The Last Act of Love

by Cathy Rentzenbrink

  CATHY RENTZENBRINK

  THE LAST ACT

  OF LOVE

  The Story of My Brother and His Sister

  PICADOR

  For my original family:

  my parents and my dear lost brother.

  Oh, we ain’t got a barrel of money

  Maybe we’re ragged and funny

  But we’ll travel along, singin’ our song, side by side.

  Harry Woods

  Emergency brain surgery is very simple – it involves drilling holes in the skull and draining out blood – and is well within the competence of most junior doctors. The question of whether to operate to try to save the patient’s life, however, is much more difficult.

  Henry Marsh

  CONTENTS

  THE PRAYER TREE

  THE EXISTENCE OF LOVE

  LAST ORDERS

  IN TROUBLE

  YOUTH CRITICAL AFTER COLLISION

  THE FIRST TEN DAYS

  STAR PUPIL BATTLES FOR LIFE AFTER HIT-AND-RUN

  ‘COMA BOY’

  TUG OF WAR

  DRIVING WITHOUT DUE CARE AND ATTENTION

  A LONG, TRUE, SAD STORY

  WAS IT FOR THIS THE CLAY GREW TALL?

  PARENTS’ PLEA TO COUNCIL

  HUMANITARIAN DECISION ON PARENTS’ PLEA

  THE NUT HOUSE

  FILLE UNIQUE

  CHEER UP, LOVE

  SNAITH HALL

  PLAINTIFFS

  Affidavit of Margaret Anne Mintern

  RE M (A MINOR)

  All England Official Transcripts (1997–2008)

  DEATH COMES AS THE END

  THE LONG COFFIN

  ‘LIVING DEATH’ TORMENT OF FAMILY

  AFTER THE FUNERAL

  THE LAST REFUGE OF THE DIRECTIONLESS

  NEW LIFE

  REASONS TO FEEL GUILTY

  ASHES TO ASHES

  LEARNING TO FLY

  THE BOX OF DESPAIR

  PROLONGED DISORDERS OF CONSCIOUSNESS

  AN IMPERFECT WORLD

  CALLING TIME

  AFTERWORD

  Acknowledgements

  THE PRAYER TREE

  The chapel is not how I remember it. All these years I’ve imagined a simple wooden room buried deep in the hospital. Instead, light shines through a splendid stained-glass window onto an altar with an embroidered cloth and large brass candlesticks. It feels like a church.

  I ask the chaplain if everything looks the same as it would have done when I was here over twenty years ago.

  ‘We’ve had a new carpet,’ she tells me, ‘and pink covers for the seats. Though soot blows down from the roof so I’m always out here with a little hoover.’

  There is a smallish tree to one side of the room with a blue-and-white cuddly elephant propped against the base and bits of coloured paper clipped among its leaves.

  ‘That’s newer,’ the chaplain says. ‘A prayer tree. That won’t have been here when you were.’

  I walk over to it and take one of the leaves between my thumb and forefinger. Plastic, but convincing from a distance. I read the messages written on the bits of paper. This must make it easier for atheists, I think. Far easier as an atheist in extremis to write something down and attach it to a tree than to kneel in front of an altar and try to work out how to make a deity you don’t believe in listen to what you have to say. Some of the messages are addressed to God, some to the living, some to the dead. There is a range of handwriting styles, differing levels of ease with grammar and spelling. It is the badly punctuated ones that I find most poignant: I imagine they demanded the most effort. Some are in a spindly, elderly hand, others in childish rounded letters.

  I hope the baby is alright when you have it.

  15 years and I miss you like yesterday.

  Dear God, thank you for listening.

  Please pray for my little brother. Love you loads, little buddy.

  For my dearest, greatly missed daughter. She died 25.10.83. I have never got over it.

  Pray for us all.

  I pause, lost in these hints and echoes of other people’s stories, other people’s love, and then wonder what I would have written if this tree had been in place when I stumbled in here on my way from intensive care to the relative’s overnight room. I know what I wanted then, but how would I have found the words? To whom would I have addressed my plea?

  Please don’t let my brother die.

  Dear God, please don’t let my brother die.

  Please pray for my brother. I don’t want him to die.

  Don’t die, Matty, please don’t die.

  The years collapse, and I see myself kneeling and crying and begging, with my hands clasped together in prayer, talking to some unknown force.

  Please don’t let him die, please don’t let him die, please,

  I’ll do anything, only please don’t let him die.

  What strikes me now as it never has before is that I can’t say my prayers went unanswered. I was given what I asked for. My brother did not die. But I did not know then that I was praying for the wrong thing. I did not know then that there is a world between the certainties of life and death, that it is not simply a case of one or the other, and that there are many and various fates worse than death. That is what separates the me standing here now by the prayer tree from the girl kneeling in front of the altar all those years ago. She thought she was living the worst night of her life, but I know now that far worse was to come. The thing she feared was that her brother would die, but I know now it would have been better for everyone if he had. It would have been better for everyone if, as she knelt here, begging for his life, his heart had ceased to beat, if the LED spikes on the monitors had turned into a flat line, if death had been pronounced, accepted, dealt with. It would have been so much better if Matty had died then.

  She was praying for the wrong thing.

  I was praying for the wrong thing.

  THE EXISTENCE OF LOVE

  We were spending a long, lazy, teenage Sunday afternoon in the garage at the back of the family pub. It was before the times of all-day opening, so the pub was shut and there were none of the usual comings and goings, no customers stopping to chat as they made their happy way home, no music from the jukebox floating out through the back door. It was just me, my younger brother Matty and our dog. Polly’s parentage was unknown as she’d been thrown into the river in a sack when she was a puppy, but she looked like a black Labrador with a slightly curlier coat. She was never far from Matty’s side, though she had to be tied up or the lure of the bins from the Chinese takeaway next door would prove too much. Her love for us was never proof against the temptation of discarded food.

  The garage was huge, far from the one-car garage that we’d had in Almond Tree Avenue, the street in the next village we’d lived in until moving into the pub a year before. This beast could have fitted four or five cars and was an Aladdin’s cave of oily delights. The previous owners hadn’t cleared it out, so it was full of curious half-used tins with different-coloured drips down the sides. There were mechanical parts, old beer pumps, bits of lighting. It looked like anything broken in the pub had been slung in here in case a use could be found for it. There was an inspection pit, a big hole in the ground designed for people to get into so they could look underneath a car, Matty had some sort of science experiment going on that involved a vice, copper wire and beakers of liquid, and empty glasses were dotted around on the shelves and the floor. Recently Matty had got into big trouble with Mum and Dad for putting oil in a pint pot that ended up in the pub dishwasher and put it out of action, creating chaos on one of our busiest nights. Even Carol, the head barmaid, who adored him, had been unimpressed.

  ‘He gets away with too much, that lad,’ she�
��d said, shaking her head.

  That afternoon, we were discussing the nature of love. Or rather, Matty was messing about with two broken-down motorbikes, taking parts off one to put on the other, and I was trying to get him to agree with me that love exists.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘It’s an illusion. A trick to make people procreate and then look after their young.’

  ‘But I know love exists because I feel it. Don’t you?’

  ‘I think love is a con. It’s all about the continuation of the species.’

  ‘Well, I love lots of people.’

  Matty unscrewed a bolt. ‘Who do you love?’

  ‘Mum and Dad, obviously.’ I reeled off a long list of relatives and friends.

  ‘That’s loads,’ Matty said. ‘And you really love them?’

  ‘Yes, I do. And you. Maybe I even love you best of all.’

  He grinned at me, oil smudged over his face. He had considerable charm, my handsome brother: a fact of which he was well aware.

  ‘Though I might take you off the list if there’s no chance of being loved back.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ He picked up a rag and wiped his hands. ‘I suppose if I love anyone then it’s you. Is that good enough?’

  ‘It’ll do.’

  A couple of weeks later, on another Sunday afternoon, we walked down to the riverbank to try out the salvaged motorbike on the dirt track there. Matty had succeeded in making one working machine out of the two wrecks and there was pride and pleasure in the way he wheeled it along. Occasionally he patted it. I was holding Polly’s lead. I was not much interested in the bike but was happy to be tagging along; it was a beautiful day, all blue sky and picture-postcard clouds.

  As soon as we got off the main road, I let Polly off the lead and she ran off to search for dead things to roll in. I stood and watched as Matty rode up and down the track. He looked enormous, entirely out of proportion. At sixteen he was only legally allowed to have a 50 cc motorbike, but he was six foot four so it looked too small for him. When he turned seventeen he would be able to upgrade to 125 cc, but my parents were trying to encourage him to get a car instead because they thought it would be safer.

  Matty pulled up next to me, gravel chips flying.

  ‘It’s brilliant. Do you want to have a go? You can ride on the grass in case you fall off.’

  It was an honour to be asked, though I hated the idea. I wasn’t even that good at riding a pushbike. But I wanted to impress him and make him proud of me, so I agreed.

  He gave me his gloves, far too big for me, and I straddled the bike, listened to all his instructions and jammed on the helmet. It smelt of oil and sweat and was a tight fit. I had a head like a fifty-bob cabbage, just like my dad, as one of our customers had recently delighted in telling me.

  I set off. There was a brief period of exhilaration, a rush of air, a roar of joy. I wanted to shout out loud, ‘I’m riding a motorbike! I’m actually doing it!’ But then I forgot everything I was supposed to do. I wanted to slow down but the bike was going faster and faster and I didn’t know how to make it stop. There was nothing else to do but part company: I pitched myself off to the side and tumbled onto the grass. The bike kept going, careering off in the other direction, before toppling over, while I lay on my back catching my breath and looking up at the fluffy white clouds. I didn’t think anything hurt. Then Polly appeared and started snuffling around the visor, trying to get in to lick my face. Matty was kneeling over me.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ I sat up, feeling a bit dazed. He helped me pull off the helmet. I drank in the concern on his face.

  ‘And you do love me,’ I told him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You ran to me rather than to your bike. I call that love.’

  He laughed, ‘You might be right. Don’t get soppy about it, though.’

  We collected the bike, no harm done, and walked home. A brother and sister with a motorbike and a dog.

  Two weeks after that, I spent Sunday afternoon sitting next to Matty’s unconscious body in an intensive care ward at Leeds General Infirmary. Whether or not he loved me had become irrelevant, but the fact that I loved him, probably best of all, meant that life was forever changed.

  LAST ORDERS

  I spent my last normal day as a teenager in Selby with my friend Chris. We lay on the grass under the trees in the little park near the bus station listening to Lou Reed on the cassette player that Chris always carried around with him. When ‘Walk on the Wild Side’ came on, Chris asked me what ‘giving head’ meant and I felt a bit superior that I knew and could tell him. Then we both hummed along to the opening chords of ‘Perfect Day’. I looked up at the blue sky through the branches and leaves and felt certain that life was about to get way more exciting.

  I had the words wrong. I thought Lou Reed was singing, ‘You’re going to reach, just watch yourself.’ I thought he was promising me that great things lay ahead, but that I should make sure I looked after myself.

  Chris had offered to paint a mural on my bedroom wall. It was currently a badly painted mess of green and purple because my parents had said ‘decorate it how you like’ when we’d moved in, and I’d chosen tins of sage and lilac paint from the DIY store in Selby but had lost interest after the first coat. I had the idea that I could get my friends to write poetry on the walls, but the first person to do it had misquoted Wordsworth and it looked a bit crap.

  ‘I won’t charge for my time,’ Chris said, ‘but I’ll have to charge you for the paint, is that OK?’

  I agreed. What a deliciously grown-up conversation, I thought. I tried it out in my head: I have an artist friend who will paint me a mural on my bedroom wall. I’ll be paying for the paint.

  We got the bus back to Snaith and I walked up through the village to the pub. I still had such a sense of pride that my parents owned the Bell and Crown and that I lived there, in a building that was mentioned in the parish records from 1633. The cellar was original, and I’d often go down there to listen for voices, making up plots for time-slip novels that featured barmaids through the ages.

  Whenever I opened up, I would sit on a bar stool and read until the first customer arrived.

  ‘Look at you with your nose in a book,’ our customers would say. ‘Book learning won’t get you a husband.’ They liked that I was good at the book clues in crosswords and on general knowledge shows, though.

  And I liked talking to all the different types of people who came in. ‘You’re so sharp you’ll cut yourself,’ they’d say, and, ‘What happened, did you swallow a dictionary?’ But they taught me all sorts of things I didn’t know, like how the names of racehorses were constructed and how to play dominoes for money. I learned how to say the Yorkshireman’s Motto in the right accent: ‘’Ear all, see all, say nowt. Eyt all, sup all, pay nowt; and if ivver tha’ does owt for nowt, allus do it for thissen.’ And ‘Fuck ’em all, bar thee and me, and fuck thee, that’s me.’

  Matty was the delight of the ladies’ darts team, who cooed and giggled over him: ‘Ooh, I could get myself into trouble over that lad.’

  ‘He’s a cocky fucker, isn’t he?’ some man said to me over the bar.

  ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘He’s got a good amount to be cocky about, to be fair.’

  We were both enjoying the new authority and position we’d had since moving in the previous autumn. In our old village we were always viewed as outsiders, a bit odd and tricky to pin down. Dad was Irish, covered in tattoos, sang in the street and went to the pub a lot. If people liked Dad they called him a rough diamond, but not everybody did. Mum was a civil servant and hardly any women in our village went to work in a suit, so they made an especially odd pair. As for Matty and me, we were generally thought to be a bit too clever for our own good. Now, though, our eccentricity seemed to be playing in our favour. Everyone wanted to know us.

  Life felt good. It hadn’t always been easy for my dad being an Irishman in England, but by 1990 that had all
changed and people loved the accent, the singing and the fact that he was extremely good craic. They called him Popeye or Forearms due to his enormous tattooed arms. ‘You know she’s Forearms’ daughter?’ said one man about me to another who was trying to chat me up. Some of our regulars had a game that involved thinking of combinations of things to buy that would come to £3.33 so they got to hear him say ‘tree-tirty-tree’.

  So now I had a bath and got ready for my shift behind the bar. I put on a cream shirt and a green suede jerkin I had bought from a charity shop, and orange three-quarter-length trousers that had blue-and-white-striped pockets. I tied some interwoven green and purple ribbons that I had first worn at a Wonder Stuff gig a couple of weeks before into my henna-red hair, and pulled on my doc shoes with no laces. I set off down the back stairs.

  It was a usual Saturday night: busy, with people three or four deep at the bar. Matty and I each had our own section to serve and had got used to the art of it, which was way beyond pint-pulling. We had to make the people in our section feel confident that we knew what we were doing, that we knew their place in the jumbled-up queue.

  ‘You’re next,’ we’d say, ‘then you, then you,’ shouting over the noise of the chat and the jukebox, pointing out the order so the customers felt reassured and wouldn’t decide it was too busy here and go off to one of the other pubs in the village.

  It was hard work – lots of running up and down the stone cellar steps to change barrels or fetch up more crates of bottled beer. We served and served, keeping an eye on the hands of the big clock as they edged towards ten to eleven.

  We always squabbled over who got the treat of ringing the big brass bell for last orders, and that night, as every night, Matty won by the force of his height and his long arms, catching me and pinning me to his side with one arm as he rang the bell with the other and I tried and failed to get free of him. After the last flurry, when lots of people bought double rounds, Dad called time with a single ring of the bell. We threw white tea towels over all the pumps and left the bar area so we didn’t have to keep saying no.