The Question

by Jane Asher

  Barbara looked across at Susie. ‘Susie,’ she said miserably, ‘what do you think? What do we do? I just can’t make any decisions. I – oh God, I just miss him so much. I’m sorry, Eleanor, I know I shouldn’t say it in front of you, but we’ve all been through so much together there’s no point in pretending, is there? I just miss him so very, very much. He’s my world, you see. He’s everything – except you, Susie, of course – he’s everything I live for.’

  ‘Yes, well,’ said Eleanor, not quite succeeding in hiding the look of disgust that was creeping across her face at Barbara’s words, ‘at least you’ve got each other, haven’t you? At least you’ve got his child, Barbara. That’s more than I have, remember.’

  ‘I think Eleanor is right,’ said Susie. ‘I hate the whole idea of it, but I think she’s being very brave.’

  ‘Thank you, Susan.’

  ‘And I think, if she can bear it, that we should let her do as she says. She should ask him whether – whether – I mean she should ask him. The question.’

  ‘Thank you, Rae. I’m fine. You can leave me to it.’

  Rae stood up, gave Eleanor a little squeeze on her arm and then walked towards the door of the small side room. ‘I’ll shut the door,’ she said. ‘Just for privacy. I’m not far away, Eleanor – just give me a shout if you need me, or ring the bell there. Don’t hesitate to call me.’

  ‘I won’t,’ smiled Eleanor. ‘Thank you.’

  She watched the woman go out and shut the door, then she turned back to look at John. He was seated in the wheelchair, his head supported in an upright position by the two side pieces of the head rest. The muscles of his face were slack and loose, letting the flesh hang down and to the side. His eyes looked lifeless: the pupils reminded Eleanor of a dead fish in their cloudy dullness. His mouth was slightly open and the ever present string of saliva hung from his lip, lengthening every second as she studied him. She reached for a tissue and made to wipe it away, but then hesitated. She looked down at his lap, where the shiny metal of the buzzer nestled against his thumb, pinioned efficiently into exactly the right position by a piece of crepe bandage. She looked back up into his face again.

  ‘No, John. I think I’ll leave it there. Why should I wipe away your slimy mess?’

  She kept looking at his face, but could see no flicker of response.

  ‘OK, John, just a little test, I think, before we go any further. I don’t want to waste my precious time if you’re not functioning, do I? Let’s have a little demonstration of your cleverness, shall we?’

  She leant forward a little, and spoke slowly and clearly. ‘You have your buzzer there, John. On your lap. As usual. Now, tell me, can you understand what I’m saying?’

  After a fraction of a pause, a single bleep sounded into the quietness of the room.

  ‘Good. That’s excellent. And is your name Henry?’

  Two bleeps.

  ‘Richard?’

  Two bleeps.

  ‘John?’

  One bleep.

  ‘Wonderful. And are you a lying unfaithful bastard, John dear?’

  Silence. Eleanor laughed. ‘No, well, I didn’t really expect an answer to that one, my love. But don’t worry, I’ll answer it for you. Yes. Yes, John, is the answer to that one. Now, just be patient with me. I have a few things to say to you before I ask you the question you may be longing to hear.’ She laughed again, briefly, and rubbed under her nose with one finger. ‘Oh dear me, forgive me laughing, John, but it’s a funny situation, isn’t it? Here we are, me totally in control of you. What a change – isn’t it? Or do you think perhaps I’ve been in control for longer than you realise? Hm?’

  She sat back a minute and looked at him, then her smile dropped as she shifted her chair closer to his and spoke again. ‘I know, John. I know all about your grubby little life. About your mistress. Your bastard daughter. Your sordid little lies and excuses. Did you really think you could keep it from me?’

  She moved her mouth even closer to his ear. ‘And now look at you. You’re dribbling again, John. Your nose is messy. How d’you feel about that? You look disgusting. You look like – like your life. Disgusting. Revolting.

  ‘You knew I wanted a child, John, didn’t you? Why didn’t you give me a child, John? Why did you always tell me you didn’t want one? That we were happy as we were? How dare you take that from me? How dare you deny me my right?

  ‘Why did you give that pathetic, common little woman what you’d always denied me? She’s nothing, John, she’s nothing. How could you do it? How could you touch her – her nasty little body, with its cheap clothes and ugly hair? HOW COULD YOU FUCK HER, YOU BASTARD?

  ‘You’ve messed up everything. Everything.’

  She was hissing, now, spitting into his ear with all the stored-up hatred of the past months; all the frustrations and unhappiness of the past years.

  ‘And then she was coming to me, John. Your child was coming to me – she was going to be mine. I was going to make it all work. I would have let you come back, you see; I would have forgiven you. We could have lived together, made it work. Forgotten your cheap whore and started again. As a family. Watched her marry and have our grandchildren.

  ‘But you couldn’t even let that happen, could you? You had to smash into that wretched young man in your hurry to get to your bitch; driving too fast, were you, John, as usual? Only thinking of yourself?

  ‘Well, now look where it’s got you. Lovely, isn’t it? And you’ve taken her away from me, John. Your selfishness has taken her away. You have to mess everything up, don’t you? Spoil it all with your cheap lust and your thoughtlessness. I would have made it all right, you see. I would have forgiven you. I’m big enough to do that, John. We could have made something out of the mess you’d created. But even that you had to spoil.

  ‘Now she’s gone back to that woman. And moved in with a cripple. That’s what you’ve done to her, John.

  ‘But I won’t desert you. I’m going to take you home with me. I’m going to look after you, John. And I’ll make sure you never see that woman again. Or your ungrateful daughter. You’re all I’ve got now.’

  She sat back, exhausted, and looked at him. The string of saliva had reached the collar of his shirt now, and she watched it for a moment as it began to move sideways across the blue fabric. ‘Poor old boy,’ she said quietly. ‘Has wifey been nasty to you?’ She sat up again and lifted the crumpled piece of tissue and gently wiped away the mess from his mouth and neck. ‘There, there. I’ll look after you, Johnny. Eleanor will look after you, don’t worry.

  ‘Now then, there may be something you’d like me to ask you, dear. I shall ask you very slowly and clearly, John, and then – do you know what? – I may never ask you again. So you’d better be very careful what you answer. Think carefully, dear, because this is very important. Are you listening to me, John? Give me a buzz if you are listening to me.’

  A single bleep came quickly in response.

  ‘Good. Now then, John, what I shall ask you is very simple. Very simple. Just listen carefully and give me your answer.’

  She took a deep breath, then spoke gently but very clearly, enunciating each word crisply and separately so that the short sentence emerged slowly into the still room.

  ‘John: listen to me – do – you – want – to – live?’

  After the merest hint of a pause the answer came back, echoing in its electronic clarity and definition the way the question had itself been asked.

  Bleep. Bleep.

  Eleanor looked at John’s face for a moment, the face that still betrayed no evidence of emotion or understanding. She smiled at him: the merest hint of an upturn at the corners of her mouth that failed to be reflected in the coldness of her eyes. She stood up and pushed back her chair, then bent to speak closely into his ear, as her smile became a little broader:

  ‘Tough.’

  And she turned away and walked out of the room.

  Epilogue

  Eleanor pushed the wheelchai
r slowly along the gravel path round the edge of the lawn. The wheels dug into the stones and made it heavy going, and she grunted impatiently with the effort of it.

  ‘Here – do let me have a turn,’ said Andrew, leaning forward and reaching for the handles.

  ‘No!’ Eleanor pushed his hand away and kept on walking, startling him with the sharpness of her response. ‘Sorry, Andrew,’ she went on. ‘I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just that I like to do everything myself. Only me or the nurse. It makes me feel more secure, somehow. One catch of the wheel in something, or a bump, could just dislodge him and throw him off balance.’

  She leant forward and spoke in a cooing little voice directly into the ear of the drooping man in the wheelchair. ‘Couldn’t it, John?’

  ‘Well, I think you’re wonderful, Eleanor,’ said Catherine, who was walking a little behind them. ‘I’m sure I couldn’t do it. If Andrew was like this I’m sure I’d shut him in a home and have done with him!’ She laughed, and looked across at Andrew, who smiled back at her a little wanly.

  ‘I like to do it,’ said Eleanor.

  ‘And you’ve been so kind. To – to the woman. You know,’ added Catherine, lowering her voice slightly as if mentioning something not suitable for other ears.

  ‘Very forgiving,’ muttered Andrew, looking down at the gravel and linking his hands behind his back.

  ‘Well, these things are sent to try us,’ smiled Eleanor. ‘No doubt it was partly my fault. We can’t all have perfectly happy marriages like yours, Catherine.’

  ‘No, well, we’re very lucky,’ answered Catherine, coming up beside Andrew and slipping her hand through one arm, which forced him to part his hands and let them hang awkwardly at his sides.

  ‘And it all worked out very well, really,’ Eleanor said. ‘The house on the Devon estate being empty, I mean. Just the right size for the woman on her own. And just the right – sort of place.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Absolutely. Start a new life and all that,’ said Andrew. ‘And how’s he doing? Any improvement? Any more noises or anything?’

  ‘Not really. He does wail a bit, still. Sometimes when I’m trying to get through to him he just cries. They’re not sure if it’s some sort of reflex, or if it’s because he’s becoming more aware. More aware of his situation and remembering what’s happened and what he used to be like.’

  ‘Poor thing,’ said Andrew. ‘Poor old John.’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Eleanor, bending to tuck the blanket more firmly around John’s chest. ‘But he’s got me. I’m not going to give up on him. He knows I’m here, I’m sure of that.’

  And she smiled at the two of them as she went on pushing the chair down the long gravel path back towards the house.

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  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks once again to Rachel Hore, Lucy Ferguson, Jenny Parr and Carole Blake and my appreciation to Kathleen Venner for her inspiration.

  I am especially grateful to Dr Keith Andrews and Ros Munday of the Royal Hospital for Neurodisability for their professional advice and enthusiastic support.

  Also by the Author

  The Longing

  Losing it

  Copyright

  Harper

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  First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 1998

  Copyright © Jane Asher 1998

  Jane Asher asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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  Source ISBN: 9780007349623

  Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2012 ISBN: 9780007398140

  Version: 2013–12–09

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