Should We Stay or Should We Go

by Lionel Shriver

  Dedication

  To Ann—faithful, capable,

  irresistibly mischievous,

  and bound to go

  from strength to strength.

  Thanks for reliably

  fighting my corner—

  and for remembering

  wine miniatures and

  popcorn for our

  bleary train journeys home.

  Epigraph

  There is a natural tendency of any isolated system to degenerate into a more disordered state.

  —The Second Law of Thermodynamics

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1. The Soap-Dish Box

  2. The First Last Supper

  3. White Van Man Redux

  4. Cyril Has an Unexpected Change of Heart

  5. The Precautionary Principle

  6. Home Cinema

  7. Fun with Dr Mimi

  8. Even More Fun with Dr Mimi

  9. You’re Not Getting Older, You’re Getting Better

  10. Of Ignorance and Bliss

  11. Love Doesn’t Freeze

  12. Once Upon a Time in Lambeth

  13. The Last Last Supper

  About the Author

  Also by Lionel Shriver

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  The Soap-Dish Box

  “Was I supposed to cry?” Kay cast off her heavy, serviceable dark wool coat, for this was one of those interminable Aprils that perpetuated the dull chill of January. The only change that spring had sprung was to have stirred her complacent acceptance of wintertime’s bite to active umbrage.

  “There aren’t any rules.” Cyril filled the kettle.

  “In respect to certain gritty rites of passage, I rather think there are. And please, I know it’s a bit early, but I don’t want tea.” Kay went straight for the dry Amontillado in the fridge. She’d had a nip of wine at the reception and didn’t fancy going backwards to English Breakfast. A drink at home was an indulgence at five-thirty p.m., and she was using the technicality of occasion to break the household injunction—unwritten, but no less cast-iron for that—against ever cracking open a bottle before eight p.m. Any impression that she was drowning her sorrows was pure conceit. In truth, the sensation that the afternoon’s landmark juncture left in her stomach felt nothing like grief. It was more like that vague, indeterminate squirrelling halfway between hunger and indigestion.

  To Kay’s surprise, Cyril abandoned the kettle and joined her at the table with a second glass, remembering to slice and twist two wedges of lime. Had one spouse been responsible for establishing the eight p.m. watershed in the first place, it would have been Cyril, though the couple’s intertwined habits went far enough back that no one was keeping track.

  “I thought I’d at least feel relieved,” she said, clunking her cheap wine tumbler from Barcelona dully against the one sitting on the table in a lacklustre toast. Serviceable, like the coat, the tall, narrow glasses achieved a perfect proportion of which much fine crystal fell short. More betrayal of her inadequacy: that she could consider the geometry of glassware at a time like this.

  “You don’t feel relieved?”

  “To be honest, I’ve looked forward to this turn of the page for at least ten years. Which may be appalling but won’t surprise you. Now that what used to be called ‘the inevitable’ is upon us—”

  “Maybe we should call it ‘the optional’ now,” Cyril said. “Or ‘the infinitely delayable.’ ‘The on-second-thought, maybe-we-can-do-that-next-week, love.’”

  “Well, I don’t feel any lighter, any sense of release. I only feel leaden and flat. My father sucked so much life from everyone around him by the time he passed. Maybe he used up even the miserable amount of energy we’d need to celebrate the fact that he’s dead at last.”

  “What a waste,” Cyril said.

  “Yes, but it would have been one thing if the waste were restricted to the one life of Godfrey Poskitt and the discrete misfortune that it ended badly. The waste has been so much more ruinous than that. My poor mother, the carers, even our kids, before they stopped visiting. I’m so glad I gave them permission to give up the pretence of being loving grandchildren. Because what was the point? Most of the time he didn’t know who they were, and all they got for going out of their way was abuse. He was physically so unpleasant as well. My mother and I tried, but managing the nappies alone was such a trial, because he fought and kicked a great deal, and sometimes, which was mortifying, got a soft little erection—honestly, my own father. So we’d put off changing him, and he often smelt.”

  “In spite of all that, it was decent of two of his grandchildren to make an appearance today.”

  “Of course Simon came. He’s so duty-bound and hyper-responsible that for pity’s sake at twenty-six he’s almost middle-aged. And whilst I appreciated that she showed up, if only for my mother, naturally Hayley had to be late—allowing for the usual showy entrance and calling attention to herself. Why, I reckon she planned it, watching a bit of telly beforehand, just to ensure she’d not be boringly on time. Roy’s absconding in the end was predictable as well. Being a grandson is simply one more undertaking that he can’t follow through on.”

  “As for the waste,” Cyril said, looping back, “you omitted a conspicuous casualty. Yourself.”

  Best that her husband said it. “I hesitate to calculate how many cumulative years of my life that man’s infinite dotage managed to destroy.”

  “At least you miraculously managed to keep working. It was the leisure time your father hoovered up. The evenings and weekends, the early mornings, the emergency trips to Maida Vale in the middle of the night: all time you might have spent with me.”

  “So you’re the injured party?”

  “Merely one more.”

  Restless, Kay got up to sweep some crumbs from the Corian beside the sink, casting a mournful eye at the half-built would-be conservatory off the kitchen: a work in progress for the last two years and another victim sucked into her father’s whirlpool of limitless need. These days the children seemed so envious, but she and Cyril had bought this house in 1972, once they’d found out Kay was pregnant with Hayley and needed more room—and in those days, not only was the whole country a wreck, but so was Lambeth, which was why such a grand structure (if south of the river) had been within the means of an NHS nurse and a GP. These three-storeys-and-loft-to-boot had only looked grand from the outside; good gracious, “fixer-upper” didn’t begin to describe it. Now that nineteen years of cost overruns and inconvenience were at last rounding on a habitable property, the kids tended to forget having to step over clatters of raw lumber on the way to the loo or shaking crumbles of plasterboard from their hair before school. They put out of mind, too, the warnings in their childhoods about hurrying home from the Tube, because the neighbourhood in those days was beyond dodgy. No, they didn’t see a financial stretch for a young couple on the public payroll, who took on a considerable risk that the whole tumbledown interior would collapse ceiling-to-floor like a portable coffee cup. All the children saw now was the imposing, respectable edifice of Mum and Dad’s House, a conventional projection of the establishment that they’d never afford for themselves, what with interest rates at fifteen percent; and Roy, if she didn’t miss her guess, already saw a kip he might inherit. Roy was always looking for shortcuts.

  Now with Dad gone, presumably she’d the spare time to finish the conservatory, yet her appetite for the project had fled. She was already fifty-one. How much longer would they live here? More starkly, how much longer would they live? Kay had imagined that she’d crossed
the signal threshold of fifty with aplomb—Look at me! I’m sophisticated about the passage of time, and this new decade doesn’t bother me in the slightest!—but such morbid thoughts had never entered her head in her forties.

  “I wonder if I should have gone back home with my mother, after the reception,” Kay said with misgiving. “Percy said he’d go back to keep her company, but I know my brother. He won’t stay long.”

  “Haven’t you had enough of all this sacrifice?” Cyril said. “You women! You complain about how you’re always the ones taking care of everybody. Then when you get a single moment to yourselves, you hop up and volunteer to take care of someone else.”

  “We only, as you put it, ‘volunteer’ because no one else will do it!”

  Her anger took them both aback. Kay regrouped. “I’m sorry. You know it’s not as if I never asked Percy to help. But he lives that bit further out in Tunbridge Wells, and of course he was terribly busy betraying his wife and children.”

  “That’s not entirely fair.”

  “I’m not saying that he contrived to be gay purely to escape his filial duties. But he’s definitely used being gay. ‘Oh, I can’t mind Dad this weekend because he’s obviously uncomfortable with my coming out.’ Well, of course he’s ‘uncomfortable,’ you git, the man was born in 1897!”

  “The problem is much more institutional than sticking the women with bedpan duty,” Cyril said, drawing up and sounding more like his regular authoritative self. “Central government needs to take fuller responsibility for social care. It shouldn’t fall on you, your mother, or your extended family—”

  “Well, it did, and it does, and it will when you and I fall apart as well. Even the slightest helping hand from your local council—like making up your bed, never mind chasing you down the street when you’re raving? Qualification for homecare is means-tested, and my father was a solicitor.”

  “True, the means-testing is pretty brutal—”

  “The savings threshold above which the council won’t wipe your bum is a measly twenty grand—which is far more cash than Mum has left after all those carers, but she still wouldn’t qualify for any benefits because she has the house. If you’ve stashed nothing away, or next to nothing? The council picks up the whole tab. How do you like that, Mister Socialist? You slave away your whole life like my father, carrying your own financial weight and supporting your family, and then when you collapse the state says you’re on your own. Do nothing, earn nothing, and save nothing—make absolutely no provision for yourself—and the state takes care of you for free, soup to nuts. Talk about moral hazard! Obviously, anyone who does anything, earns anything, and saves anything is a berk.”

  “You’re ranting. And you know I think social care should be a universal benefit, just like the NHS.”

  “Uh-huh. Make it universal, and then the same responsible people who earn anything at all will still pay for their own social care, as well as everyone else’s social care, with such sky-high taxes that they can’t afford a pot of jam. You’re the one who had to go to that big Trafalgar demonstration against the poll tax—which would have raised money for social care and a great deal else.”

  “Don’t start. The poll tax was regressive and you know it. And thanks to protests like Trafalgar, the ‘community charge’ is well dead and buried. Besides, I doubt on this of all evenings you’re in the best frame of mind to design complex government policy.”

  “All that grooming—clipping those thick, gnarly toenails, pinching the mucus from his hairy nostrils, going through whole boxes of wet wipes cleaning his bum . . .” Kay had started to range the slate floor, for one of the advantages of having opened up the kitchen and dining area was its improved capacity for pacing. “I can’t tell you how awkward it is to brush someone else’s teeth, and then he’d bite . . . The chasing and corralling and undressing . . . I was halfway between a daughter and a sheepdog. The eternal surveillance, because we had to watch him like a two-year-old, lest he cut himself, or drink Fairy Liquid, or set the house on fire . . . The spoon-feeding, the wiping the muck from his beard . . . The cajoling, for hours on end, to coax him down from the ladder to the loft, of all places . . .

  “Well, paying for all that care for my father alone would have cost the state a fortune. Collectively, caring for all the other train wrecks like him would cost the state the earth, and that’s why it’s not a universal benefit. Honestly, in order to control him, it took the three of us, me, Mum, and the hired helper—that is, to barely control him. The real problem isn’t how that kind of walking decomposition is financed, but that it’s financed at all. My father suffered a good four years of steady deterioration, followed by a solid ten of nothing but degradation. Whoever pays for it, it’s a grotesque waste of money, and also a waste of younger people’s time—my time, my mother’s time—that is, the centre cut out of our lives whilst we’re in still good health, still sane, and still capable of joy. Waste, you said? Nothing but waste, and for what? He should have died when he was first diagnosed. Then I could have come home from his funeral and cried my eyes out.”

  Kay plunked back in the kitchen chair, eyes dry. Why, they were so dry they hurt.

  Cyril scrutinized his wife. This seeming stoicism of hers was uncharacteristic. Of the two of them, she was the far more impassioned. He was the methodical thinker, which meant that others sometimes mistook him for cold-hearted. Nevertheless, she was not an emotional liar. Eight days ago, when the call from Maida Vale awoke them at four a.m., Kay had also been matter-of-fact. The news hadn’t been unexpected. Apparently they’d had difficulty feeding his father-in-law for weeks, because the poor fellow had trouble swallowing. (That’s what happened: the brain became so dysfunctional that it forgot how to close the epiglottis. At its most extreme end, the disease delivered its coup de grace: the brain forgot how to breathe.) After Kay finished talking to her mother in the hallway, she lodged the cordless phone in its cradle at their bedside and announced without ceremony, “Dead.” She’d slid under the duvet and gone straight to sleep.

  “You can’t stir up any feeling for him at all, then?” Cyril asked. “Sorrow, a moment of nostalgia?” As of her shockingly unsentimental pragmatism last week, it was a little too easy to picture Kay noticing that he himself had just dropped dead beside her and then harrumphing to her side of the mattress with relief: finally, a certain someone would no longer crank the bedclothes systematically to the left, and she’d have the duvet to herself.

  “No, I feel absolutely nothing, and I’ve tried,” she said. “This dying by degrees, it cheats everyone. I feel as if he’s been dead for years. I’ve never been allowed a proper bereavement, either. But I shouldn’t feel sorry for myself, because for my mum it’s been so much worse. My father continually accused her of stealing his things, or of rummaging through his legal papers. More than once he called the police, and he could have periods of lucidity long enough to persuade an officer at the door that the strange woman in the sitting room really was a con artist or a thief. I can’t possibly appreciate how painful it’s been for her. I’m sure I must have told you that during the last few years he forgot their entire marriage. Instead he fixated on ‘Adelaide,’ remember? The sweetheart he married after he came back from the Great War. They hadn’t been married two years when Adelaide died; maybe it was influenza. Think how it made my mother feel, her marriage of fifty-five years obliterated by an eighteen-month relationship from 1920. It would be as if in my dotage I eternally pined for David Whatshisname—”

  “David Castleveter,” Cyril filled in sourly.

  “See, you remember my old boyfriends better than I do. So my dad kept calling for Adelaide and accusing my mother of having kidnapped his bride. He thought Mum was some jealous harridan who’d trapped him in this strange house. I’ve seen the portrait, a black-and-white kept high up on his study bookshelf, and Adelaide was a stunner—more of a knockout than my mother ever was, to be honest, and for Mum I’m sure that didn’t help.”

  “Can’t you
compartmentalize?” Cyril poured her another half glass. He’d heard about Godfrey’s demented obsession with Adelaide before, but this rehearsal seemed to be getting something out of his wife’s system. “You seemed to have a real soft spot for your father before his decline. Can’t you keep your memory of him in his heyday in a separate place?”

  “Nice idea, but memory is too fragile. You can’t mangle it like that. My memory of what he once was is like a delicate daddy longlegs that the last ten years have stepped on. I think about my father, and I can’t control the pictures that pop in my head. Naked below the waist, purple with rage, and covered in faeces: one of my favourites.”

  “I still have a fair recollection of Godfrey when he was younger. Bit straight-laced, and a Tory, but we forgive our elders their misjudgements out of respect.”

  “You forgave no such thing. You two got into terrible rows when Thatcher came in—by which point he’d already lost a marble or two, so it wasn’t a fair fight.”

  “There. You do remember something from before all the marbles rolled away.”

  “My mother is convinced that she brought this calamity on herself.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, maybe my father really was devastated by losing Adelaide, because he didn’t remarry until . . . I think it was 1936. He was a fine-looking chap in his day—trim figure, high cheekbones, that flaming head of hair he kept to the very end. My mum’s job as a receptionist for his practice wouldn’t have paid much, and marrying a solicitor seemed to offer a security she could only dream of. The only reason a single young woman like my mother would have worked back then was that her family hadn’t the means to keep her—and her father was a hand-to-mouth shopkeeper.”

  “Spare us Maggie’s humble origins routine, bab. Your upbringing was altogether prosperous, and you know it.”

  Back in the day, pompous Britons would lay claim to a distant relative with aristocratic credentials—a baroness, a duke—the better to bootstrap themselves up a social tier in the eyes of their fellows. More recently, the broadly middle-class populace laid pompous claim instead to relations who were coal miners or steel workers. But with a father employed first by Longbridge and then by British Leyland, Cyril the Brummie always won the contest over whose background was the more depressing—although he tended to play down the fact that by the time his father retired automotive workers were handsomely paid. Moreover, he’d invented all manner of explanations for why he’d rigorously erased his Brummie accent after shifting to London from Birmingham, but the real reason was simple: shame. Which made any rare regional residue like “bab,” an endearment Cyril reserved exclusively for his wife, all the more precious.