Goodness

Epilogue

It’s evening. I’ve been relaxing outside by the goldfish pond in the patio of our Maida Vale house. I’ve been taking it rather easy of late is the truth. I can’t be bothered to bring work home any more. There does come a time when one realises that such things are not so important. Though it would be silly to say I should have seen this before. I’m past even blaming myself. Paper on my knees, I sit here enjoying the soft light, the summer air, the gentle back and forth of the swing couch. A skyline of chimneypots and TV aerials hardens above the ivy wall. There are blue curtains in a neighbour’s bedroom and peeps of domesticity in lighted windows. I sip my gin, light a Camel. Sometimes I wonder if I haven’t just discovered how to enjoy life. You know? I work hard enough, my programs are better than ever, when I come home I do my bit with dear Hilary, we chuckle together if she’s in form, then in the evening I step out here to watch the coal of my cigarette brightening as the twilight bleeds away. Next week we’re going to do a family holiday in south-west France.

The article I’m reading on the health service doesn’t interest me. It’s too strident. The guy must have some kind of problem. My eye strays, follows the cool darting goldfish between their lily leaves, the slow stream of planes that wink over west London in the dusk. I like Maida Vale. I like a way the sparrows have of scuffling in the ivy. A march of ants across the paving. And then I must have fallen asleep, since I wake now with a start and a shiver to find it’s past midnight. For God’s sake, I’m freezing. But deeply contented somehow. A man falling asleep on his patio; that’s some achievement.

I clear up my empty glass, a bowl of peanuts, lock the doors and climb upstairs to bed. Shirley isn’t there yet. She is tending Hilary through the nth tonsilitis. There are cooing noises from down the passage. I undress, lie down and have just switched out the light when I hear her feet padding to the bathroom. A few minutes later she treads quietly into the room and slips in between the sheets.

‘Got her off?’

‘Oh, are you still awake? Yes,’ she says. ‘Yes, I have.’

We lie on our backs saying nothing in the staring dark. A lorry passes on Elgin Avenue. ‘Go to sleep,’ I tell her, ‘I’ll get up if she cries. It’s my turn.’ Because we’ve worked out a fairly reasonable routine with these things now. But Shirley replies: ‘She won’t cry, George.’

There’s something unusual in her voice, and she doesn’t often use my name like that. After another moment lying still, I prop myself up on an elbow, and stare into her shadowy face. Her eyes are wide open.

‘I just gave her all the medicine in the cupboard.’

She begins to explain that she couldn’t help it. She started spooning in the medicine — the girl was suffering — and then felt she couldn’t stop. She felt somehow the child was urging her to do it.

‘It was as if I heard her voice. As if she’d been speaking to me for years. You know? I knew the voice so well. It was her. And she was saying, do it, do it now.’

Shirley is pleading, as I might have done a year or so ago in similar circumstances. She speaks softly and persuasively. But she is telling me what she knows can’t be true. And she knows I know. She has said it so many times herself: how can a child who doesn’t know what death is, nor that medicine might bring it about, urge you to make this gesture? But I remember my own experience, spooning in sweet syrup; that peculiar sense of rightness, the nearness of release.

‘Everything,’ she says, ‘the whole caboodle. I’ve been at it half an hour. You know how long it takes to get her to swallow things.’ With a simple laugh she adds: ‘For what it’s worth, I was praying as I did it.’

It had sounded more like a love coo to me.

We lie in silence. The well-furnished hush of the room, the London night. Until at last I whisper: ‘Shirley,’ and for some reason begin to repeat in the dark, ‘Shirley, Shirley, Shirley, Shirley.’ She says, ‘George, George,’ and we embrace.