Two days later John was due to be discharged and it was decided between the siblings that they would approach their mother and ask if he might stay in her guest room. It was not an easy decision to make, with Robbie exploring every possible option in order to avoid his parents being under the same roof. Elizabeth had suggested he stay with Wendy, leading to a full disclosure of her home situation that made it clear why that would be impossible. Elizabeth bemoaned her choice of a one-bedroom apartment on the fifth floor, saying she would have taken him in had it not been for the cramped conditions and single bed. There had been several minutes of silence as the three drank the dregs of their coffee at the café opposite the hospital. Robbie had moved back into Margaret’s house and his bedroom was next door to a second spare room used as a dumping ground for exercise equipment, paper work and the vacuum cleaner.
‘If I cleared all that stuff out, Dad would have plenty of space and a decent view of the front garden,’ Robbie said.
‘There’s no denying that the room would be perfect,’ Wendy said. ‘It’s the fact that the room happens to be in our mother’s house.’
‘I know,’ said Robbie. ‘It’s far from ideal but there are no other options.’
Elizabeth had laughed. ‘This will be fun.’
They travelled together to their mother’s house, leaving themselves little time for a back-up plan if she refused.
‘The farmhouse is wrecked,’ Elizabeth told Margaret when their coats had been shed.
‘I know, we drove past it this morning. I’m so glad you’re all right.’ She reached for Robbie’s hand.
‘It must have been the electrics. It’s common enough in houses as old as the farmhouse,’ Adam said.
‘It’s incredible how fast an entire house can be reduced to nothing,’ Robbie said, taking a piece of shortbread from the plate his mother passed around. ‘It just shows you.’
‘Shows what?’ Wendy asked.
‘Not to hold too tightly to things.’
‘A house isn’t just things though, is it? I know the house was going to be torn down anyway but I wasn’t ready for it to happen so soon,’ Wendy said.
A contemplative silence fell in the room as pieces of sugary shortbread were dipped into tea and the family looked kindly at one another.
‘What next?’ Margaret asked.
Robbie and Wendy exchanged looks.
‘I don’t think I want to hear this,’ Margaret said before Robbie had a chance to speak.
‘He has nowhere to go, Mum.’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Just hear us out.’
‘I don’t believe you’re even going to ask me this.’
‘What?’ Adam asked.
‘Mum,’ Elizabeth started, ‘you know we wouldn’t ask unless we were desperate. There is literally no other option, and, well, it won’t be for long.’
Robbie looked at his mother as if knowing that Elizabeth had trumped any possible argument she might have. Margaret’s lips moved but no words came out. She looked with panic from one child to the next before dropping her head onto her chest and sighing. Adam put his arm around her shoulders.
‘We’ll do it,’ he said, squeezing Margaret as he spoke. She turned her head towards him.
‘We will? No offence, Adam, but you don’t really know what you’re getting yourself in to.’
‘He is a dying man, Maggie. It’s the least we can do.’
Margaret groaned.
‘Well, since you’re all ganging up on me …’
‘You’ll take him?’ Elizabeth said, raising her eyebrows.
‘All right, all right. But you can clear all the junk out of there,’ she said to Adam, pointing in the direction of the spare room. ‘And don’t expect me to do anything for him. You kids are responsible for his care, do you hear me?’
The three nodded and Robbie checked the time.
‘We’d better go. Lizzie, why don’t you stay and work on the room. Wendy and I can go to the hospital.’
‘One more thing,’ Margaret said as Robbie took his coat from the stand. ‘I want to be there when he, you know …’
Robbie waited for her to complete the sentence.
‘Dies?’ Wendy asked.
‘Well, yes.’
‘Why?’ Wendy pressed.
‘I don’t have to explain myself, Wendy, it’s just one of the conditions.’
‘Fine,’ Robbie said, lifting his car keys from the sideboard.
When the ambulance pulled into the driveway, Robbie skirted around the paramedics, feeling obsolete. Margaret and Adam had not returned from their lunch date and Robbie was glad to be spared an awkward hallway conversation between his parents. He wondered whether his mother, if given the chance, would gloat over John being so reduced that he was forced to take refuge in her house.
Robbie knew when his father passed no remark on his accommodation that his illness had accelerated. The room had been transformed into a bright, airy space, and owing to its position on the corner of the house, it got both the morning and afternoon sun. It smelt of disinfectant but the bed was ready and Elizabeth had set up her television in the corner. With the jingle for Countdown playing in the background, Elizabeth and Wendy fussed around their father until he eyeballed them to leave him be. His face against the crisp, white pillowcase was yellowing and gaunt. He looked from the commode in the corner that the occupational therapist had left, to the bowl of watermelon segments on the table before motioning for Wendy not to stand between him and the television.
Robbie spent the following days curled in the armchair in his father’s room. Since the morphine patches had gone on, none of them had been able to communicate with their father and they had to content themselves with the silence and occasional visits from the district nurse.
The skin on John’s face had lost all elasticity and was draped around his ears and neck as though the effort of keeping it taut across his cheeks was too great. His mouth was always open and his lips were dry and cracked from the heat of the room. Stale breath was exhaled in a slow, unsteady rhythm and occasionally he would cough and wake himself up.
Wendy had said ‘good’ when Robbie told her he had been to see Joan. She did not ask any more about the content of their conversation. Lizzie, on the other hand, was inquisitive enough to make him wish he had not told her. ‘What did you say?’ ‘What did she say?’ ‘How did you feel?’ ‘How was it left?’ ‘What happens next?’
His younger sister had a remarkable interest in the details of a story and while part of him felt privileged to be the object of such intense questioning, he was not sure how much he wanted to give away. The telling of a thing often reduced it before it had chance to become a fully formed thought.
‘When I get things straight in here,’ he said, tapping his head, ‘you’ll be the first to know.’
‘Ok, but I might be dead by then.’ He moved to slap her on the arm and she dodged out of his way. She had brought a tub of Vaseline into the room and Robbie watched while she spread it gently on their father’s lips. She hummed gently and Robbie looked away.
A week later Elizabeth came into the kitchen while Wendy and her mother were stewing plums to put into their porridge, and Robbie was reading the newspaper. The district nurse had been in that morning and Elizabeth had stayed in the room for his prognosis. Her face was drawn and her eyes worried. Robbie watched his mother look down at her nightdress as if it were unsuitable for what was about to happen.
‘What?’ she said.
‘The nurse has suggested a vigil,’ Elizabeth said, biting the inside of her cheek and looking back towards their father’s room. ‘I don’t want to miss it.’
‘It’s not an eclipse, Elizabeth, or, or, some movie star we want to get a look at,’ Wendy jumped in.
No one spoke.
‘Oh God, I’m sorry.’ Wendy grabbed the countertop with both hands and rocked. Elizabeth and Robbie both stood beside her, cautious to lay a hand on her shoulder. She turned and reached out an arm to each of them so the three stood entwined in the middle of the kitchen. Robbie could see that his mother was trying to steady herself with the back of a chair. One hand was against her ribcage, bracing herself as if out of breath after physical exercise. She watched her children with what looked to Robbie like envy and yet something held her back from going to them. Her insecurity was difficult to watch and Robbie was glad to see her stand up straight when the three of them disengaged. Wendy turned off the stove.
‘I’m not really hungry any more,’ she said, putting the lid on the porridge.
Their father had his eyes closed when they went into the room but opened them when Elizabeth turned down the volume on the television. Robbie thought it would have been strange to watch his father die with Ready Steady Cook in the background but the silence was as difficult to bear. He excused himself to get the record player out of his car boot and carried it into the house. The scuffs had been cleaned and a new needle attached. When Wendy saw the player, she smiled and Robbie was grateful for her kindness. Margaret, who was hanging back from the bedside, took the opportunity to be useful and selected a record.
‘Some Klughardt for you,’ she whispered as the needle settled and the haunting music of the viola sounded.
‘It’s a bit depressing,’ Elizabeth said. She had taken their father’s hand and was stroking the veins that stood out on his skin.
‘At the beginning it is,’ Wendy agreed.
‘Do you remember the story?’ Margaret said, sitting on the chair that Robbie had pulled out for her. Wendy nodded, Elizabeth shook her head and Robbie was sure that he saw his father’s eyelids flutter.
‘A poet called Nikolaus Lenau was born to German parents in Hungary in eighteen hundred and something. Even as a young boy, he was unhappy with his situation in life and he started travelling all over Hungary and Germany trying to make peace with himself. He was influenced by a lot of the romantic poets of that time who wrestled with melancholy and the idea that happiness and hope were always just out of reach. He set sail for America, believing that he would find what he was looking for there. But once again his search for peace was unsuccessful and his poetry is full of the disappointment that he experienced as a result.’
She paused as the oboe rose above the cello and then wrapped itself like a ribbon around the lower string song.
‘Back in Hungary following a disastrous romance, Nikolaus spent his days wandering along the Danube writing poetry. The reeds along the banks of the river, coupled with his grief at being alone and out of love, led to him writing Schilflieder, or Reed Songs as it has been translated. The five verses chart the emotions of the poet in the wake of his failed relationship. Klughardt found the poetry so beautiful that he put music to it. This is the piece he composed and each movement tries to capture the grief, loneliness and nostalgia of the poem.’
There were tears in her voice as she finished and the music played on for several seconds before running out and leaving only the sound of static.
‘His breathing seems to be getting slower,’ Elizabeth said.
The four stood and pressed in closer to the bedside. Although the moment was inevitable and had been building like thunder for weeks, suddenly it was impossible for Robbie to believe that this was his father’s life reaching its conclusion. The last words he had spoken were to berate Robbie for his absence when the house went up in flames and now he was not lucid enough to offer closure to any of his family members.
As he tried to fight panic, he realised that he had been holding out for a resolution or a brief exchange where they might exonerate one another. The scratching of the record and John’s rasping provided an eerie backdrop for his death but as the minutes stretched on, the family took their seats again and looked wearily at one another.
The time between each breath seemed to stretch interminably until one of them would be convinced that it was definitely his last. Just as they got to their feet his chest would rise and his breath would be drawn out, as though something was caught in his throat and was struggling to break free. By the time the nurse arrived at lunchtime, the family was exhausted and, after assuring them that she would call if there was any change, Robbie, his sisters and Margaret made themselves lunch.
‘Do you want a sandwich?’ Margaret offered the nurse when she had finished her visit.
‘I’m all right, thanks.’
‘How is he?’ Elizabeth asked.
‘He’s done well to hang on this long. I didn’t expect him to still be here, to be honest with you. He’s a real fighter.’
‘Indeed,’ Margaret said, clearing the lunch plates.
‘He has lost consciousness which means that he probably won’t hold on for much longer.’
‘This waiting is driving me mad,’ Wendy said, laughing as if to take the edge off.
‘I know,’ the nurse said. ‘This is the hardest part. Just keep talking to him. The hearing is the last to go, you know?’
‘Really?’ Margaret said. ‘We’ve been playing him music. Will he have heard it?’
‘Chances are he did,’ she said and Margaret slipped out to put the record back on.
After a few minutes, Robbie saw the nurse to the door and made his way back into the bedroom. He could tell immediately that his father was gone. The injustice of missing his passing was like being punched. He felt it as the final rejection from his father, who had no intention of allowing him to make sense of his past. Margaret looked over and held his stare. She stood, somewhat awkwardly, with a daughter on each arm but as he moved forward, Elizabeth stepped out of her mother’s embrace and took hold of his arm.
‘We’ve all said goodbye,’ she said, motioning for him to do the same.
His father’s withered body seemed so far removed from the tyrant of his youth. Gone were the ruddy cheeks that flared after one too many drinks and burned late in to the night. Gone too was the sturdy frame that made him an imposing presence in a room and put muscle behind his tantrums. There was so little left of him that was recognisable and now there would be no opportunity to fight back or demand answers.
‘Dad …’ he began.
John’s lips were turned down at their edges as if in disapproval. Robbie felt Elizabeth tighten her grip.
‘You were a bastard,’ he said, laughing gently. ‘You were a bastard and we were all scared of you …’
He heard one of his sisters sniff and a door close somewhere in the house. Unsure of the reaction to his admission, he kept his head down and studied his father’s fingernails. They were discoloured and splitting, with none of the soil beneath them that was characteristic of his hands. These were the hands that had lifted him as a baby and steadied him as a toddler. They would have shown tenderness to Margaret and been used to build things, grow vegetables and calm animals. Their purpose could not be reduced to a tight fist or a white knuckle around a whiskey bottle. From the other side of the bed his mother’s voice came quietly.
‘You were a terrible husband, John.’
Robbie met her eye. Her cheeks were sodden and some of her hair was plastered to her face. She was holding a tissue over her mouth as if to prevent herself from saying any more. Elizabeth was rigid beside him and Wendy did not seem to be bothered by the accusations that she spent so much of her life rebuffing.
‘You really …’ Wendy started. Robbie watched her fighting with herself, wrestling with the reality of their father’s underwhelming death. ‘You really made my life difficult, Dad.’
Until that moment Robbie had been dry-eyed but his older sister laying bare her pain was difficult to hear. Refusing to take a tissue from the box at the bedside, Robbie blinked furiously and looked at the ceiling. After several minutes of silence, Elizabeth leaned over their father’s corpse and touched his face. Her hands covered his forehead, his cheeks and down to his neck, stroking it gently as if memorising his skin.
‘I don’t even know you,’ she said, leaning in closer. ‘You were never there.’ She removed her hand and shrugged.
Margaret sat down and looked from one child to the other. Sunk low in the chair, she seemed defeated and Robbie might have hugged her had Wendy not got there first.
‘You’d better call the doctor,’ their mother said to no one in particular. ‘Why don’t you put the kettle on and I’ll be in shortly.’
The three siblings left the room as Margaret pulled her chair closer to the bed.