by Robin Byron
‘Tell me,’ said Dorrie.
Marianne sat in silence. ‘Yes, I will tell you. But first I need a drink after all,’ and she mixed herself a dry martini with a little more gin than usual.
‘Hmm, I’m not sure about the gin; it seems to be making you depressed.’
‘On the contrary, I’m not depressed. In fact, I have a strange sense of excitement.’
‘Half in love with easeful death, are you?’ For the first time Marianne detected a note of scorn in Dorrie’s voice.
‘Certainly not. This is not a romantic fantasy. I’m utterly calm and rational about what I intend to do.’
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I promised to listen. You were going to tell me about your dad. Go on.’
And so Marianne talked about her father while Dorrie listened. She tried to tell her about the pain; the sheer bloody agony which racked his body and gnawed at him from the inside.
‘The strange thing is that people pitied me. How terrible, they said, to have to be with your father when he is in such distress. Terrible it certainly was, but my vicarious pain cannot be measured against the reality of his suffering. It went on and on and although I valued every moment we had left, in the end I longed for him to die.’
‘But surely there was pain relief?’ said Dorrie. ‘This wasn’t so long ago.’
‘You would think so, wouldn’t you? And obviously there was pain relief, morphine and so on. But it never seemed to be enough. I begged the doctors for more but there seemed to be some kind of rationing system applied which I never really understood.’
Dorrie stared at Marianne with a puzzled expression and Marianne could see that somehow she wasn’t getting through to her, so she tried another tack. ‘Honestly, it was like one of those terrible deaths you’ve read about in fiction. Remember that Tolstoy one – what was it? – oh God, I’ve forgotten the name.’
‘You mean Ivan Illych.’
‘Yes – that’s the one. His weeks of suffering, how he screamed non-stop for the last three days of his life?’ Marianne realised too late that she should have known better than to try a literary allusion with Dorrie, who pounced immediately.
‘If I remember rightly, Illych’s physical pain is only part of the problem. It’s his spiritual suffering which makes his death unendurable. He feels he has led a worthless life. He has also failed to love his wife at the time when he could have done and ends up hating her. I can’t believe any of that was true for your father or for you.’
‘Yes of course you are right. Perhaps that wasn’t the best example, but you know there was something in Papa’s illness which changed him and which was one of the hardest things to bear.’
‘How so?’
‘My father had always been a very gentle man. I think he only ever shouted at me once in my life. But in the last two months – and this is what hurt me most – a hardness came over him. A bitterness, I suppose. I think he found it hard to accept that his life was coming to an end. And, of course, the pain as well. He had always been a strong man but when it came to his own suffering it overwhelmed him, and that, I think, made him feel inadequate, humiliated even. The man whose hand I held at the end wasn’t the father I had loved for more than fifty years. That was what hurt most – the alienation. His agony came between us like a physical barrier, an electric fence which stung me when I tried to cross it. I couldn’t reach him. That was my agony. It shouldn’t have been like that. At the moment when he needed my love most…’
Marianne had to stop; tears were pricking the back of her eyes and she took a sip of her drink to try to hide her unexpected distress. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I didn’t mean to get all weepy. I was just trying to explain how horrible the end of a life can be.’
‘Of course I know that,’ said Dorrie, pouring herself some more whisky, ‘but what you are saying still doesn’t make any sense. You are not in agony or distress and, unless you are keeping something from me, you don’t even have a terminal illness. You know I don’t approve of the way things are now, but if you do get anywhere near that state – the state that your father reached – then you can go to one of your fancy AD clinics then.’
Marianne sat in silence looking at Dorrie. The whisky had flushed her cheeks and she looked like she was getting a little drunk. She continued to argue her case for an assisted death but it was clear that Dorrie was not convinced.
‘Last month you told me the doctor was really pleased with your check-up.’
‘Yes.’
‘Heart strong and blood pressure of a fifty-year-old?’
‘So he said.’
‘No sign of diabetes?’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘I think it is precisely the point. Honestly, “assisted dying”, who came up with that euphemism? Two doctors, lots of safeguards and what happens? In no time, there are dozens of clinics springing up all over the country. I read that over a quarter of all deaths now qualify as “assisted dying”. If you take away the accidents and sudden deaths that must mean that nearly half of us are having the mortal coil tugged away before we can shuffle it off ourselves.’
Marianne wanted to argue but somehow she didn’t have the firepower to confront Dorrie, who was now in full flow. She tried to find the words. ‘Sometimes it’s only a couple of days before they would die anyway,’ she said, ‘it’s better that way. Better for the patient and better for their relatives. Kinder, more digni…’ she tried to stop herself but it was too late; Dorrie couldn’t have asked for a better cue.
‘More dignified? Oh, yes, so much more dignified. That’s always been the great rallying cry, hasn’t it? Do they think that the great object of life is dignity? Ha, the tragedy is I think that they really do. It starts with birth of course, dignity in giving birth means a caesarean. After all nothing could be more undignified than a vaginal delivery – the horror of it! The pain, the mess, the sheer ugliness. You know, in America now the rich have almost abandoned natural childbirth – by which I don’t mean childbirth unaided by medicine or pain relief. Consigned it to the dustbin of history, to the dark ages of medicine. Nice, organised, hospital caesars, that’s what they want. A triumph of dignity over nature.’
Dorrie was now on her feet, addressing the room as if transported to one of her drama classes. Marianne was beginning to enjoy the rant; it was cheering her up. She took another swig of her gin; perhaps I am getting a little light-headed myself, she thought. ‘You’re right, as ever,’ she said. ‘Dignity has never been the best argument. Dignity would mean abolishing old age completely.’
‘Too right it would,’ said Dorrie. ‘A leaky bladder, haemorrhoids falling out of your bum. I won’t even ask what indignities you have to suffer but I’m sure you’ve got your fair share.’
‘I certainly have and I think there should be a law against them,’ Marianne said, entering into the spirit of Dorrie’s drama.
‘Of course, it starts before birth,’ said Dorrie. ‘It starts with conception, with sex, we must dignify the act of sexual intercourse. What position do you think would be permitted under the national dignity act?’
Marianne looked on with amusement as her friend paced around her sitting room. ‘Missionary, perhaps?’
‘Oh no, I don’t think so. Man with bum in the air. Not really dignified, is it? Have you noticed how the movies have dropped the missionary position again and gone back to the seventies and eighties with the woman sitting astride? Good view of her breasts and a manly chest exposed. Yes, I think that might be the only sexual position consistent with dignity.’
‘So ban the Kama Sutra?’
‘Ban it absolutely. No deviation permitted. I put it to you, Mrs Marianne Davenport,’ said Dorrie, now in courtroom mode, striding around the room with her glass in one hand and pointing her finger at Marianne. ‘I put it to you, that you have had undignified sex. How do you plead?’
/> ‘Well,’ Marianne laughed, ‘I fear I have to plead guilty, although generally I would blame my late husband. You see, Ed was very fond of the doggy position which, let’s face it, is not that dignified for us girls. I have ingrained in my mind one occasion when I was well past my prime – I think it was not long before we separated – and we were doing it on the floor in some foreign hotel when I caught sight of myself in a mirror, face on the floor, boobs all over the place, with a pendulous belly wobbling with every motion. It’s a snapshot I’ve never forgotten.’
Dorrie laughed and raised her glass. ‘I salute you. I’m sure it was fun. Here’s to a world of undignified sex,’ and they drank together like fifth-form schoolgirls sharing an illicit bottle of wine on a weekend sleepover.
‘OK,’ Marianne said, ‘your turn. Has your sex life ever strayed from the path of dignity?’
‘Well,’ said Dorrie, ‘I do remember one occasion before I gave up on men. My then boyfriend – Tony was his name, I think – God, it was so long ago. Anyway, it was a Sunday morning and I had denied Tony his wishes as we had things to do and I knew that a morning fuck would mean him falling back to sleep again. I was trying to clean up the flat and Tony was pacing around with a meaningful look in his eye. One of the jobs I had to do was to try to clean out a drain just below our balcony, which had blocked with leaves, and this meant kneeling on the balcony floor and squeezing my head and shoulders through the rails and reaching down to the drain. This position obviously proved too much for Tony, who started fondling me from behind…’ Dorrie poured some more whisky into her glass and smiled to herself at the recollection.
‘And so…?’ Marianne said. ‘I want a full confession, please.’
‘Of course I told him to stop,’ Dorrie continued, ‘but he took no notice, pulling down my tracksuit bottoms and knickers and coming into me from behind. I remember swearing at him because I was completely trapped, but he just laughed and said that if I didn’t want to do it in bed I should be ready for other opportunities. It wouldn’t have been so bad if at that moment the woman from the floor below hadn’t come out onto her balcony and looked up to see my head bobbing back and forth in time to Tony’s thrusts from behind. I don’t remember if she said anything; I think she just stared at me in amazement…’
‘And?’
‘So, she was just staring up at me and I thought I needed to offer some plausible explanation so I mumbled, “Just trying, umm… trying to, umm… to… clear the leaves… from… umm… the drain,” as I lurched back and forth while Tony moved steadily towards his climax.’
20
It happened very rarely, but Marianne was still asleep when Anna arrived on Saturday morning. Her head was thick and for a second she was back in her mother’s story in wartime France.
‘Marianne, Marianne, are you OK?’ Marianne opened her eyes and saw Anna standing over her.
‘What time is it?’
‘It’s nine thirty. I left you for an extra hour but now I worry.’
‘I’m fine. I went to bed rather late last night.’
Over breakfast Anna quizzed her again about the diaries. ‘So, Marianne, you are going back to your work, that is good.’
‘Well, I am trying, but I don’t really have the energy now.’
‘Well, you must tell the story – and I want to hear more about your Latvian father, my cousin Viktors!’
‘No more about him, I’m afraid. How is Stefans?’
‘He’s OK.’
‘Any chance of a new job?’
‘I don’t know. He put all his hopes into that restaurant as well as most of our savings – and of course the money you give us. Oh, Marianne, I am so guilty about that.’
‘Don’t be silly, Anna, I told you, that was an investment that I willingly made and not all investments work out. If the restaurant had been a success, I would have made a good return on my money.’
‘He’s very upset about it.’
‘Is there any chance of him trying to start again?’
‘No, certainly not here – at the moment, anyway.’
‘Well, we must find him a job in another restaurant.’
‘Yes… Anyway, Callum and Helen are coming to see you today, I almost forgot. I must go to the shops to get some food for them.’
‘No, there’s no need for that. They’re taking me to the Red Lion for lunch.’
‘Oh lovely, Marianne. You will enjoy seeing them.’
By eleven thirty she was beginning to feel tired, or perhaps more likely, was still feeling tired after her late night and so she settled into her special tip-back chair – another surrender to practicality over aesthetics – and told Anna that she was going to have a nap and that she should wake her at twelve fifteen so she would be ready for when they arrived.
She shut her eyes but, unusually, sleep proved to be elusive. She kept wondering how it was going to be with Callum and Helen. She knew from personal experience that the etiquette of AD is never easy. If you visit a terminally ill patient, there are various possible responses. Cheerful optimism and denial is the one friends and relations find easiest. Commiserations and anger may well be justified if the approaching end is clearly premature. With the gradual approach of death for the elderly, at least a postponement can be hoped for: ‘I’m sure you’ll still be with us for Christmas, darling.’ But with a voluntary death it’s hard to find the right response. Marianne was anxious to make it as easy as possible for Callum and Helen; that way it would also be easier for her.
In the event, she should not have worried too much. When Callum and Helen arrived, and after the usual greetings, Helen discreetly left the room with Anna, and Callum sat down next to Marianne and took her hand. ‘Mum, there’s no need for you to do this, you know.’
‘I think it’s time.’
‘Is there some special reason? Have you been falling again?’
‘I did fall, but it’s not that.’
‘So, you are OK now?’
‘You will understand when you get to my age.’
‘You’re not so old, Mum, you could live to be a hundred.’
‘I don’t want to live to a hundred.’
‘Is there a problem with Anna?’
‘No, Anna is as wonderful as ever.’
‘But you haven’t told her about your decision?’
‘No.’
‘Doesn’t that mean you’re not quite sure whether you want to do this?’
‘No, I will tell her in time. I want to get through the stage two process first and then I will tell her.’
‘She’ll be very unhappy about it.’
‘Perhaps not as unhappy as you imagine.’
‘I think you should take time to think about this a bit more.’
‘I have had plenty of time to think about it and I have made my decision.’
‘I don’t feel comfortable about it, Mum.’
‘Well, we have talked about it several times and you always said you would support me when the time came.’
‘Yes, I know, but I wasn’t expecting it suddenly like this – out of the blue…’
‘It may be out of the blue to you but to me it’s been a decision I’ve been thinking about for a long time.’
Callum got up and went to the window. Marianne studied his profile. She had to admit it wasn’t a strong face: that weakness of the chin and slightly anxious look. A desire to please those around him. His heart was in the right place but it was not difficult to see where the path of least resistance would lead on this occasion.
‘So how are you surviving London?’ Marianne asked. ‘It’s been nearly three years now. Not hankering for the sunshine?’
‘No, London is fine, although the job hasn’t turned out quite as I expected, as you know. But it’s a really exciting change living in London after nearly twenty years in Australia.’
> ‘Well, I’m glad you’re managing alright, darling.’
‘Mum, this is nothing to do with Helen and I, is it? You know we have no plans to go back to Australia.’
‘No, darling, absolutely nothing to do with you and Helen. When you get to my age you will understand there comes a time when you don’t want to go on anymore.’
‘I know a lot of people do it nowadays but I’m not sure why you need to do it now.’
‘Well, you wouldn’t want me to die like my poor father, would you?’
‘That was different, Mum. He had cancer. I wish AD had been around for him and of course I think it is sensible that AD is now available. It’s just… well… when it comes to your own mother…’
‘Well, technically I am your grandmother and at your age you’re lucky to have a grandmother still alive.’
‘Well, you’re the only mother I have ever known so that’s completely irrelevant – I don’t know why you even mention it.’ There was a strong tone of resentment in Callum’s voice and for a while neither spoke. Marianne was not sure why she had suddenly mentioned that she was not his biological mother. Was she trying to loosen the bond between them? It was not a subject Callum ever liked to discuss but suddenly Marianne felt the need to ask him some questions.
‘Callum, darling, has it bothered you in your life that I wasn’t your real mother?’
‘Mum, you know I always think of you as my real mother.’
‘I know, but tell me truthfully. You’ve never seemed very curious about your actual mother.’
‘I don’t know about that. You’ve told me about her often enough.’
‘Have I?’
‘Of course you have, but she just comes across as a rebellious teenager so I always found it hard to see her in the role of a mother.’
‘You don’t have any recollection of her, do you?’
‘Mum, I was only eighteen months old when she died; no one remembers anything at that age.’
‘No, I suppose not. Isabelle was a good mother to you in her way. She loved you desperately. It’s probably difficult for you to understand but she was quite brave to have you.’