IF 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 …
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”, entitling 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.
It was Mother whom Millicent was about to kill—and how could she be sure—absolutely sure—that this was still what Mother wanted? Locked away in there, beyond the range of communication—how could one know?
And instantly, it seemed to Millicent, the answer came, loudly and clearly across the years, in Mother’s own dear, familiar voice:
“Do what I ask you, darling! Don’t allow that old hag to decide how I am going to die!”
“She shan’t, Mum! She shan’t!” Millicent whispered, low and urgent. “I shan’t let her!”—and with tears pouring down her cheeks, and her heart overflowing with tenderness and love, she laid the pillow gently over the twitching, wizened face, and pressed down … down … down … Leaning close, as though gathering her mother up in a final, loving embrace …
Perfect love casteth out fear. Why, then, this chill of terror creeping through every limb? Why this sense of awful foreboding, this pounding of the heart, louder, louder, like the very tramp of doom …
*
When she woke this time, it was to the sound of voices; low voices, not much above a whisper:
“A stroke … Yes. Yes, completely, I’m afraid: right down both sides.” And then another voice—strangely familiar, this time, though for some reason Millicent could not put a name to it:
“I’ve been afraid that something like this would happen … High blood pressure … All that heavy nursing … and adamant about refusing any outside help … always so proud. Yes, rather odd, that—they found her on the floor in a great tangle of bedclothes, and the pillows all everywhere … it looked like a battle-field! And the poor old woman shivering and groaning on not much more than the mattress … quite a problem she’ll be, now that there’ll be no one at home to look after her. They’ve brought her here for the time being, but …”
Here? Where was “here”? And who were all these people, anyway? What was going on? Millicent tried to open her eyes, but somehow it was too difficult. What had happened? Where was she? Was she still asleep, perhaps, still dreaming?
“Where am I?” she tried to say—and now she was sure she was still dreaming, for her voice made no sound, as is the way of dreams; and when she tried to sit up she found that her limbs, too, were paralysed as so often happens in nightmares.
*
As anyone who has ever suffered from nightmares well knows, it is no use struggling to wake up. All you can do is lie there quietly and wait, in the certain knowledge that you are bound to wake up in the end.
*
And thus it was that Millicent, certain that she was bound to wake up in the end, lay there quietly and waited.
And waited … And waited … And waited …