by Robin Byron
Finishing her breakfast, Marianne took her mug of coffee and hobbled out onto the terrace where her sister Claire sat working through the quick crossword at the back of the paper. It was warm in the July sun, and well sheltered from the breezes which came in from the sea. She looked admiringly at Juliette’s group of pots outside the kitchen. A large, almost spherical pittosporum provided a bright halo of apple green, in front of which the agastache paraded their purple spikes like an imperial guard while at their feet dense groups of blue and white lobelia clustered together in homage.
‘Come for a walk around the garden with me,’ said Juliette. ‘At least you will appreciate all my hard work. My mother doesn’t know a rose from a rhododendron.’
‘Not entirely true, darling.’
‘I’ll happily stagger around with you,’ said Marianne. ‘Help me up then – don’t forget I’m ten years older than your mother and carrying a few war wounds as well.’ She also knew that she was carrying rather more weight than her sister; time, which either eats flesh or lards it on, had left Claire all fine bones and tiny ankles, whereas Marianne had been losing the battle of her girth for forty years.
Juliette took Marianne’s arm and together they walked onto the lawn towards the border which backed onto the old stone milking shed, which formed the western boundary of the garden. Friends of the family often found it surprising that Claire’s daughter Juliette was so unlike her mother. Despite growing up in London, it seemed she couldn’t get away quickly enough, and now lived with her husband Tom in a group of converted agricultural buildings near the Dorset coast.
Looking across to the sea Marianne saw Jake and Leah heading out towards the cliffs – Jake helping Leah over the stile at the corner of the first field. It had been a joy to watch her grand-daughter grow into such a mature and confident eighteen-year-old. Hard to believe she’s my great-grand-daughter, she thought. It almost seemed to her now that Izzy and Callum had been siblings – both her own children – as if by some miracle she had had a second child a dozen years after the accident in Russia.
‘Does she remind you?’ said Juliette.
‘You mean Izzy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sometimes. There’s a look Izzy used to have – I see it with Leah. I mean, it’s a different relationship with a grandchild – Leah is always on her best behaviour with me. Mother-daughter, that’s…’
‘Yes, quite different. Fran wasn’t always easy either.’
‘I remember.’
Juliette stood beside her in silence as they watched the two figures disappearing behind a clump of stubby, wind-bent trees. ‘I never blamed you…’
‘I know. But perhaps I should have been…’
‘No, don’t…’ Juliette put her hand on Marianne’s shoulder. ‘Just now. I was watching you watching them, and you looked so happy. But now you look sad.’
‘Of course – I’m both.’
‘Why sad?’
‘Partly about Fran, of course. For you, especially – but for all of us. And then… well, for myself, maybe the last time here for the birthday weekend – you never know – but, it’s the same emotion now: happiness, sadness – they fuse together at my age. Can’t be happy without being a little sad…’
‘Hey, don’t give up on life – you’re looking so well, and Callum says you’re doing incredible stuff with those old diaries.’
‘Well, I was, but I think it may all be too much for me. Of course, what would have made my life perfect,’ said Marianne, smiling at her niece, ‘would have been for Callum to have married you – did I ever tell you about that fantasy of mine, Julie darling?’
‘You did,’ said Juliette, her large brown eyes lighting up with an amused tolerance. ‘Several times, in fact.’
As Jake walked across the fields with Leah, he found himself revising his opinion of her. She had grown up a lot in the two years since he had last seen her. She seemed calmer, comfortable about herself and at ease with her older relations. He learned that – encouraged by her grandmother Marianne – she had applied to Cambridge, though she rated her chances as slim. It seemed that her mother was keen for her to go to Melbourne, where her sister was now in her last year, whereas she preferred to go to an English university.
‘Getting to Cambridge is the only way I can keep everyone happy,’ she said. ‘Even Mum will bow down before the altar of Oxbridge.’
When they reached the cliff, they sat on the grass and watched a pair of kite-surfers racing across the water; like tiny insects dragged behind giant birds of prey, their red and green wings lurching and diving in the squally wind blowing up the channel.
‘That picture in my room – I suppose that’s Fran?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long ago was it?’
‘Eight years.’
‘Did you think for a moment…? I mean, when you saw me last night – you looked so shocked…’
‘I don’t believe in ghosts.’
‘Of course not, but…’
‘You’re right, though, it was a shock.’
‘Tell me about her.’
Jake said nothing. He looked down at the beach where a couple walked hand in hand at the edge of the sea, occasionally jumping inshore when a larger wave threatened to wet their feet. The tide was out and a small strip of sand had appeared between the shingle and the sea. The girl took off her shoes and began to paddle. He couldn’t talk about Fran – not to anyone. Nowadays he tried his utmost never to think about her, to keep that part of his life locked away. It was the only method which seemed to work. Leah didn’t break the silence – for which he was grateful. At last he said, ‘We used to climb down the cliff here to swim. I’ll show you.’
The consecutive birthdays of Jake and Juliette were being celebrated on the Sunday and everyone was engaged in preparing for lunch. Only Claire and Marianne were permitted to sit and watch while the others worked. Jake’s father, Tom, had taken charge of the barbecue, assisted by Helen who expressed disapproval at what she called ‘all this palaver with charcoal’.
‘Julie thinks the food tastes better on a proper charcoal barbecue,’ said Tom.
‘I guess if you had a barbie as often as we do you’d appreciate the gas ones,’ said Helen.
Inside the kitchen, Juliette was cutting up mozzarella and avocados and chatting to Callum who was frying lardons for the potato salad. Meanwhile, Leah was browning pine nuts and making a green salad under Juliette’s instruction, while Jake had been sent to pick parsley and chives from the herb garden. When Jake came back into the kitchen, Juliette said, ‘Jake, darling, Leah is looking for some work experience now that she’s finished school, do you think there is any chance that the Chronicle would take her?’
‘Err, I don’t know, really…’ said Jake, shooting a quick glance at Leah.
‘It doesn’t matter, honestly…’ said Leah, looking embarrassed.
‘No, look, I’ll ask. It might be possible.’
‘Don’t put yourself to any trouble, Jake, but if you could enquire,’ said Callum. ‘I could organise something at our office, but architecture isn’t really her thing.’
‘Sure, I’ll ask tomorrow.’
‘Thanks,’ said Leah.
‘No problem – email me your CV.’
‘There’s not much to it – but will do.’
‘And just watch those pine nuts,’ said Juliette.
When all the cold dishes had been prepared, the meat cooked and the umbrellas arranged at an angle to provide the maximum area of shade, they all sat down and drank a birthday toast to mother and son.
‘Wow,’ said Leah, looking across to Jake, ‘twenty-six – not far off thirty then.’
Jake gave her a brief smile. ‘About as far as you are from being fourteen.’
Callum then proposed a toast, wishing Leah good luck with her A-level results.
‘What’s done is done, Dad. But if drinking will improve the results, then, hey, fill up my glass again. What’s more, we should drink to Gran – my very own professor and super-patient tutor. Without her I wouldn’t even have got off the starting blocks.’
Marianne smiled. ‘You worked hard, Leah, and you deserve to do well.’
Later that afternoon, after they had eaten their meal and Claire and Marianne had retired for a nap, Juliette asked after Marianne.
‘She’s doing well, thanks,’ said Callum. ‘Walking hurts her, but mentally she’s as sharp as ever. Mind you, she was quite shaken up by that Russian business. Did you hear about that?’
‘Mum mentioned something. Some young Russian turned up out of the blue and started accusing her of betraying his grandfather fifty years ago.’
‘Yes, that’s more or less it. I was furious when I heard about it. I mean, if the KGB were intent on persecuting his grandfather they can hardly have needed to rely on some naïve young English woman – as Mum describes herself at that time. So unfair to attack her at her age.’
‘Was Auntie Manne really a spy?’ asked Jake.
‘No, she was just a young academic researching her PhD, but she got involved with some American diplomat who may have been – that’s why they arrested her.’
‘How come Auntie Manne never married again?’
‘I suppose she never met the right person.’
‘But Uncle Ed did.’
‘Yes, my father married again,’ said Callum.
‘Men always do,’ said Juliette, ‘they’re useless on their own. Tragic that your parents ever split.’
‘Yes, I never really understood the explanations. She has always tended to blame herself.’
‘That’s because Marianne thinks well of everyone, but from what my mum told me Edward wasn’t as saintly as she thought.’
‘That sounds like Aunt Claire being bitchy because Peter played away.’
‘Hmm, I can’t remember exactly what she told me, but she had chapter and verse at the time.’
‘I honestly don’t think that’s likely,’ said Callum quickly.
‘OK, Cal, I don’t want to tarnish the memory of your father – nil nisi bonum, and all that.’
‘How old is Gran now?’ said Leah.
‘Eighty-eight,’ said Callum.
‘Well, I’m glad to know she’s well,’ said Juliette, ‘because when I spoke to Mum earlier this afternoon she seemed a bit worried about her – though she couldn’t say why.’
‘Oh, you shouldn’t worry about Marianne,’ said Helen, looking across the table to Callum. ‘She’s a real tough one – will make it to a hundred if you ask me.’
‘I hope she does,’ said Jake. ‘I think Auntie Manne’s a star.’
‘A super-star,’ said Leah.
Part III
and my duty
Is to dare all things for a righteous end.
19
Autumn, 2033
She looked at her alarm clock – 6.20. Turning on the bedside light, she started to move her hands to get through that first pain barrier of exercising the swollen and arthritic joints – necessary so she could get a firm grip on one of her sticks. Now peel back the duvet, manoeuvre into a sitting position and swing feet onto the floor. She sat at the edge of her bed for a few moments to settle herself and make sure she felt well balanced. Then, taking a stick in her right hand, she pushed herself up, grimacing as she did so at the sharp pains in her hips, steadied herself, took four steps to the side of the room, put her left hand on the rail which had been fixed to the wall, dropped the stick, pulled up her nightgown and sat down on the commode.
Marianne had steadfastly resisted the idea of a commode in her room until the previous year, when yet another fall had convinced her that this was a disagreeable but necessary further retreat in the constant struggle of old age between aesthetics and practicality. After emptying her bladder, she reversed the process and returned to her bed.
Normally she would turn on an audio book – she was listening to a new biography of Coleridge, one of several which had come out in anticipation of the bi-centenary of his death – but on this morning she lay back and let her mind explore the days and weeks ahead.
Anna was not due till later that morning, so Marianne took the opportunity to make her necessary phone calls. At eleven o’clock she telephoned to explain to Callum but ended up speaking to Helen instead. Helen had been calm but Marianne thought she had detected a trace of exhilaration in her tone. Well controlled, of course, but there nonetheless. When Anna returned from the shops she helped Marianne walk to the small pond at the end of the garden. Returning to the house, Marianne called Dorrie. What a trouper, she thought, she didn’t hesitate for a moment.
By six o’clock, Dorrie was sitting in the armchair opposite Marianne with a whisky in her hand. Marianne sat the other side of the stove which Anna had fuelled up for the evening. She tried to explain her decision.
‘Not you as well,’ Dorrie said. ‘I won’t let you do it.’
‘I’ve made up my mind.’
‘Why, for God’s sake?’
‘You know I’ve been thinking about it for a while. We talked about it before.’
‘Yes, of course, in theory. But there’s no reason to do it now is there – or is there something you’re not telling me?’
‘No, not really.’
‘What do you mean, “not really” – have you been diagnosed with some new illness?’
‘No.’
‘So what is it then?’
Marianne struggled to know how to start. She said at last, ‘I think my time has come.’
‘Bollocks. Complete bloody bollocks.’
‘Dorrie, please try to understand.’
‘I do understand – at least I understand now why you’ve been behaving so strangely over the last six months. In fact, ever since that Russian was here. You’ve been brewing this up inside you.’
‘It’s true I’ve been thinking it over for quite a while.’
‘I don’t blame you for being upset about what he said. But honestly – to blame yourself in any way is ridiculous.’
‘Is it? I don’t know. Anyway, it’s nothing to do with the Russian. I have always believed in doing this. Particularly after my father’s death.’
‘I think you are wrong, dangerously wrong. What does Callum say about it? I hope he’ll talk you out of it.’
‘He hasn’t said anything yet. They’re coming to see me on Saturday. Ever since they changed the law I told him it’s something I might do one day so he shouldn’t be too shocked by it.’
‘Well, if he’s a decent son he should forbid you to do it.’
‘If he tries he won’t succeed.’
‘This is nothing to do with Callum and Helen, is it? Are they threatening to go back to Australia – or do you think they want to go back, is that it?’
‘No, not at all, it’s nothing like that.’
‘I need another drink,’ said Dorrie, ‘and I think you should have one too. Then you can try to convince me. Who else have you talked to?’
‘Callum and Helen briefly on the telephone – otherwise you’re the first. I am writing to my sister Claire. I won’t discuss it with anyone else.’
Dorrie reached for the bottle of whisky and poured a generous measure into her glass. ‘You too?’ she said.
‘I’ll get myself something in a minute, but I need to keep my head clear so I can try to explain my decision to you.’
Dorrie sipped her whisky. ‘Alright, explain away and I’ll shut up for a while.’
Marianne took a deep breath: ‘We all need to be braver; face death with realism. When the AD laws came in I welcomed them. When it’s your time to go – get on with it.’
‘But this isn’t your time.’
‘Please listen – I’m trying to explain. Our culture has such a terrible inhibition about death. I remember when my father was dying and the doctors were debating what further treatment to give him. I just remember the atmosphere. It was all so stilted – no one actually talked about death. “How are you feeling today, Papa?” Claire would say. “I’m not a good patient, I’m afraid,” he would reply. Good patient, bad patient, what does any of that matter, I was screaming inside my head. Get on your knees, Claire, put your arms around him. Embrace him…’
‘Honestly, Marianne…’
‘… and I was no better. We were all inhibited. Pretending he wasn’t dying because we didn’t know how to deal with it.’
‘I’m not getting this at all,’ said Dorrie, putting her glass down with exaggerated force. ‘You’ve booked into an AD clinic in order to end your life because twenty-five years ago you and your sister couldn’t talk to your father about the fact that he was dying. Do you find that surprising? Surely it would have been remarkable if it had happened in any other way. Did you expect to have a profound conversation about the imminence of oblivion, or the possibilities of an afterlife; or perhaps a grand mutual weep-in? Is that what you wanted? Come on, Marianne, this is all nonsense.’
‘No, no, that’s not all, of course, but it’s part of it. The fact that we can’t ever confront death honestly. I don’t want to end my life with everyone still pretending that I’m fine and it will only take one more dose of some noxious poison to transform me back into robust health. Anyway, you’re right, there’s a more fundamental point. It was the actual process of Papa’s death which really persuaded me that I must never, ever, risk going through that myself.’