The Kindest Thing

Chapter Eighteen

Although I am hungry, when I try to eat my lunch my mouth floods with saliva and I feel sick. Mr Latimer will open the defence case when we resume and I will be the first witness. He is limiting the defence witnesses to the bare minimum. ‘Less is more,’ he pronounced, when he explained it to me. ‘The jury wants the essential facts, not to be alienated or, worse, bored by an endless procession of faces all chipping in their two-penn’worth.’ After I’ve given my evidence, he will call my neighbour, Pauline Corby, and then Don Petty, our shrink. We will all be saying variations of the same thing – that I was out of my mind when I agreed to Neil’s request and off my rocker when I went ahead.

Earlier on I had thought about asking Jane to testify. She’d have had no qualms and she probably knows better than anyone how I had struggled through the first half of last year. But if Jane had been a witness she would not have been able to attend much of the trial and Adam would have been on his own if he chose to come. It was better for Adam and better for me if Jane was there to support him.

I have rehearsed my testimony with Mr Latimer, and he and Ms Gleason have drummed into me the pitfalls to avoid when I take the stand, especially during cross-examination. No losing my temper, no backhand remarks or trite put-downs, no evasion. I must keep my tone level where I can but not appear cold. My demeanour, my character, will have more impact on the jury’s verdict than any other aspect. I must make them like me, or at the very least not dislike me. For someone who has never sought much approval from people, never wanted to be popular, rarely worried about what others thought, this is a tall order.

‘We want them to step into your shoes,’ Mr Latimer said, ‘to think that in your situation they may well have responded in the same way.’

Cast reason to the wind and lined up the drugs. Lost their marbles and prepared a last drink.

Throughout the whole of the trial we must quash any debate around the notion of mercy killing (or assisted suicide or whatever label we use), any whisper that this might be a rational, humane, tenable course of action. The trial is not about Neil’s right to die, it is not about my right to help him, it is solely about one question: was I responsible for my actions? My role is to play the madwoman – now recovered and remorseful.

The third time that Neil asked me was in April 2009. We were at home. He had stopped teaching: he no longer had sufficient strength or mobility. He was occasionally breathless. Trips downstairs were quite an effort and I was wondering whether we should convert the dining room into a bedroom. That way he would remain part of the household without being stuck upstairs like some benign Mrs Rochester. We never used the dining room for eating: the computer table was in there, lots of books and a second TV, which Adam used to play games on. But the computer and TV could easily go in the lounge for the duration. Not for ever, I thought, and the notion seemed awful and funny and poignant all at the same time. Neil would still need to get upstairs if he wanted to shower or bathe; we only had a loo on the ground floor. He was finding it harder to get in and out of the bath. His arms were worse than his legs, and the weakness was debilitating. We had to remember simple things, like giving him smaller, lighter mugs so he could lift them, and using tops and T-shirts that had a front opening so he didn’t have to raise his arms above his head, which he could barely do.

The day before, Neil had seen the neurologist. The consultant recommended a wheelchair and suggested talking to the GP about medication if the pain in his shoulders got any worse. I say it was the third time but the question had hung between us ever since Barcelona. It was there in Neil’s glances and silences, between our phrases as we discussed his symptoms and how we managed them, in each kiss. A briny tide lapping at my ankles, eroding the honesty between us. I knew he wouldn’t give up on the idea but, like a child, I hoped that if I ignored the issue it would go away.

We were in the kitchen after breakfast. Sophie had gone into school and Adam was still asleep after a late night working at the airport bar. Neil was still eating – everything was taking longer – and I was loading the dishwasher.

‘I was thinking about moving our bed,’ I said, ‘bringing it downstairs.’

Neil went to pick up his coffee and stalled, his arm shook and he lowered it to the table.

‘Tired?’ I asked.

‘Deborah.’

I could hear it in his voice, hear it coming and taste it in the air between us. Like the ominous drop in pressure before a storm. I tried to escape. ‘I need to leave soon – my meeting’s at eleven.’

‘Please,’ he said, ‘sit down.’

I made him wait. Stood, sullen and scared, like a teenager, for a few beats then slid on to a chair, sat with ill grace.

‘I’ll get weaker. I won’t be able to walk. I might not be able to swallow.’

‘I’ll look after you.’

‘That’s not what I want.’

‘If this is about pride…’

‘No.’ He stopped me.

‘I don’t want you to die, Neil. How can you ask me-’

‘I am dying. One way or another.’

‘Wait.’ I felt jittery, buffeted by his arguments. I pushed myself away from the table, shaking with emotion, mainly anger. Cross that he was asking again. Furious that he wanted to leave me. I snatched the book I wanted from the dining room, thumbing through to the page I remembered on my way back to the kitchen. I read it through clenched teeth. ‘‘‘Medical advances mean many of the symptoms of MND can now be treated and with planning and support patients can enjoy a good quality of life and a peaceful death.’’’ I looked across at him, said fiercely, ‘You’re not going to lose your mind, you’re not going to become incontinent, you’re still going to be you…’

‘So I’m lucky? Please, Deborah, this isn’t a whim. I know it’s a lot to ask.’

‘You want to leave us… me, the kids.’

‘Just a bit sooner. I could have another year, maybe two, with my world shrinking, getting frightened, depressed, helpless. I don’t want to go on to the bitter end.’

‘It might not be bitter,’ I insisted. My throat ached, ringed with grief.

‘I’m happy now, still. I love you, I love Adam and Sophie.’

‘You don’t want to be a burden?’

‘It’s not that. I want to go while it’s still good.’

Like leaving a party before the end.

I shook my head, pressed my palm to my mouth, unable to answer. I looked across at him, my eyes blurring. Thought of the boy I’d seen at uni, making his friends laugh, his long legs and mischievous eyes, of the man who had led me round the Acropolis spinning stories, who had wept at the birth of his children, who had never belittled me or neglected me, who had encouraged me in every venture, who had never cheated on me but had had the generosity of heart to forgive my transgression. The man who could still set my pulse singing with a certain look, whose touch was balm and spice. My man.

‘See a counsellor,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘Talk to a counsellor, one of the people the consultant told us about, or someone at the MND Association. Talk to them.’

‘I won’t change my mind.’

‘But you will talk to someone?’

He dipped his head. ‘And?’

‘Then if you still feel the same…’ I couldn’t continue. Dread stole into my heart, the shriek of fear chittered in my ears, claws of panic scrabbled at my scalp. I felt my nose swell and tears start. He slid his hand across the table. I held it. His grasp was weak but it was there. I wiped my face and moved around to hug him.

And then, after a while, I washed and dressed and went to discuss floor tiles with a ceramics company in Cheshire, having just agreed to kill my husband.

Depression swallowed me in the months after my mother’s death. Martin made most of the arrangements and I recall very little of the funeral, other than it was a suitably bleak affair. The March wind nipped at our wrists and ankles and a squall of hail greeted us at the hillside grave. My great-aunt nodded with approval towards the valley. ‘She’s got a grand view.’ My mother was joining my father in the same plot. Twenty-four years he had waited for her. Twenty-four years she had slept in their marriage bed alone. I stood dry-eyed throughout, my back aching with pregnancy and the chill.

A few weeks later Martin and I met up at her house to sort out her things. He had already made a start, boxing up crockery and linen, emptying the fridge. There was a pile in the lounge of any items we might want to keep: paintings, ornaments, clocks and mirrors. All I was interested in were the photographs, the two heavy albums and the box of loose prints. I gestured to them. ‘We could share them out?’

‘You take them for now,’ Martin said. ‘I’ve a couple at home as it is. We don’t need to do that yet. But I thought – her clothes?’ He tilted his head in the direction of the stairs. ‘Anything decent can go to the charity shop. I don’t know if there’s anything you’d wear.’

Not bloody likely. I smiled, nodded, immensely grateful that Martin was here to do this with me.

‘I’ll have a look.’ I wriggled out of the chair. Six months pregnant with Sophie, I felt enormous.

Reaching my mother’s bedroom door, I was assailed by a lurch of fear, sulphur in my nostrils, tendrils on my neck. A trick of grief. Taking a deep breath, I opened the door. No corpse, no zombie, no chattering whispers. Just the still-life of her room: the rose-coloured duvet cover, the small chintz bedside lamp and old mahogany wardrobe. On her dressing-table was her brush, grey hairs still tangled there, her makeup, jewellery box, the Yardley perfume she wore on special occasions, her hand cream. A school photograph of Martin and me. We must have been five and six. Daddy would still have been alive. Was she happy then? Did she laugh and make jokes? Did she play with us? Games and make-believe? Tickling, hide and seek? Fishing for memories, all I came up with was the well-worn one of her singing while my father played the piano. A number from a musical, ‘Baubles, Bangles and Beads’. She had been happy then, I thought, with him, but when he had gone we weren’t enough.

‘It’s not fair.’ I spoke aloud, frustration tight in my throat. ‘It’s not bloody fair.’

I yanked open the drawers and began to sling her things into the bin-bags Martin had provided. Underwear for the tip, scarves and jumpers for charity, throwing them in any-old-how, trying to convince myself that I was simply being efficient. I flung open the wardrobe doors and stared at the contents. Her woollen camel coat, a polyester jacket, dresses in navy and cream and burgundy, blouses, the faint floral smell of her hand cream and perfume.

Once my father’s things would have hung at one side of the space. How long had she waited to do this with them, packing away all trace of him? She’d kept nothing. Why not? Hadn’t she wanted reminders of the shape and smell of him? Was it anger, at losing him, at being cheated of a future together that had made her erase him as she had? The same anger that chilled her heart and smothered her love of life?

I hauled the coat out of the wardrobe and put it on. It dwarfed me, the cuffs covering my hands, the waist hanging by my hips. I stuffed my hands into the pockets but they were empty. What had I expected? A secret note? Clues to our past, to her innermost thoughts? Even while I ridiculed the notion, I rifled through the shoeboxes at the bottom of the wardrobe, then the bedside cabinet. And came away empty-handed.

I was numb, chilled through. I slid the rest of the garments from their hangers in the wardrobe and laid them one on top of another on the bed then rolled them lengthwise into a bolster. Climbing on the bed, I nestled into the bulk of the bundle. I spoke to her, muttering and carping at first, trying to voice the cold anger inside me. And then, halting, by way of apology. Because I hadn’t loved her enough – I hadn’t loved her as a daughter should. I had failed her. I spoke to her through slow, hot tears and shuddering breath, my nose thick and my lips dry. Swimming upstream after my mother. Never catching up.

In time, the sensation of being submerged, of weight and incapacity, and the waves of panic grew worse. At two and a half, Adam was lively and incessantly active, and the demands of looking after him became harder. Neil did all he could, but he was at school every day. My emotions were so close to the surface that I could no longer bear to watch the news or read the papers. I also became fearful that something would happen to the baby and I was dreading the labour. Reluctantly, I mentioned some of this to the midwife who was visiting me at home in preparation for the birth. She strongly advised me to see my GP. Andy Frame prescribed anti-depressants. He told me that while there might be some side-effects there was little risk of harm to the baby. There would be great benefits in treating the depression and he said he would be very concerned about the consequences if I didn’t take them.

The pills gave me a slightly giddy feeling, the world became gauzy and my capacity to cry at the slightest prompt diminished. Still my limbs felt leaden, my self soiled and raw and scared.

Believing it would help me to confront my sadness rather than try and escape it, I spent hours poring over the family photographs. I wasn’t considering them from a professional point of view – I had no interest in the focus of the shadows, the composition or contrast or depth of field – but hunting for understanding, for memory and meaning.

My father rarely appeared. Too often behind the camera. There was solace in the thought that I had inherited that skill from him. That I, too, had adopted that role. Among the portraits there were several black and white still-lifes and landscapes: a wrought-iron balcony in fierce light, the shadows inky against the smooth rendered wall, stormclouds above a winter field of stubble, a basket of fir cones and, my favourite, a yacht cutting through a glimmering ocean. He had written on the back, in neat print, White Sail – Whitby, ’61.

Peering at the family groups I scouted for signs of love and affection. Felt relief when I found my mother’s smile, her hand on my shoulder. Near the bottom of the pile of loose snaps there was a small, square picture, which must have been taken on the box camera they had then. A man in dark dungarees holds a wallpaper brush, his head flung back in laughter. Beside him on a step-ladder stands a small child, her face creased in glee. My father and me. Did my mother take it? Or a friend calling by? What was so funny? I love the picture. I crave memories to match it.

Sophie was born four months after my mother’s death and I was still depressed. The contractions started before dawn and I sat by the lounge window, rocking when the pain came, and watched the pale February sun climb the sky before rousing Neil. We called the midwife and Neil took Adam to his mother’s – luckily she had the day off – and returned to find me pacing the bedroom, restless and out of sorts. The labour was so different from Adam’s, quicker and more violent. After only four hours in the first stage, I was ready to push, the overpowering urge forcing me to the floor, clinging to one corner of the bedstead, the midwife hastily rearranging the plastic sheets, and the doctor arriving as the head crowned.

The midwife spoke tersely, telling us the cord was tight around Sophie’s neck. The atmosphere in the room changed, a vortex of panic sucking the air. There was a whirl of activity as they readied instruments, told me not to push and prepared to cut the cord. I had read enough books to know that the cord was the baby’s lifeline and that if she didn’t get out quickly now she could be in trouble.

As soon as the cut was made I was instructed to push. I strained and groaned, the pain tearing through my vagina and bowels. With the second push she slithered out. She was paper white, her lips and eyelids blue like a fish. In the heartbeats it took to revive her, I was falling, falling through the back of my skull into the velvet dark, falling away from everything to my own deep retreat. Her cries: a mewl, a creak, caught me. Held me, pulled me up. That, and the hot splash of Neil’s tears on my forearm.

If we had not got her out in time she would have suffocated. Her lungs filling with amniotic fluid. Drowning. Like my father. Choking on brine. Like Neil did, the alveoli filling with the salty fluid from his body. Drowning in his tears.