get a glimpse of the Adam O’Neill he saw.
‘Nah! You’re kiddin’!’
I laughed with him. It was irresistible. Who cares about pompous asses like Stedeford?
Naomi found herself grinning too.
24 MARCH—I had an appointment with Curtis today, getting myself checked out f
or travel, although it’s been on the cards lately that Naomi’d be the one whose fitness for flying hundreds of miles might be in question. She’s looking tons better although I still catch glimpses of that haunted look she seems to have carried for months now, which makes me question her staying-power.
By some quirk I got the same taxi driver I’d had last time. Again he went beyond the call of duty and got me into the surgery as well as the cab with consummate ease – without recourse to the wheelchair too. I’ve noted his name for future reference: George Farmer. Nothing was too much trouble. George leaves my dignity intact. He instantly becomes a mate.
I had a few things on my list for Curtis. The emotional confusion was one: thinking one way, conveying something else altogether. He confirmed that it was par for the course. So that answers that. Nothing I can do about it, so no merit in wasting nervous energy trying to right that particular wrong.
On the matter of choking, he was less definite. Just monitor the situation. You’re taking the right precautions. Let me know if it persists. No need to forgo the holiday on that score. He tentatively broached the subject of a Speech and Language Therapist – again! – this was her domain. He was mildly taken aback when I agreed to see her.
A rather more pressing issue on my agenda was the first draft of my novel, Aidan’s Story, unfortunately currently minus the last two chapters. I want the security of a hard copy somewhere safe while we’re away. I handed it to Curtis suddenly, mid-consultation.
‘If I don’t come back, I’d appreciate it if you’d get this thing published. There’s an electronic copy on my machine, several back-ups on disc. Help yourself.’
He gave me a strange look.
‘Is it likely?’ he asked, perfectly calmly, as if asking about the possibility of missing the next bus.
‘You never know. But somebody needs to know of its existence. In case.’
He riffled the edges of the paper.
‘May I read it?’
I shrugged. ‘It still needs a lot of tidying up.’
‘Perfection always being a draft away, huh?’
‘More than one draft in this case.’
‘Is there something I should know?’
‘As in?’
‘A reason why you might not make it back?’
‘Nothing specific.’
‘I’m taking the fact that you haven’t quite finished it as a good sign – yes?’
Enlightenment hit me foursquare.
‘Ahhh. You think I might do the deed over there.’
He was watching me steadily.
‘The thought crossed my mind.’
‘Well, no, I wasn’t actually thinking along those lines. I was thinking more of plane crashes.’
‘Good. I’d like to see this book finished. And I doubt very much if I could find anyone to edit it to your exacting standards in your absence.’ Curtis gave me a rueful smile.
‘You’d have your ending though, wouldn’t you?’ I held his gaze.
‘An ending, maybe. But would it suit your character in the book?’
‘And would you have a problem writing suicide in – given your reservations, I mean?’
‘If I’m honest… well, I’ve seen too many botched attempts.’
His fleeting expression conjured up sad messes he’d attempted to salvage. The ones who jumped. The ones who drowned. The ones who slashed. The ones who shot themselves. The ones who didn’t get the dose right and ended up more damaged than before. What does the novice know of accurate doses or optimal times or distances or pressures?
‘So why not put it all in the hands of the medical fraternity?’ I said. ‘Safer.’
‘Even they don’t always get it right.’
Is this a warning to me?
‘I guess that’s a feature of prohibition, huh? Driving the practice underground,’ I offered lightly. ‘Not enough experience, not enough accepted wisdom, no overt communication network.’
‘It’s all part of the picture.’
‘But it doesn’t explain why you doctors instinctively rush to save the life of someone who’s attempted suicide. Maybe death is the wisest choice, for them. And there they are, dragged back into purgatory, without their consent.’
‘Well, strictly off the record, I know exactly what you mean. I’ve done it myself and my conscience hasn’t always been easy.’
There was a long silence.
‘So, I guess I should be grateful you’ll even talk about it, huh?’
He shrugged.
‘For what it’s worth, I do understand your reservations,’ I said.
‘And I understand your dilemma.’
We grinned at each other.
‘But I really want to know how you end your story – in the book, I mean! And I want to have many more discussions about the ethics of medicine with you.’
It was my cue to leave.
The small hours It’s never a good idea to have stimulating discussion late in the evening. Especially not nowadays, when sleep has become an elusive friend. And on top of that, I really needed to draft the outline for the end of the book while the ideas were still buzzing.
26 MARCH—I had to see Lydia before going away. She put me through my paces briskly and then said, ‘Brilliant. Off you go and enjoy all that sun and scenery. A holiday’s just what you need.’
28 MARCH—At 4.15PM today, the estate agent rang to say Mother’s house has been sold. The sum realised was obscene, enough to build a couple of hospitals in the third world. Although Naomi still refuses any share, she has retrieved something else which belonged to her mother-in-law: an amethyst brooch. I gave it to Mother on her sixtieth birthday, but I suspect she never wore it. It was still in its original box.
Naomi lifted the brooch from the black velvet and turned it slowly, watching the light refracting on the facets of the stones. It was lovely. The only piece of Mavis’s jewellery she had liked. For the first time, she pinned it on her jumper.
It was three days before she returned to Adam’s diary; days spent sorting out a particularly messy adoption case, nights spent writing up reports. She felt robbed of energy.
1 APRIL—Digby Arkwright called in. He’s better than any stimulant. He wants me to write something about holidays for the disabled. I watched him drive off without a backward glance.
2 APRIL—It’s finally done. I know I’ve been stalling, revising instead of finishing, but it’s been so painful to let Aidan die. He’s been more real to me that anyone else I know. I not only see him, I feel and think with him. He is me. This morning, after surgery, I took the last chapters of his life in for Curtis.
‘It’s very much early draft. Needs lots of polishing. But I don’t want it hanging over me while we’re away.’
‘I’ll keep it safe.’
‘And no peeking. It’s not fit for your eyes yet. It would only show you how hard I have to work to produce anything passable.’
He smiled and then said, ‘I hope Madeira is as good as you remember it. And please, if you need any advice… anything… either of you, just ring. Leave a message. I’ll call back.’
‘Thanks. Good to know.’
4 APRIL—Joel is due here tonight. Up for the weekend. Just what I need to help me forget Aidan.
6 APRIL—Joel has gone. We packed so much into the two days; quality quality-time.
We share a love of the sea so on Saturday he and I drove down the East Lothian coast. He tried to push my wheelchair along the shore at Gullane, but the softness of the ground and the obstacle of the dunes made it impossible. Instead we drove back to Joppa, where the sand was firm and smooth. I savoured the taste of salt on my lips, the glow of sun on my skin. I drank in the sight of my beloved brother skimming the water with flat stones and retrieving shells from the shoreline to present to Naomi.
She, having been out visiting one of her troubled families much of the day, gladly joined us for a meal in our favourite country restaurant. My treat. I watched anew, in a bitter-sweet kind of way, the
light banter between the two people I love best in the world. I can see they are good for one another.
Joel set about beating me at chess before we went to bed, while Naomi sat under her spotlight sewing her sampler. We toasted his success in hot chocolate and laughed at how much we were starting to adopt the derided habits of our forebears.
Today we drove round past Mother’s old house. The door has been painted sunflower yellow, a colour she always hated. There are slatted blinds at the windows, a whirligig clothes line and a startlingly blue trampoline in the back garden. The new owners have dispensed with her precise lawn and replaced it with low-maintenance plastic paving. The smell of barbecuing sausages and the amplified sound of a games show assaulted our senses. On a Sunday morning!
It was too much. We turned by mutual consent and left without a word.
We drove towards the woods behind our own house and Joel guided my chair with infinite care between the roots and stones littering the path. The sun filtered through the new leaves, birds sang their God-given harmonies, and peace entered our hearts again. A sanctified Sunday peace. Blessed by our mother. Or so I fancied.
Joel stopped at a place where the path opens into a clearing – to catch his breath he said; to give me a rest more likely. The clarity of the air after rain enabled us to see right across to the distant hills. We watched a lone farmer working his fields, a solo pilot practising his manoeuvres in the relative safety of this depopulated area, a foal frolicking around its mother.
We talked of inconsequential things.
He didn’t finally leave until after seven.
I hid in here.
Naomi hardly noticed the tears sliding down her own cheeks, she was so lost in his emotion.
7 APRIL—Needing activity and purpose, missing Aidan as well as Joel, I began to edit this diary today but after thirty minutes I abandoned the attempt – for all sorts of reasons.
I’m acutely aware of Naomi’s place in all of this, her critical importance not just in my diary, but in my life.
Naomi, you hold my world in your hands. You are the centre of my life; the colour, the music, the constant. No words are big enough to capture my love for you. Knowing I must soon leave you is the hardest thing I’ve ever endured. But I want you to be happy again, my dearest girl.
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