“Desmond and I lived together for a few months, but I still had my place in Pimlico. I wanted to give it up and live with him on a permanent basis. I got on easily with his two kids. Desmond didn’t want any more children. I knew instinctively that I couldn’t handle parenthood, and I had myself sterilised. That’s an unusual insight for a woman to have. We could have gone on as partners, but Desmond wanted marriage. He said he couldn’t go around introducing me to his work colleagues, all the big peas he met, and the children’s friends, as his girlfriend or partner. It wasn’t done at that time, and Desmond was very conventional. After a few months, Desmond wore me down – he’s a persistent, determined man – I caved in, and we married.

  “I remember the day, as every bride does. I left work after lunch, and we met at the grotty registry office at Camden Town Hall. Desmond had to go outside on to the street and find two people who were prepared to be witnesses. He persuaded a couple of old pensioners. A few mumblings from the clerk, a quick signing, our thanks to the pensioners with a tenner for them to buy a drink, and we were back on the street. We bought fish and chips. We took them home and ate them out of the paper, with a couple of cans of beer to wash them down.

  “As I look back, it was a disastrous day for Desmond, but not for me.

  “As you get older you begin to wonder if your brain is failing. You see demented people around you, and you think about yourself. You forget things, lose your concentration, feel sometimes that you’re out of your head. I suppose everybody has that experience at times, and ponders about their sanity. As it happened, I was going mad. That’s how I was beginning to be when I met Desmond, although I tried to hide it. If you had asked me then, I would have said I wasn’t being deceptive, I was merely protecting myself against something dark and frightening around the corner, which I hoped wasn’t even really there.

  “At first, the doctors diagnosed me as a depressive. That diagnosis held good for years. I just couldn’t cope with the world making its jarring and grinding changes around me, and I had to stop work and go to bed. Once, when we were in Canada on holiday, I spent just about the whole time, at every hotel where we stayed, in bed. I had drugs which made me sleep day and night.

  “Desmond’s attitude was superficially kind, but he really thought that I was a weakling who wouldn’t make an effort. He thought, although he didn’t say, that what had happened to me was my fault, and I could shake it off, if I only had the will.

  “One day, a specialist who was treating me for a minor rheumatic ailment, noticed something odd in my walk, as I crossed his surgery. He said, ‘You have a movement problem, and you ought to have a brain-scan.’ I didn’t think I had a movement problem, and I had never thought of a brain scan. Desmond insisted on the scan.

  “I remember going to another consultant’s rooms in Harley Street with Desmond to get the result. The place was gloomy, hung with heavy drapes. Very little light could get in the windows. The smell was of depression and death, which I suppose is what they dealt with there. We spent a long time, speechless, with a couple of other silent people, in a tiny, dark waiting room. We were sitting so close to them, that we could share their misery without a word being spoken.

  “When we were summoned, the consultant was sitting in a high backed chair, a broad table width away from us. Behind him was a bookshelf crowded with faded blue and red volumes. Before him, an untidy expanse of old manila files. He was bald, with a pimply, flacid face. We crouched awkwardly on our chairs. The consultant made the terse announcement, that the film showed that my brain had deteriorated. He said that there was no special name for the condition. It was ‘non-specific cerebral degeneration’, and it was irreversible. He was quite brutal about it.

  ‘Is there any medication or treatment that will help?’ Desmond asked him.

  ‘Come back in twenty years,’ the consultant said.

  “Yes, that’s what he said. He seemed to be watching us to see the effect of his words. In his irony there was a tinge of masochism. We didn’t cry, or sob. We were both stunned.

  “As we were leaving, the consultant said, ‘You better take this, you paid for it.’

  “He handed Desmond a cardboard envelope about two feet square. It contained the film of my brain.

  “Desmond took me to a coffee shop around the corner in Cavendish Street. We sat at a tiny table on the pavement, with the traffic roaring and fuming around us, and pedestrians pushing past. I was trying to drink scalding cappuccino, and trying to make sense of what we had been told: my brain had actually started to deteriorate, like a rotten cabbage.

  ‘I could have punched his face, the arrogant bastard,’ Desmond said.

  “But a new era had dawned. At least my condition wasn’t my fault any longer. Much later Desmond took me to a neurologist who insisted on a diagnosis. He concluded it was Huntington’s disease, and a blood test showed this to be true.

  “You see what Desmond’s conventional attitudes got him into, David? If we had remained friends, I would guess that Desmond would have lost patience with my continual ‘depression’, and, feeling less obligation, would have left me, years before events came to a conclusion in the brain scan. But we were man and wife, and he stuck it out.”

  While the residents were at lunch, Poppy appeared on the porch, and sat watching, moving her head from one side to the other every few moments, to catch a glimpse through the glass. At this time, John Murdoch, a resident who, like David, could go out alone by arrangement, arrived home after a walk. John considered himself an expert on Labradors. He had already noted Poppy’s finer points to some of the other residents and staff. He explained that she was a retriever, a powerful sports dog, by breeding. He said she was probably the product of two black parents, carrying a golden gene. Whether this was a fact or not, the idea of two black Labradors having a gorgeous golden puppy, fascinated his listeners.

  John stopped to pat Poppy, and talk to her, then pressed the entry buzzer. When Kay unlocked and opened the door, Poppy moved first and rushed inside, her thrust defying any attempt to close the door on her.

  John laughed and Kay, who had been caught out by Poppy’s speed, held her hands to her head in consternation. Kay had been specifically instructed by both the shift managers that Poppy was not allowed inside.

  “What will I do?” she said.

  Poppy paused briefly in the deserted lobby, moving her muzzle about sensitively.

  “Don’t worry. A welcome guest!” John said.

  “Keith will kill me!” Kay said.

  Poppy disappeared in the direction of the dining room, which was signalled by a babble of voices, the tinkle of knives and forks, and a warm broccoli smell.

  Poppy entered the dining room with three deafening, chesty barks. The usual clamour subsided quickly. Poppy had gained complete attention. When she saw Cathy in her wheelchair, drawn up alongside the table shared with David and Mark, Poppy ran to her. She darted between care assistants who were serving the meal, and knocked one aside, causing her to drop her plates.

  The dog reared up and rested her forepaws in Cathy’s lap. Poppy was lithe, probably five years old, and thirty kilos in weight. The impetus of her rush swung Cathy’s wheelchair, which was supposed to be braked, against the flimsy table, and upset the table with a crash. Mark and David tumbled backwards, and nearly fell off their chairs.

  All those who could stand were on their feet, the food forgotten. Tables and chairs were pushed hurriedly and noisily out of the way, sending dishes and cutlery clattering to the floor. Residents who could operate their own wheelchairs, spun them around like dodgems, to get a better view of the spectacle.

  Everybody was cheering, and waving. Barney Colas jumped on a table, and started to throw handfuls of potato salad over the heads of the crowd. Seeing this, Ted Kelsey, a muscular man with tattoos on his bare forearms, leaped upon another table. Under the impact of his hornpipe dance, it collapsed on the floor, making a loud explosion. Ted brought down two other residents in his fall.

  Poppy and Cathy seemed to know they were the subject of the hubbub. Poppy remained with her paws in Cathy’s lap, and let out some friendly barks. Cathy raised one clenched fist and cried, “Arrrrrrgh!” as the occupants of the room pressed around them.

  “Stop, stop, stop!”

  An unlikely stentorian roar from Helmut penetrated the hilarity.

  The shouts and laughter dried up. Even Poppy resumed her four legs, and looked shamefacedly around at Helmut. He stood on a chair by the door. The residents who had fallen, picked themselves up with quiet help from the care assistants.

  Helmut’s voice was as stern and guttural as they had ever heard it.

  “We cannot haff this! Now you understand why a dog is not allowed!”

  11

  The garden, and the cliff path, had a desolation which encouraged both Cathy and Desmond to share their more serious thoughts with David. The atmosphere inside Denby Hall was different. David could not imagine what they said, being said inside the Hall. Cathy’s bedroom had dolls, and tinsel stars; in the sitting room, in front of the battered piano, there was a resonance of sing-songs; but in the garden, under the tortured branches of the pines, or on the cliff, with the sea crawling away to the horizon, intimate thoughts claimed their place. In the time when she could speak, Cathy told David of the shock of her diagnosis.

  “I felt certainty at last. Instead of sliding into a deep pit, not knowing how far down I would go, or what agony would beset me at its lowest point, I had a definite path. Awful, yes, but definite. I would lose the ability to speak, I would lose the power in my limbs, my body would jerk convulsively. My scope of space would reduce, until the last brick was placed in the wall of my cell.

  “It must seem difficult to believe that I could be – am – resigned about such a fate. But that resignation isn’t so unusual. Think of the people you know who have had grave illnesses. They don’t rave, and fret, and curse the stars, do they? Once you know where you’re going, where you have to go, there is acceptance. Now, the plight of the living – who also have to endure this disease – is quite different from that of the dying.

  “When Desmond had to tell the family that the tests showed I had Huntington’s of course they were shocked. If one of your parents has the gene, you have a fifty-fifty chance of getting it. I had no idea that one of my parents carried the gene, but they must have. My discovery was also a ghastly suspended sentence on my brother and sister, who were equally ignorant. And it was a suspended sentence on their kids. A guillotine, might, or might not, drop on one or all of them.

  “Simon and Denise had to face the blood test, or stick their heads in the sand. If they had the test, they might be in the clear, and they could forget the disease as far as their children were concerned. If they didn’t have the test, they would never know, and would have to live with a dreadful possibility, which they might see worked out in madness in themselves, or their own children or grandchildren.

  “The family looked at the family tree as far as they knew it, perhaps seeking somebody to ‘blame.’ But they could find no evidence, or anecdote, from the living or the dead about the disease. My forbears must have been very skilful in covering what they probably perceived as the stigma of madness. But that’s what people do, David. They cover up madness. There are a lot of Mrs Rochesters around.

  “Even now, I’m not clear whether some of my nephews and nieces know what has happened to me. People are awfully nervous about admitting, even within the family, that somebody in the family is mad. I know that my sister, Denise, got very upset with Desmond when he spoke, I think innocently, to one of her children. Desmond told me that his conversation with Stuart seemed to be the emotional equivalent of exploding a grenade at Denise’s breakfast table. She has two bright kids, Stuart and Jennifer, one in the oil industry, and the other in publishing. I used to keep in touch with them. A dutiful aunt, remembering their birthdays over many years. I wonder what my sister said when they asked, ‘Whatever happened to Auntie Cathy?’

  “She’s a good mother in many ways, Denise. A divorced single mother. Her husband left her for another woman. She’s also rather neurotic. Your confidence takes a dive when your husband walks out on you. I understand her. I love her. She just can’t bear to face what I am. I don’t expect a visit. I know she loves me. She probably lies awake at night on occasions, shedding tears for me – and herself. She simply can’t face it.”

  Desmond, in one of his many monologues to David on the cliff path, had described graphically the telephone call he received from Denise about six months after he told her, and Cathy’s brother, of Cathy’s diagnosis.

  “The call came at an unsocial hour,” he said, “About tenthirty at night. I was at home alone, reading in bed. I could tell, as soon as I picked up the receiver, that the person at other end was charged with emotion. Her breath was coming in rasping gulps and her words were falling over themselves. She didn’t announce who she was.

  ‘You are a real shit of the first order, Desmond, a lousy, low shit! You’ve interfered in my life with your vile ideas, and you’ve just about wrecked my family…’ she sobbed.

  ‘Hang on, Denise.’

  ‘Don’t try to say you don’t know what I’m talking about! You’ve talked to Stuart.’

  ‘Yes, I talked to Stuart.’

  ‘How dare you!’

  ‘ I didn’t know what he didn’t know, Denise.’

  ‘How dare you assume he knew about Cathy, without talking to me first?”

  ‘I never assumed anything. I met Stuart completely by chance. I had a business meeting at his office, with other people. Afterwards, we talked …’

  ‘Don’t try to weasel out! You interfered in the most delicate matter between my son and me … God! A matter of life and death!’

  ‘Stuart asked me about Cathy. I said it was helpful to have the Huntington’s diagnosis. He asked a few questions about Huntington’s. I gave the answers. That’s all. He never let on that he didn’t know the effect it could have on him.’

  ‘He didn’t know that Cathy had Huntington’s – at that point!’ Denise yelled.

  ‘Well, you should have told him months ago.’

  ‘No, you should have buttoned your big mouth! It’s my duty as his parent to decide whether, and when to tell him.’

  ‘That’s boloney, Denise. Stuart’s a man. He’s over twentyone. He’s not a little child under your control.’

  ‘It’s our family business. It’s not for you to stick your nose in.’

  ‘Stuart and Jennifer are entitled to know,’ Desmond said, in a derisive tone.

  ‘It’s my decision whether to tell them.’

  ‘Holding the power of life or death over them – and their children? Come on, Denise.’

  ‘Don’t tell me what to do and think, you interfering shit!’

  ‘Look, if you have the test there’s a fifty-fifty chance you’re in the clear – and then Stuart and Jennifer could be clear without any test.’

  ‘Yes, and there’s equally a fifty-fifty chance I’ll find out I have to live in misery, waiting for the disease to happen!’ she screamed.

  ‘You’d rather live with the uncertainty of whether you have the gene or not, for the rest of your life, when you could be worrying about nothing?’

  ‘Don’t I have to balance that, with the horror of certainty, if I’m carrying the gene? It’s all right for you, you’re a spectator. It’s my decision!’

  ‘Spectator isn’t quite the right word. The gene has screwed up my life too.’

  ‘Not as badly as it could screw up mine.’

  ‘It’s not only you, Denise.’

  ‘I’ll never forgive you for interfering in our lives!’ she shouted, as she slammed down the receiver.

  “That’s my sister-in-law, David. Lovely woman! I still don’t know whether she’s roasting on the griddle of uncertainty. And her poor kids, do they know what could be in store for them?”

  A lot of Caroline’s questions were focussed on David’s past, for which she used the simile of a broken stained glass window. She returned to the image over and over again. She said the fragments of glass were mostly gone. Of those that remained in the intricate lead frame, some few pieces were interlinked, clear and bright. Others were isolated, meaningless chips.

  “If we work on it David, we can find all the chips, and put the broken pane together,” she urged hopefully.

  He didn’t reply, and she waited. “What’s the matter? You don’t agree?”

  “I don’t think there’s a lot of different coloured pieces of glass. There’s just …nothing.”

  “Isn’t it worth thinking in those terms … and trying?”

  He said yes, but it was Caroline who tried to put the pieces of glass from the broken pane together herself, without success. She talked at large to him about his school and academy work, and his former friends and class-mates. She had copious notes, and must have compiled a detailed biography. David’s relatives, except his father, could not have been much help in this. His mother was dead, and he was an only child, but Caroline was very well informed.

  “Don’t you feel any attachment or attraction to the past, David?”

  The truth was he felt rather free in not having a past. Both Cathy and Desmond had talked to him about their past, and for him, that was an interesting story to study. Having a past he thought, might be a burden. His past lead in a direction which he could not now go, whether he wanted to or not.

  “Do you want to recall it?” Caroline pressed.

  “Well, in the sense that it’s something everybody has, yes. But I don’t really miss it.”

  “Do you feel that something of value has been lost?”

  “No, what has been lost is the future I could have had.”

  “You can still have a marvellous future,” Caroline insisted.

 

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