by Nigel Packer
Otto smoothed down the pillow on which her head was resting.
‘Can I get you anything? Something to eat or drink?’
‘No. Things are perfect, just as they are. A whisky would be nice, right now, but that sort of thing is out of the question these days. So I’ll settle for this glass of water, these pills and a little imagination. What a beautiful tone Tebaldi had, didn’t she? I think I may prefer her voice to Callas.’
* * *
It took them several weeks to get through every record in the box. There were quite a few of them, and there were evenings when Cynthia’s headaches made it impossible to listen. At such times she preferred to lie in silence in the dark. Otto would sit beside her, or (if she asked for solitude) busy himself with some work in the study; listening out in case she happened to call him.
The last record they reached was Glenn Gould’s 1955 recording of the Goldberg Variations; the first thing they had bought together in Marchmont Street.
Otto inspected the surface of the vinyl.
‘It’s in excellent condition,’ he said.
‘That’s hardly surprising. We only played it a few times.’
‘And then completely forgot about it, once we had finished our studies and moved into the world outside. Odd, the way these things happen.’
Recently, they had bought Gould’s second version of the Variations, recorded in the early 1980s. Autumnal and reflective, it contrasted to the ebullience of this earlier recording.
‘I remember packing those records into the box,’ Otto said, as the album neared its conclusion. ‘It was the morning we moved here from Bloomsbury. You must have been about six months pregnant at the time.’
‘I can’t remember it now. All I do recall is how rotten I felt.’
Otto smiled, almost in apology.
‘It wasn’t the easiest of pregnancies. I understand your reluctance to have more children later.’
‘I’ve never vomited so much in my life. Not until the last few months, anyway.’
A look clouded Otto’s face. He felt the need to raise her.
‘You looked terrific, at the drinks party. The one we held the night before leaving Marchmont Street. You stroked your stomach, through your henna-dyed dress, as you chatted to your friends.’
Cynthia looked surprised.
‘I didn’t do that, did I?’
‘You did, in fact. Constantly.’
She smiled.
‘How unpleasant for everyone. What an exhibitionist I must have looked!’
‘Not at all. You didn’t even realise you were doing it. That’s what made it such an endearing gesture.’
She lifted her head from the pillow and leaned it cautiously against his shoulder.
‘I don’t remember a farewell party at all.’
‘I expect it’s because you were feeling unwell at the time.’
‘No. It isn’t that. It’s a part of this bloody condition. The tumour has claimed that particular memory. I wonder how many others might have gone.’
They were silent for a while, listening to the rise and fall of the piano.
A thought struck Otto.
‘We chose Daniel’s name at that party.’
‘Did we? You’ll have to remind me, I’m afraid.’
‘You called me across, when your friends were chatting about something else. You whispered it into my ear. “If it’s a boy, shall we call him Daniel?” I just smiled at the time, said nothing.’
‘You were pleased, though?’
‘I was. Surprised, as well. Until then, you’d been reluctant to discuss any names for the baby.’
‘I was being superstitious, I suppose, not wanting to tempt fate. There were so many things I was afraid of at that time. The pain of childbirth, the responsibility that would follow, the state of the whole bloody planet, in fact. Yet I came to feel more comfortable with the idea of having a baby. Mentally, at least.’
Otto nodded.
‘Something definitely changed in you. I noticed it the night of the party. You were more relaxed than I’d seen you in a long time, despite the discomfort you were feeling.’
A few seconds later, he felt moved to speak again, his voice just about audible above the piano.
‘You had a painterly quality that evening. You glowed with a peculiar light. Brimming and overflowing with life: yours, Daniel’s … It’s something I’ll never forget.’
Neither spoke for a long time after that. Eventually, the record came to a finish.
‘That’s it,’ said Otto, a few minutes later, reluctantly breaking the spell that had descended. ‘We’ve listened to everything now. Would you like to hear anything again?’
Cynthia didn’t answer at first. She was gazing into the distance.
‘No. I don’t think so. It’s been a wonderful experience, an important one, for me. But I think it’s probably time that I left them behind.’
He nodded, without surprise.
‘Shall I put the box away?’
‘Yes, please. You can put it back into the loft, if you like. Or maybe give the records to a charity shop.’
‘All of them?’
‘No, not all. Keep one or two. You know the ones I mean. But we shouldn’t fall too far into the past, tempting though that is in this kind of present. Nostalgia can be such a stupefying drug, if one isn’t careful. Worse than anything the doctors have prescribed me. I mustn’t allow the memories to cloud what time we have.’
Otto crouched down and began to remove her favourites from the box.
‘That would be an error,’ he agreed.
Twenty-Nine
They tried throughout Cyn’s illness to live each moment to the full, discovering a new-found intensity in everyday things. And, despite the seriousness of her condition, and the dreadful sense of reckoning that hung over everything at that time, there were moments of real happiness; more, from Otto’s perspective, than he would ever have anticipated.
Whenever she felt able, they took day trips out, mostly to the countryside, to do those simple and life-affirming things that are so easily taken for granted in the normal course of events. They didn’t try to do anything particularly special; discovering, to Otto’s surprise, that the most essential experiences in life are also the most straightforward, even the most mundane. It was just such moments that Cynthia craved to experience, once she knew that her time was short.
As summer turned to autumn, for instance, she loved to go blackberry picking in the hedges lining the lanes of the Chilterns. The season was short, just a few weeks from mid-September. While in remission, in October 1985, she was able to walk almost unaided alongside her family, plucking out the ripest berries with an expert eye. When undergoing chemotherapy, however, as in the second year of her illness, even this small act proved difficult. Her fingers, badly swollen from the drugs, would catch on the thorns as she tried to work them between the thickets. Some days she felt too unwell even to climb from the wheelchair and make the attempt. And so she would point out to Otto and Daniel where the best berries lay, instructing them from her chair as they moved along the bushes.
Back at the home of Cynthia’s parents – who were elderly and frail, but as stoical as their daughter in the face of her illness – they would transform the blackberries into pots of jam, laughing in the kitchen as Otto and Daniel tried to lend Cynthia’s mother a hand and usually ended up getting in her way.
The days spent blackberry picking were uncannily peaceful. It was a soothing experience for all of them. Just once, during that time, was there a brief ripple of distress amid the calm of the berry-rich lanes. It came in September 1986, shortly after Cyntha noticed that her eyesight was starting to deteriorate.
She and Otto were browsing alone. The light in the lanes was dense and golden. From her wheelchair, she pointed out a cluster of berries, high up in one of the hedgerows. She could just make out the purple plump smudges in the distance.
‘Those look beautiful, don’t they?’ she said to hi
m.
Otto, desperate to bring her even the smallest of comforts, stretched up an arm to try and reach them. But he couldn’t, he couldn’t reach the berries in the highest thickets, even with his great height and his ability to balance on the tips of his toes.
‘I can’t get to them,’ he said to her. ‘I can’t reach the bloody things…’
He drew himself up to his full height, but still the precious berries lay beyond his grasp. As he tottered around, his toes started to sag beneath the strain of his weight, and finally he was forced to give up the attempt.
‘Dammit,’ he exclaimed loudly, landing back onto his heels, his voice suddenly trembling with emotion. ‘I’m so sorry.’
And then, before she could tell him not to worry, he had moved away swiftly, somewhere out of sight behind the wheelchair. Cynthia sensed the slight tremor that shook his shoulders. She wanted to turn and hold him, then; to tell him not to be frightened for her; to assure him she was ready for whatever lay ahead. But she lacked the physical strength to rise and respond as her instincts told her. And so she had no choice but to sit and wait quietly, her hands resting on her lap, while Otto silently recomposed himself behind her.
After a minute or so, she felt him take the handles of the wheelchair once again. His voice, when it sounded above her, was strong and reassuring.
‘I never thought I’d say this,’ he said, ‘but I wish I were a few inches taller!’
He kissed the top of her head and smiled down at her brightly, determined that nothing unsettling should intrude upon the quiet peace of the lanes.
‘It’s okay,’ she told him, with a pat of his hand, as they continued on their way. ‘We have more than enough of those berries, already.’
* * *
During the course of her illness, Cynthia managed two seasons of blackberry picking. They had hoped that she might make a third, as there was a further period of remission following a second operation, in November 1986, and more chemotherapy. For a while her memory and eyesight grew no worse. But the tumour began to grow again, in the summer of 1987, and the doctors warned that a third operation would not be as effective as the others. She elected to have it, anyway; there was a chance it might buy her a few more months. The surgery would take place, they told her, in the next few weeks.
At this point, the tone of their conversations changed. Cynthia became matter-of-fact; practical. There were issues that had to be dealt with; difficult subjects addressed.
‘You must find someone, after I’m gone,’ she told Otto. ‘In the fullness of time. When you feel that you are able.’
He looked at her, almost with incomprehension.
‘I don’t really know what to say,’ he said, quietly.
She steeled herself to continue.
‘It’s difficult. But we should talk about these things. Sensibly. Without sentiment. After all, it’s not the first time we’ve had to do so.’
She smiled as she said this, but her eyes seemed changed. Still beautiful, but tired. The world they looked out upon was different to before.
‘You mustn’t grieve alone for the rest of your life. I know you, Otto, in a way that no one else does. I know how susceptible you are to melancholy, however well you disguise it from the world. I know how hard you find life sometimes, even when things are going well.’
She paused then, not wanting to become overly serious.
‘I’ve seen what a gloomy old git you can be!’
She smiled again, and he tried his best to return it.
‘Keep the darkness at bay,’ she told him. ‘Try to live happily, and well. Don’t let this illness finish you as well as me. That’s what I find so gruelling about the cancer. It’s not contained to me alone – the ripples spread far outwards. So many others are affected, psychologically. Family, friends, professional acquaintances. And the closer they are to me, the more I make them suffer. That’s the cruellest aspect of all. But you have to go on fighting it afterwards, like I’m fighting it now. I can’t beat it, but you and Danny can.’
Otto nodded. Despite her wish not to alarm him, deeper fears were starting to emerge.
‘I’m worried about the future,’ she said. ‘How you will both get by. Danny’s coping well … outwardly at least. But then he’s always been good at disguising his feelings.’
‘He learned from a master.’
Cynthia sought to keep him positive.
‘Don’t be hard on yourself. You already have more than enough to deal with. Don’t take the weight of the universe on your shoulders. You’re a good father, Otto. We’ve raised a wonderful son. No time now for guilt or regrets.’
He squeezed her hand. She paused before speaking again.
‘Look out for each other, won’t you?’
‘We will.’
‘I hope so.’
He glanced at her, perturbed.
‘It seems to be something that’s worrying you. You said exactly the same thing to Daniel and me a few days ago.’
‘I understand the two of you so well, you see. I know how hard you find it to share your emotions.’
Another pause ensued. This was proving rather difficult. Cynthia pushed back the sudden wave of emotion to retain her poise.
‘There are other things we need to discuss. Financial things. Practical things. I should draw up a will. I’ve been avoiding it until now. Cowardly of me, really.’
‘Now who’s being hard on themselves?’
‘Perhaps. But let’s make the necessary arrangements. Soon – while there’s time. I don’t want to leave any loose threads for you to manage. Things will be tough enough without those.’
‘I’ll make some calls.’
‘Thank you. I’m grateful. I realise that none of this is easy.’
* * *
The will was arranged in the next few weeks, along with the sale of the textiles firm. Such issues should have been deeply painful to address – in retrospect they were – but at the time Cynthia was so phlegmatic in her approach, so determined not to give in to the kind of maudlin sentimentality that might have swamped them completely and left them useless, that all conversations took place in a businesslike fashion, with the minimum of what she called ‘unnecessary fuss’.
The third operation took place in late July. As the doctors had warned, Cynthia did not bounce back this time. She regained consciousness, and could still speak with reasonable lucidity for a few weeks, but she was unable to leave her wheelchair, even to walk a few steps. As the days passed, her conversation became increasingly confused and eventually incoherent. Her vision was deserting her. When it became clear that the tumour was advancing rapidly, she was moved into a hospice in central London. Otto and Daniel were constantly at her side.
The room in the hospice was a hushed and twilit place. The nurses, quiet as ghosts, moved discreetly around the bed, administering drugs or changing drips as needed. They always smiled kindly, exchanging a few words with Cynthia, Otto and Daniel before drifting away to tend to patients in other rooms. Cynthia’s parents travelled down twice from the Chilterns, but the frail health of her father made this a difficult undertaking. Instead, Otto telephoned them at home last thing each evening, keeping them updated on their daughter’s condition. Meanwhile, he and Daniel sought to make her as comfortable as possible.
Each day they brought fresh flowers and placed them on her bedside table. Within two weeks of her arrival at the hospice, however, she could no longer see or acknowledge them. Her hearing outlasted her sight and speech. She remained responsive for a few more days. They played her favourite music on a tape recorder of Daniel’s, placing the speaker a few inches from her ear. Even when she was no longer sentient, Otto sometimes thought he saw the trace of a smile; at the sound of a piece by Bach, for instance, or something by Thelonious Monk. Soon, however, even music could not reach her. All of her faculties had gone.
* * *
As they waited for the end, the sense of despair threatened to overwhelm them. Death hovered over
Cynthia’s comatose form like a physical presence.
There was a café, near the hospice, which became a place of respite for them.
‘You look terrible,’ Daniel told his father, from across one of its tables.
‘You do, too,’ Otto replied.
The café wasn’t busy. It was the lull before the lunchtime surge. Before them, on the table, stood two plates of untouched food. Daniel, unshaven, his hair unwashed and tousled, had a wildness about his eyes those last few days. Otto looked somewhat less dishevelled: the signs of defeat were less obvious in him. He wore a clean white shirt and his hair was only moderately unkempt. Yet, as Daniel noted, there was a small red nick on the curve of his father’s chin, where he had cut himself while shaving distractedly that morning.
Neither of them said much in the café, the pop music from the radio providing a welcome cover for their thoughts, but eventually Daniel felt compelled to speak.
‘I’m sinking, Dad. Completely. I’m not sure I can take much more of this.’
Otto prodded his food, sensing that Daniel needed him to say something; to release him from this terrible burden.
‘Daniel…’ he said, pausing a moment, buying time to properly order his words. ‘Whatever it is you decide to do, I fully understand. It’s an impossible situation. She no longer knows us. She no longer knows anything. It makes no difference, frankly, who is around her.’
Gratitude and tears filled Daniel’s eyes. He held himself together enough to speak.
‘I think I’m going back to Cambridge. I’m so tired … I can’t think straight. I don’t know what I can do to help her.’
Hurt and compassion intermingled inside Otto as he found the right words to say to his son.
‘There’s nothing more any of us can do. She’s already gone. As Cynthia, I mean.’
Daniel nodded.
‘That’s what I wanted to say. When her friends phone each evening at the house, asking me how she is, how I am, how you are, I no longer know what to say to them. It’s gone beyond words now. She’s wasted away completely. Yet still, somehow, it continues. It’s horrendous.’