“In which case, we wouldn’t have the mental wherewithal—”
“Yes, yes, Catch-22, but we’re not demented. I misplace keys or have trouble remembering who wrote The Go-Between, but I had the same lapses in my twenties. We’ve our share of aches and pains, but nothing that merits suicide, for heaven’s sake. Which is dreadfully hard on survivors, even if the deceased are long in the tooth. This isn’t fair on the children. It isn’t fair on us, either. It certainly isn’t fair on me.”
“We both made a commitment. No one forced you.”
“You had an idea, and I went along with it. As usual.”
“Not that again.”
“I love you dearly, but you can be bossy.”
“And you can be reactive. Which isn’t any more independent-minded than slavish obedience. You made it damnably clear that you voted Leave to spite me.”
“Are you ever going to let that go? Because for once we’re talking about something more important than Brexit. I’ve no idea what happens after you die, but the odds are frightfully high that nothing does. The sole upside to death is the end of suffering, but we’re not suffering—or at least our incidental suffering can’t compare to the grievous kind that you and I so often witnessed in the NHS. You characterized this plan of yours as a gamble. Look at the two bets we could place in terms of the cold statistical logic of a professional high-roller, then. One wager would win—maybe win only a bit, maybe a great deal: more wine, more buttered crumpets, more pretty sunsets, along with watching our two youngest grandchildren grow up and the odd mediocre mini-series. Like those scratch cards that guarantee that you’ll always win something, if only a quid or two. What’s the other wager? Lose, full stop—lose everything, our whole stake. Win something, or lose the lot? As the kids say, duh.”
“You’ve no idea what we might end up paying for a few more sunsets—”
“This was never a realistic proposal,” she cut him off, whisking the corked wine to the counter, “and I’m sorry I went along with it as long as I did. There’s something childish about it, and one of us has to go back to being a grown-up. I’ve no plans to overdose tonight on anything more deadly than a burnt crumble.” Kay collected the plates, suppressing a wince from her shoulder.
“And I thought for once in our lives we might get out of washing up,” Cyril quipped. It was his idea of lightening the mood.
“I don’t mind washing up,” Kay said, putting the cutlery in the dishwasher tines up, though Cyril always pointed them down. “I find it satisfying. That’s part of what this whole business is about, isn’t it? I enjoy life more than you do. That’s especially been the case since you retired. I think you’ve resented the fact that I went on to have a whole second career, in which I’ve distinguished myself and had a delightful time. Meanwhile, you’ve glowered over your Guardian and constantly looked at the clock—in the hopes that yet another burdensome hour will have been dispatched. So you contrived this levelling exercise, whereby I get dragged down to your negativity and nihilism.”
“That’s neither kind nor true,” Cyril objected. “When I proposed our private final solution, I was full-time at the clinic, where I worked for another, what, thirteen years. You were still at St Thomas’, with no second career at that time for me to, quote, ‘resent.’ Your uncharitable explanation for my motives is sheer fabrication, and not very well thought through.”
“I don’t even care. Because you know what? I’m enjoying expressing myself and saying whatever I like. Even having this argument beats hands down swooning on the sofa in ‘fatigue’ whilst I begin to experience ‘blurred vision.’ I don’t even mind saying things that aren’t true or aren’t nice so long as I get to say something. I may never have appreciated it before: talking, simply talking, is a joy.”
“Are you making this summary decision for the two of us? Because working myself up to this moment has taken years of concentration, contemplation, and resolve.”
“Yes, I believe that,” she said. “This morbid project of yours has substituted for doing something more positive. I may have done the cooking, but tonight was supposed to be your crowning act of creation. A passion play of bravery and nobility. But real bravery and nobility entail losing everything you love by degrees like everyone else, and taking what comes like everyone else, and dying when you least expect it and when you don’t want to, like everyone else.”
“I can’t remember when you were last such a chatterbox.”
“It’s the reprieve. Like in those old black-and-white films, when the phone finally rings in the penitentiary at two minutes to twelve. They don’t show it, but I reckon the fellow with the commuted sentence who’s already strapped in the electric chair is suddenly a chatterbox, too.” Cupping the flames, Kay blew out the candles, then licked her thumb and forefinger to extinguish the glowing wicks with a tiny ch-shsh, the benedictory sound of another splendid dinner done. The aroma of the wax mixed with the singe from the wicks was heady.
“What if I still want to go through with it?” Cyril said.
“That’s your business. Though I’d strongly prefer that you didn’t. Besides, admit it: without my following suit, you’d lose the symmetry, and the grandeur of the gesture. You’d appear to be just one more old man who’d got isolated and a bit depressed. The stunt would look small if not pathetic, or even silly. I would have to tell Simon, no you can’t speak to your father, because he just took his own life for no good reason. Your passing would still be sad, but you’d seem batty. You wouldn’t make a forceful statement. You wouldn’t set an example. Because—sorry—there’d be no media coverage, not
