Taormina is delightful. Its Greek theatre, charming piazzas and pedestrianised streets enable us all to relax and enjoy being on dry-land. It feels safe here. The six of us wander down the main street, Corso Umberto I, until we reach the Teatro Greco and Duca di Cesaro gardens nearby. We do our best to avoid the other cruise ship passengers, most of whom are being herded like cattle from one main point of interest to another. After visiting the Greek Theatre, we decide to split up. My mother, Olivia and I make the most of the quaint little shops. My father, Michael and Eddie, tell us that they will visit the San Agostino church followed by a bar that serves ice-cold beer. It is a good day. No one gets lost or pickpocketed. We even eat a delicious Sicilian-style lunch: caponata and a mixed salad. I have enjoyed the opportunity to bond with my mother and daughter. I send the menfolk a text, to see if they’ve had an equally good time. Eddie replies with images of beer bottles.
When we return to the ship, we have to go through security again. Michael is a little confused as it’s not dissimilar to the airport, though much more confined. I take his arm and loop mine through it. He smiles and says “We are happy, aren’t we?” We lie down on the bed together and I read the newsletter out loud; it has a list of all the onboard entertainment, most of which has no interest for us. The evening show, however, is a condensed version of Mamma Mia. I think it would do us good to see something light and uplifting. I send a text to the family WhatsApp group. I am mindful that the show clashes with our dinner reservation. I feel as though I have to ask permission to be excused but no one minds at all. We are at liberty to enjoy our holiday in any which way that we choose.
Michael and I wander down to Level 3 where the ship’s theatre is situated. We are surprised by its size and grandeur. It’s smarter and more modern than many of the theatres in the West End though we both know that the standard of the performance might not live up to our expectations. We sit in the middle of the middle row. There’s no escape. Unusually for us, we order soft drinks. We chat a little. Michael seems much more like his old self; it’s a relief to be with him in this state; I hope that it will last. The theatre lights dim. There’s a medley of Abba songs, all of which we recognise, followed by a whole cast dance spectacular; this is all before the show really begins. The jokes and links from one song to another are as corny as the film but it’s so tongue-in-cheek that we don’t care. Besides, the performers are from all over the world so the humour is enhanced in ways that we didn’t anticipate. We emerge from the theatre singing “Dancing Queen” and “Thank You for the Music”. Michael has come back to me, albeit for a few minutes. I wish our happiness could be preserved like honey.
For the first time in a while, I don’t worry about what everyone else is doing. And I am not anxious about going to bed with Michael. We seem to have found peace. Perhaps the cruise is just what we needed.
Chapter 38
360 Degrees
The holiday thus far has been a success. We are cruising along to our penultimate stop: Dubrovnik, Croatia. We were here less than a year ago – bathing in blissful ignorance – and now we are all too aware of the fragility of life. As we walk into the beautiful Old Town, we take in the charm of our surroundings. Its pedestrianised streets accompanied by its marble and light-coloured stone buildings and churches, make it one of the prettiest places on our itinerary. Despite being damaged during the armed conflict in the 1990s, it remains a striking place. Unfortunately, thousands of tourists flood the city, many of whom have stepped off their humungous cruise ships; however, we quickly learn to keep our “hotel-on-the-sea” quiet. The locals resent their presence with a vengeance.
As we battle with the plethora of visitors, it is noticeable that Michael is becoming increasingly agitated. The merest brush of the shoulder results in heavy sighs and the occasional swear word. We all ignore his outbursts. Life is too short. We edge slowly down to the small harbour. The twins are keen to visit Lokrum as they want to see the large medieval Benedictine monastery there; at first, I’m bemused by this sudden interest but apparently part of the attraction is its association with Game of Thrones which neither Michael nor I have ever seen. Interestingly though, the locals say that Lokrum carries a curse: whosoever claims Lokrum for his or her own personal pleasure shall be damned! Eddie admits that it is where Game of Thrones was partially filmed; he wants his chance to pose imperiously on an iron throne. Olivia is equally enthusiastic. It’s worthy of Instagram, apparently. The boat ride only takes about ten minutes until it reaches the quaint harbour of Portoc Bay. We wander around, taking in the fragrant smell of the eucalyptus trees and enjoy watching the many peacocks and peahens wandering freely on this sanctuary of an island. It’s a special place. No one is allowed to stay here overnight, not that we can anyway. There are neither hotels nor houses here, just a couple of restaurants and cafes. We deliberately avoid the nudist beach ahead, even though the boatman said it had the best vantage points for swimming. In the old days, Michael and I might have dared to go there. But definitely not in front of either my parents or our children. Instead, we head towards the uneven rocks, in the direction of the sea. We all want to swim in the rolling waves but I fear the conditions are a little too thrilling for my parents, even though both of them are strong swimmers.
Another family is a little ahead of us. We follow their trail, zigzagging across the rocks until we reach the metal swimming pool style steps that are carved into one of the rocks; these lead straight down into the sea. The husband, wife and their son, who can’t be more than about eleven, reach the steps a few moments before us. I wonder why the boy isn’t in school but I don’t ask, of course. I quickly learn that his name is Luke. Everyone in my family group starts divesting themselves of their clothes; we are all wearing our costumes underneath them. I look down at the intrepid scene: crashing waves attacking the jagged rocks. It looks treacherous. I suggest to my parents that they may want to guard our things instead of swimming but they are offended. Besides, if the young boy can swim here, so can they. I am not worried about Michael; he’s by the far the strongest swimmer amongst us. He gingerly walks down the steep steps, turns swiftly and plunges into the cool rough waves. It’s good to see him so joyful. The family of three are quick to follow, though Luke, spurred on by his parents, looks petrified. I shadow the skinny boy as if I were in loco parentis. Teachers are never really on sabbatical when it comes to children. Eddie and Olivia are seconds behind me and my parents follow them. The bay is hemmed in by massive pointy rocks; if the steps were not carved into them, people wouldn’t dare swim here. I am beginning to regret my cavalier attitude to this expedition. The bright sun disappears behind a large dark cloud. The sky unexpectedly looks ominous but the effort to enter the water outweighs the desire to exit it.
It is too deep to stand and too rough to relax but I swim up to Michael and kiss him gently on the cheeks. I tell him that I love him. I am sorry for not being able to cope better with his illness. He doesn’t know what I am talking about. I’m feeling fine. Invigorated. In some ways, I’m glad that he is entering this phase of his dementia – the state of not knowing – though I am dreading the next stage in which he will lose the ability to swallow, talk or walk. I don’t know how families cope. The illness is as relentless as the tide but it shows no mercy. Michael will exist but he won’t really live. I hold onto Michael who treads water for the both of us. We are happy and distracted, looking at each other with a renewed intensity that has been absent for many months.
Refreshed, my parents swim back towards the steps. My mother first, closely followed by my father. He is protective of her, shadowing her every move as she struggles up the steep steps back to safety. I watch Henry and Sheila until they’re safely back onto dry land. I’m relieved. Olivia and Eddie have had enough too. They make light of the steps which I am secretly dreading. Michael and I stay in the water, probably against my better judgement, but he is so content here that I can’t bring myself to terminate his happiness. I
am responsible for him now. He can’t make decisions for himself. Not really. We allow ourselves to be thrashed about by the waves though I fear that we have remained in too long. Luke and his parents are swimming precariously close to the jagged rock. I think they’re reckless and irresponsible. The boy is too young. The waves are loftier now, and the rain has started teeming down. There’s going to be a storm. The boy’s parents ascend the steps first, leaving the child hanging onto the bottom step which is submerged in the water. Each step is too far apart, even for an adult, but much more intimidating for a child. They should have put him in the middle. He starts to panic. His weak arms can barely hold his weight. Come on, Luke. You’re nearly there. Keep going. Three more steps and you can have an ice-cream. It is not for me to judge but I cannot help but watch him closely whilst I desperately try to keep my head above the water.
A huge and unforeseen wave crashes into Luke’s little body with such force that he falls back into the water. He is barely conscious. It is every mother’s nightmare come to fruition. I can barely watch. Michael instinctively swims quickly over to the child, scooping him up in his muscular arms and lifting him towards the steps. He manages to hand the child over to the boy’s father, whose arms are stretched down towards his son. He is safe now. There’s a round of applause from above. Fifteen to twenty people come forward, clapping and cheering my husband: the hero. He is embarrassed and confused.
We should get out too. Michael doesn’t want to. Perhaps he is savouring the moment in private? It is hard to know what he is thinking these days. He lives in a different world from me. I wonder whether I should stay in the sea with him; after all, he isn’t well. I tread water, near him, but he points towards the steps and tells me to get out. He sounds authoritative, as if he were in the office. Instinctively, I obey him. I don’t know why. I start clambering up the steps, eager to reach the dry land. The sea has sapped the energy out of me. I wrap a gaudy beach towel around myself and start jabbering away to the parents and the boy. Luke has survived his ordeal. I tell my children that they can be proud of their father. Luke’s parents want to thank Michael and take us out for dinner at the very least. I tell them it’s not necessary but his grateful mother adds me to her contacts on her mobile. She promises to be in touch. Michael is a star in her eyes. I am momentarily distracted, caught up in her tangled world of emotions. Nothing feels real anymore. The weather is quickly deteriorating. The sky and sea are in cahoots together; they make for an ominous pair of thieves, robbing the sky of its sun and energy.
I urge Michael to get out of the water but he’s reluctant to comply. The storm is whipping up; most of his fan club has dispersed, and my family and I are the only ones left on the serrated rocks. The others are busy getting changed, even though the exercise is somewhat futile. I get dressed too, and drape my towel around my shoulders. I am only distracted for a couple of minutes.
The rain is substantial though the ambient temperature is still warm. The swimming conditions are dangerous, even for the best of swimmers.
I’m too late.
Michael’s thick dark hair is matted with blood. He has hit his head against one of the rocks. The angry sea sweeps his lifeless body against his unyielding murderer, back and forth, until it becomes wedged under the steps. It doesn’t feel real. He can’t be dead. He can’t be…
I scream; it’s a piercing, shrill sound that would not be out of place in the opera The Exterminating Angel. I don’t recognise my penetrating voice. But I am not as loud as I think I am. I must be in shock. I unthinkingly dive into the water where the blue has turned to deep red. I struggle to pull Michael’s lifeless limp body towards the steps. Eddie dives in after me; Olivia after him. My mother calls an ambulance; my father calls the police. We are all inextricably linked.
I cry for my beloved husband: my hero. I cry for my doting children. I cry for every woman whose husband has dementia. But I am also drowning in guilt.
I have spent my life compartmentalising my problems. But not this time. I can’t do it. I have to let other people help me. I am full of regret. I know that I could have done things differently but hindsight would be exterminated if he existed in person. I know I would shoot him.
People talk of resilience. I have even killed this topic with my PowerPoint presentations. What does the ordinary middle-class person know about resilience?
The grief and guilt envelop me like a shroud.
The Epilogue
There isn’t even a hint of funereal weather. It is gloriously sunny and the heavens are shining down on us.
We stand together at the Hampstead Cemetery, dressed in black. The reality is very different from my nightmare. There are no carnations, no white dresses and no sign of Kathleen. My parents are here. They look older and frailer than before. They hold each other’s hands and stand in a dignified silence, close to me and next to Eddie and Olivia. We are united in our grief. It feels surreal. I cannot believe that I am burying my fifty-year-old husband, the father of my children. I feel as though my soul extricates itself from my body; it’s as if I am having an out-of-body experience.
I am overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of mourners. Not only have most of Michael’s former colleagues come but so have mine. Principal Peter, Liam, Abbas, Emily and even Benedict are all here. Most of our friends have turned up. Rosie and Emma have come with their husbands and all their children. And many of our children’s friends have made the effort to support them. Gabriella, our GP, is standing next to our neighbour, Matt. I know that Michael would be humbled by the large turn-out.
I’m not sure if I believe in the “undiscovered country” but it would be reassuring to think that heaven existed. When we were at university, we were both atheists. But as we matured, and attended funerals over the years, we have wanted to believe in something though we rarely spoke about the possibility of an afterlife. We didn’t expect to confront it this soon. I look around the graveyard and make a mental note of everyone who is standing here in Michael’s honour. The counting helps me hold back the tears.
Back inside the intimate chapel, several people want to express their views about Michael’s moral character and his many achievements. The vicar speaks first. We are not churchy people. But he has done his homework and does my late husband justice. Afterwards, Eddie and Olivia share the podium together; they’re brave and funny, sweet and affectionate. But as Olivia brings their joint eulogy to a close, her voice quivers. She looks at the coffin which is covered in flowers and a wreath of white roses. Olivia whispers “my daddy: the hero”. The chapel echoes with her voice. In my eyes and ears, my daughter morphs into Bobbie in The Railway Children. She’s on the platform, shrouded in a silvery vapour. My eyes are full of misty salt water. I am no longer able to contain my emotion. I finally submit and let the tears roll down my colourless cheeks. The whole congregation is reduced to loud sobs. I put my arms around Olivia and Eddie. In time, we will learn to forget the horrors of this year and remember the wonders of the years that preceded it. He was a good husband and an even better father. Various former associates of Michael’s talk about his generosity at work; his charm and his intellectual prowess. He was popular, well liked and well respected. It is not easy hearing these compliments when so many people deserted him during the last few months. But I am not one to hold grudges. It’s no one’s fault. I stand with my grown-up children; they’re on the cusp of true independence. In a few months’ time, they will be undergraduates at university. And I will return to the job that I once loved.
Michael is buried with care, prayers and love. We sing his favourite hymn and mine: “I Vow to Thee My Country”. And, despite the many occasions that I have sung this hymn at school, this time, it reduces me to tears and I cannot stop the incessant flow. I wonder if my love did stand the test, and if my love ever faltered. I know the answer. But don’t judge me too harshly. I sing as loudly and proudly as I can though it is difficult to enunciate the beautiful lyrics in my fragile state. My parents, Ed
die, Olivia and I stand in a line, holding hands.
I know that Michael will live on in his children.
And instead of being remembered for his dementia, we will look back on him as our hero.
We return home. Some of the funereal congregation join us for the wake. Others don’t. I am not in the mood. I have decided to abstain from alcohol for the foreseeable future. It will be difficult but not as grim as being a young widow. I say “young” but I feel as though I have skipped a generation.
A well-meaning guest has spotted the solicitor’s letter on the kitchen table. I opened it this morning but I couldn’t bring myself to read the codicil at the end of Michael Boswell’s Last Will & Testament. It was careless of me to leave it out. I pick up the letter, before the guest can read its contents, and shove it into the kitchen drawer which is already bursting with fragments of my past, present and future. I will not allow anything to taint today.
If I have to challenge Michael’s foolhardy faith in Kathleen, I will do it whilst on my sabbatical. Afterall, I have all the time in the world now…
About the Author
C.S. Brahams was educated at Queen’s College, Harley Street and MPW, Kensington, after which she read English, Russian Studies and Linguistics at Durham University. She qualified as a teacher of English from the Institute of Education and later gained am MA in Management from UCL. She is an experienced teacher of English, former Vice Principal and Head of Sixth Form. Catherine is currently a School Governor and School Inspector. Although she has written articles, both for internal and external publications, this is her debut novel. Catherine is married to Lawrence and they have one daughter, Alice.
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