A Lovely Day to Die Read online

  *

  It was useless to hope for any more sleep that night. Already the light was beginning to show round the edges of the curtains, and outside the twittering of the first birds had begun. Through the open door across the landing (both doors were kept wide open at night now, lest Mother’s low moans of distress should fail to rouse her) Millicent could see the outlines of Mother’s vast mahogany wardrobe, glimmering greyly in the half light of early dawn; and beyond it, deep in the shadowed heart of the sickroom, she could hear the harsh, rasping snores that for so long had been the backdrop of all her days and nights. Only occasionally, now, did the old woman rouse herself from this ugly, uneasy sleep; to moan, or babble, or sometimes to plead wordlessly, unavailingly, staring desperately into her daughter’s eyes, begging urgently for Millicent knew not what. A bedpan? A loving kiss on her cracked, smelly lips? Or merely a nice cup of tea, to be fed, tepid and sickly-sweet, through the spout of a feeding-cup, trickles of it dribbling down the wrinkled, flabby jowls onto the pillow, whose cases Millicent often had to change four or five times a day as they became brown and damp and disgusting?

  There was no knowing; and often Millicent, who had once loved her mother so much, had drawn from her such strength, and love, and comfort through the long years of family crises, family rejoicings—often, Millicent would eagerly proffer all three—the bedpan, the kiss, and the wet, cool tea—almost simultaneously: and when, afterwards, the old woman sank once more into noisy, unrefreshing sleep, it was hard to tell which, if any of them, had done the trick.

  Perhaps none of them had. Perhaps the invalid had fallen asleep from sheer weariness, exhausted by the futile effort of asking … asking … asking for the one relief her daughter would not, could not give.

  Or could she? More and more often lately, through the long, wearying days of nursing, and housework, and more nursing; and through the even longer anxious, insomniac nights, for ever on the alert, for ever half-listening through the two wide-open doors for sounds of distress—more and more, during these past weeks, Millicent had found herself turning over and over in her mind the ethics of her impending decision.

  There was no doubt at all about what her mother would have wanted: her real mother, that is, the loving, energetic, courageous woman who even at eighty had tended her home single-handed, and her half-acre of garden; had invited grandchildren and great-grandchildren on long visits, and had even found time to do voluntary work at the local hospital as well: about the views of this vigorous, life-loving person there could be no question at all:

  “You won’t let me get like that ever, will you, darling?” she’d more than once said to her daughter after a particularly harrowing session on the geriatric ward. “It’s wicked, it’s obscene, to let a person linger on like that … just a hulk of flesh with fluids pouring in and out of it … all meaning, all dignity gone! It’s a wicked thing … it’s the one and only fear I have about getting old … that I might end up like that! You won’t let it happen to me, will you darling? You’ll make sure, won’t you, if I’m past doing it for myself, that they bump me off good and early?”

  Such an easy promise to make, with the August sun streaming in through the kitchen window, and the putative victim up to her elbows in flour, knocking up a batch of jam-tarts for the impending visit of her two great-grandsons, aged nine and eleven, and with appetites like wolves.

  “Of course I promise,” she’d answered, and meant it; for in fact she agreed entirely with her mother’s attitude, admired and respected her for it. Besides, it all seemed so incredibly unlikely. Mother was the kind of person who would die in harness when the time came; drop dead wheeling the library trolley along some polished corridor, or while sawing too vigorously at a dead branch overhanging her beloved garden …

  *

  But it hadn’t happened like that: and how could you be sure, now, that this mumbling, senile old wreck was still of the same mind?

  Once, several years ago now, while Mother had still been her sane and sharp-witted self, Millicent had posed to her this very question: and her reply had been immediate and unhesitating:

  “You must do what I’ve asked you to do, darling—I myself—the real me. This person talking to you now—the one you see in front of you, she’s the real me, the one you must listen to. Pay no attention to the views—if any—of the mindless, dribbling old loony I may one day turn into, because she won’t be me any more, not in any real sense. Do you think I’d allow that senile old hag to decide how I am going to die?”

  Proud words; and unanswerable. Quietly, Millicent had resolved that, should the occasion ever arise, she would do exactly as her mother had asked. For so brave, so indomitable a person, how could a loving daughter do less?

  *

  “Aah … Aah ..!”

  The snoring had ceased, and at the familiar, urgent summons, Millicent scrambled hurriedly out of bed, her night’s rest at an end, and hastened to her mother’s bedside.

  Too late: but of course the poor old creature couldn’t help it. Wrinkling her nose, and trying to suppress the unkind and futile reproaches rising to her lips, Millicent bent to her distasteful task: and as she edged the soiled sheet, inch by inch, from under the inert, unhelpful length of flesh, it came to her, with sudden, piercing intensity, that if only she had the courage of her convictions, then this disgusting job would never have to be done again.

  Never. Ever. By tonight, she could be free. Free to go to bed, and sleep, and sleep and sleep the whole night through, for the first time in years. And her mother, her beloved mother, could be lying clean and dignified at last, in a nice clean coffin, all the humiliations at an end.

  Clean. Clean. That, somehow, seemed the most important thing of all for someone like Mother, so proud, so capable, bustling around her shining, well-kept home, full of flowers, and with windows thrown wide to the sweet morning air …

  And later, dunking the sheet (the third one since yesterday) in gallons and gallons of fresh cold water, Millicent said to herself, I will do it. I will do as she asked. I promised her I would, and I will.

  But not today. Not with my nerves all to pieces from that awful dream. Not with my hands trembling like this, and my throat closing up with fear at the very idea …

  No. Not today. Tomorrow.

  *

  But that night, she had the same dream all over again. Well, not exactly the same, though it started off in just the same way, with the pillow held quietly but firmly over the sleeping face, and the thin, acquiescent figure lying so still and unprotesting beneath the bedclothes … and there was, too, that same sense of vague surprise, of uneasy relief, that it was all so simple …

  But after that, the dream changed. This time, there was no yellow, accusing face lunging upwards. Instead, just as Millicent was beginning to feel sure that the thing was finished, that breath and heartbeat were at an end—at just this moment there came suddenly from beneath the bedclothes an ominous gurgling sound, rumbling and bubbling, louder and louder, the bedclothes seething with it, while everywhere, all around, from every direction, there rose, like steam from a volcano, the disgusting, familiar smell.

  So even after death, this was going to go on … and on, and on, and on, to all eternity? To Millicent’s dreaming brain there seemed no absurdity in the idea, and she stared, numb with horror, at the silent, murdered figure still monstrously excreting, on and on, unstoppable, as if it would never end … the whole bed filling … overflowing … dripping down the sides … and still the ominous gurgling going on, and on, and on … more … and more … and more …

  *

  Again Millicent woke in a sweat of terror; again she had to lie for a few minutes, recovering, getting her breath back, reassuring herself that it had only been a dream.

  And even after this, and even though the familiar, rasping snores could be clearly heard from across the landing, she still could not feel wholly at ease. The dream itself was nonsense, obviously, but what more likely than that some sound, some distu
rbance from the next room had triggered it off? The most probable thing was that the old woman, failing to rouse her daughter with her feeble moans, had had another accident; and that Millicent, subliminally aware of this, and subliminally guilty about sleeping on when she should have wakened, had converted the whole thing into a hideous dream …

  Yes, that’s what must have happened. And so, tired though she was, her eyes dropping with sleep, there seemed no alternative but to tiptoe across the landing and investigate.

  *

  It was all right. There was no smell. No smell, that is, of any untoward accident—only the unchanging, all-pervading odour of sickness and old age, and this would go only when the old woman, too, was gone. Strange that it is death alone that has the power, like a mighty sea-wind, to sweep away the smell of death.

  The old woman was deeply snoring, and did not stir as Millicent leaned over her. The sunken yellow face looked as peaceful as it would ever look this side of the grave, but even so it was not entirely at rest. Every so often, while Millicent watched, it would twitch a little, as if at some small irritation: the gnats and midges, perhaps, of some long-past summer evening in a more leisured world than this: friends gathered for after-dinner conversation on the terrace: the tinkle of coffee-spoons, the easy rise and fall of long-dead talk and laughter, far into the summer night …

  I ought to do it now—now—so that these tranquil thoughts will be the last she will ever have; so that a sort of dim peace, at least, and the absence of positive discomfort, may be her last experiences upon this earth …

  Slowly, carefully, and making every effort not to rouse the sleeping figure, Millicent reached for the spare pillow, and laid it softly across the dreaming face. Then, leaning forward with all her weight, she pressed down … down …

  Not even the most frightful of the recent nightmares, not even the most exaggerated of all her fevered imaginings, had prepared Millicent for anything like this. Instantly, and as if galvanised into hideous life by some sort of monstrous shock-treatment out of science fiction, the body leaped and plunged beneath her, with a strength that was beyond belief. The old, withered arms, like sticks, flailed and fought their way out from under the blankets and battered at the empty air. The knees, immobile for years, jackknifed beneath the bedclothes, pitching blankets and eiderdown to left and right; the legs, weak as string, kicked out in all directions, pounding against the mattress. The whole moribund body, which had scarcely stirred in years, lashed this way and that beneath the covers, arching, heaving … even with all her strength, all the weight of her body, Millicent could barely hold the creature down.

  Promises! Promises! How could either of them, making their humane and civilised pact all those years ago, have guessed that this was what they were undertaking? That Life, even at its last gasp, even with all its faculties rotted beyond repair, and all its muscles wasted away to nothing, is like a tiger, mad with purpose, glittering with awful power: with teeth bared, claws outstretched, hurling into the face of the universe its surging, unquenchable determination to go on … and on … and on …

  Half-sobbing with the effort to hold the creature down, Millicent cried aloud, “I can’t … I can’t ..!”—or rather, fancied she was crying it aloud; but somehow no sound came. It was in her head that the words were pounding, “I can’t … I can’t …” and the sobbing was deep in her heart and it only felt as if her cheeks were wet with tears …

  *

  This time when she woke, it was bright morning, and she started up in dismay, knowing at once, from the bright bands of sunlight across the carpet, that it was late, very late. And on a Wednesday, too, just when there was such a lot to do, with the doctor coming, and everything! How dreadfully unfortunate—though of course it was obvious how it had happened. Lying in bed recovering from that first nightmare, she must have dropped off again and gone straight into the second one, almost like a continuation of the first.

  Two nightmares in a single night! It was getting past a joke. Something would really have to be done.

  *

  And that afternoon, when Dr Fergusson paid his routine visit to Mother, Millicent braced herself to tell him about the bad nights she’d been having lately, and how she’d been suffering from nightmares. At once he was full of sympathy, as she’d known he would be. He readily prescribed sleeping tablets for the next few nights, quite strong ones, guaranteed to eliminate dreaming of any kind.

  “You’ve been overdoing it, my dear,” he said, as he’d said so often. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to get on to the Social Services and arrange for ..?”

  But Millicent was adamant.

  “I’ll be okay,” she assured him. “All I need is to catch up on my sleep, and then I’ll be as right as rain.”

  He did not press the matter. He knew how proud they could be, these single women of Millicent’s generation; how self-sufficient, and determined never to show any weakness. You couldn’t help admiring it, in a way; and perhaps it was a fortunate thing that such people did still exist, what with nursing help being in such short supply, and most of his other patients, untroubled by pride, clamouring and badgering for every kind of help that was going …

  And of course he couldn’t guess—or if he did guess, he was certainly going to keep his own counsel about it—that Millicent’s main reason for not wanting a nurse or a home-help around was that once such a professional was installed, it would at once become enormously more difficult to carry out her plan.

  For carry it out she would, despite the nightmares, despite all the doubts and terrors in her heart. A promise was a promise. Mother had trusted her, and she would not, must not, betray that trust.

  *

  That night, she took one of the new sleeping pills, and it was marvellous. She felt herself sinking, within minutes, into a deep, dreamless sleep such as she hadn’t enjoyed in years. And when morning came, she couldn’t remember when she’d felt so refreshed, so strong, so rested; so right, somehow, and ready for anything. And at once it came to her, with quiet, overwhelming certainty, and even with a strange sense of exhilaration, that now was the time. Now, in the first bright freshness of the morning, with the early sunshine glinting through the trees, and herself feeling so well, so vigorous … And there had been no nightmares, either, this was the biggest blessing. For months now it had been the nightmares that had stood between the decision and the execution, relentlessly; yesterday’s painfully screwed-up courage being reduced ever and anon to juddering cowardice by yet another of the ghastly dreams …

  The sun was brightening every moment, and the soft air was filled with birdsong. A lovely morning to die. And to die in one’s sleep, too, without—in all probability—a single pang.

  It must be nearly seven now, but the snores from across the landing were still deep and regular. With any luck, the poor creature would know nothing, her dark, comatose world growing merely a little darker, a little more bewildering, before it blacked out for ever. Her last sensation—if sensation indeed there was to be—would surely be a sensation of peace, like sweet rain, pattering down on her parched soul, and filling to the brim the dried-up hollows and spaces of her ruined mind …

  Yes, that’s how it would be. A small quiver, perhaps, as the snores rasped to an unaccustomed halt, and then the labouring lungs would be at rest, the flaccid, long-useless muscles would sink, almost imperceptibly, into a deeper stillness.

  That was all. Those fevered nightmares, which had transformed a helpless, harmless old woman on her deathbed into a monstrous effigy of malignancy and power—these had been nothing but the sick fantasies of Millicent’s own mind—a mind strained almost beyond endurance, and racked by anxiety, guilt and indecision. Nothing to do with the reality at all. The reality was merely sad, and almost ordinary—just one more ancient, helpless body which had outlived its mind—outlived its owner, in a manner of speaking. A body already dead, to all intents and purposes, and laid out ready for the small, final formality of “clinical death”, entitli
ng it, at last, to a funeral and a proper death certificate.

  Nothing alarming, then, in what Millicent was about to do. Nothing even very important. Just a small formality.

  *

  Tiptoeing round the wide bed, as she had done so often in her dreams, Millicent paused for a moment, clutching the fat feather pillow to her breast, and holding her breath, fearful lest the old woman was about to wake. The snoring, though still loud, seemed not quite so regular as it had been a minute earlier … and when she ventured to creep nearer, Millicent observed that the invalid’s crumpled yellow face was no longer wholly at rest. A small grimace twisted her mouth, as though at some twinge of pain pushing up through the dim medley of her dreams; and the eyelids, too, were twitching uneasily, as though the old eyes beneath, restless from too much darkness, were fumbling inexpertly for the light.

  *

  This was Mother! It was incredible, it was beyond the power of the human imagination to encompass, but this creature really, actually, was her! Mother, who had once laughed, and chatted, and run a home, and bounced children on her knee, and cooked lunch for everybody. Somewhere, hidden deep, deep behind that withered mask, in a darkness and a silence that no voice could any longer penetrate, she was still there.