A Lovely Day to Die (2 page)

I first met Celia Fremlin at the end of 1969. I was newly arrived in London, a recent graduate from Swansea University, working for a publisher and aspiring to be a writer. Celia was a leading light in the North West London Writers’ Group and the first meeting I attended was in her house in South Hill Park, Hampstead. (Already I had reason to be grateful to her, because she had judged a Mensa short-story competition and awarded me second prize.)

My first experience of Celia’s writing was, I think, her reading of the first chapter of
Appointment with Yesterday,
sometime during 1970. I was transfixed: certainly it was the most vivid thing I ever heard in my attendance at the group. Celia was writing about people who seemed completely real, whose experiences could happen to anyone. The shock of recognition was extreme. Here were women in their own homes, with noise and kindness and fear and desperation all astonishingly true to life. And there was wit – we always laughed when Celia read to us.

Four decades would pass before I could understand something of what was really happening in Celia’s life at the time we met. It was an unpublished memoir by her daughter Geraldine that finally enlightened me. But at those meetings there was never any mention – at least in my hearing – of Celia’s daughter Sylvia or her husband Elia, both of whom had died by their own hand the previous year. It was as if these were, understandably, taboo subjects. Celia’s son, Nick, lived in the same house, with his wife Fran and little son. Their second baby, Lancelot, was born during those years when we often met at South Hill Park. (In due course Nick would publish a novel of his own,
Tomorrow’s Silence
, in 1979.)

I have always resisted attempts to connect a writer’s life directly with his or her work: to do so can often diminish the power and value of the imagination. But in Celia’s case, I have always believed that her novel
With No Crying
would never have been written if Sylvia hadn’t died. The novel is, essentially, about the deprivation and grief that the wider family experiences when a child is lost. It is very well plotted – perhaps the best of all her work. The ‘message’ at the end is honest and wise and sad. It was not published until 1980, and – I believe – not written until a year or so before that, which was over ten years after the agonising events of 1968.

Celia’s short stories are perhaps more telling in some ways. They are certainly unforgettably good. Those in her first collection,
Don’t Go To Sleep in the Dark
, are the ones I especially remember. Many of her stories involve sunlit beaches, couples on holiday, people out in the open air. This contrasts with her novels, which are usually set indoors, often in the winter or at night. Darkness and light is a strong theme in all her work.

I was lavishly praised and encouraged by Celia in my early writing endeavours and I’m in no doubt that she was a real influence on me, if mostly subliminally. She was also very affectionate with my two baby boys, when they arrived in the mid-1970s. When we moved out of London, she came to visit us several times with her second husband, Leslie. She read my first published novel and wrote an endorsement for it. I last saw her in 1999, shortly before Leslie died.

I am highly delighted that Celia’s books are being reissued. Her ability to capture the combination of ordinariness and individuality in her characters and their relationships, which readers find so compelling, is something I have tried to emulate. I have no doubt that these books will find a large audience of new readers, who will wonder why they hadn’t heard of her before.

Rebecca Tope

Rebecca Tope is a crime novelist and journalist whose novels are published in the UK by Allison & Busby. Her official website is www.rebeccatope.com.

I
F ONLY SHE’D
known that it would be as easy as this, she’d have done it long ago. Still holding the pillow firmly down over the old woman’s face, Millicent allowed her eyes to travel warily down the length of the wide, old-fashioned bed. Beneath the blankets and the worn, limp eiderdown, the emaciated body raised scarcely a hump; a long, thin irregularity was all it was, not as high as even the shallowest of the graves in the nearby churchyard.

She had been afraid that there would be some sort of a struggle; that at the approach of death the feeble, almost useless old limbs would be infused with demonic strength, that the old worn-out body would thresh about like a great fish beneath the blankets, refusing to die. Most of all, she had feared that there might be gasps, and chokings, and moans of protest from under the pillow. If this had happened, would she have been able to go on with it? Or would her nerve have cracked, forcing her to abandon the resolution that had cost her so many heart-searchings, so many self-questionings, over so many weeks?

If only she’d known that in the event it was going to be like this—the victim so peaceful, so cooperative almost, the bedroom so quiet—had she only known that this was how it would be, she’d have done it months—nay, years—ago.

But how long did she have to stay like this, clutching and pressing down on the pillow? How long
do
you have to hold a pillow over a person’s face before you can be sure—quite, quite sure — that the last breath is gone from them? For the first time she comprehended the awful loneliness of the task she had undertaken, with no precedents to go by, no one in all the world to give advice or guidance.

She bent low, pressing her ear against the pillow, as though trying to catch some whispered last words, some final message from her once-beloved mother.

It was breathing she was listening for, of course; and there was none. No sound; no stir of movement … and yet still she dared not release the pressure, not just yet. Edging the weight of her body further over the pillow, to make sure that it stayed in place, she slid her hand beneath the blankets and felt for the old woman’s heart. The ribs stuck out like the slats of a plate-rack, the pouches of wrinkled skin that had once been breasts lay still and flaccid beneath her touch.

No heartbeat. No flutter of breath. Nothing. It was over! So quietly!—so decently! It was beyond belief!

And then, suddenly, like a great yellow sea-monster rising from the deep, her mother’s face lurched upwards, grimacing,
contorted
… a howl like a wolf burst from the parched lips as with hands like claws the creature wrenched the pillow from her daughter’s grasp, and flung it to the ground …

*

Millicent woke, sweating with terror, to find herself safe in bed, in her own neat, austere little bedroom just across the landing from her mother’s; and for a moment she lay still, breathing deeply, recovering from the nightmare: reorientating herself, reassuring herself that she
was
awake, and that none of those awful things had actually happened.

Yes, it was all right. It had only been a dream—one of those unnerving nightmares that had been troubling her increasingly of late.

She really ought to consult Dr Fergusson about these bad nights she was having, get him to prescribe something. He was a kind man, and, so far as his busy schedule permitted, concerned for Millicent’s plight. Always, after his routine visit to her mother every Wednesday, he would make a point of asking Millicent how she felt? Eating all right, was she? Not overdoing it? She must remember that she wasn’t getting any younger—sixty-two wasn’t it, this year? More than once, he had insisted on taking her blood pressure, had tut-tutted, with slightly raised eyebrows, at the result, and had urged her to take things easy for a while, to try not to do too much. He had known as well as she had that with a senile,
bed-ridden old mother of ninety-two in her sole charge, there was no way Millicent could take things easy, no way she could not do too much; but since there was nothing that either of them could do about it, they had smiled appropriate politenesses at one another, and he had gone on his way. At least it was nice to know that he cared.

*

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 disturbance 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 …