The Kindest Thing

by Cath Staincliffe

  The length of the workshop that looks out on to the garden is all sliding glass doors, which gives me the natural light I need. There are plain hessian curtains for days when I want to shut out the sun’s glare. I set it up the year I launched the business. I’d spent fourteen years working for a big design agency, mainly on corporate contracts: hotel chains and supermarkets. It involved more work away from home than I liked and less variety. I didn’t get much holiday, and although Neil’s teaching job meant he was available to look after the children in the school holidays, I wanted more flexibility.

  It was a risk going self-employed but I knew if I crashed and burned we’d still have Neil’s salary. We wouldn’t starve. Accepting that productivity would come ahead of creativity until I’d established a reputation, I said yes to all comers. As it was, I struck lucky. One of the clients I’d worked with at the agency had heard I was going solo and recommended me to his boss, who had just won the contract for a new community hospital on the outskirts of Manchester. It involved me designing everything from the colour-coded seats in reception areas to the napkins for the meals service and the pictures on the walls. Eighteen months’ work. After that I could pick and choose, and I built a portfolio of very different projects: hair salon, fusion restaurant, sixth-form college, as well as domestic jobs, refurbishments, loft conversions and the like.

  So, sixteen days after his death and I’d spent the early hours in my workshop, awake but eyes closed to rest them, my mind lurching about like a drunk on a dance floor. Avoiding the quicksands of sleep.

  At seven I went into the kitchen and made a cup of tea. Adam had stayed with friends, or so he said, but Sophie came down, got her lunch ready and left for school. She was very quiet and resisted my attempt to make conversation, returning only shrugs or monosyllables. This wasn’t like Sophie but perhaps the silence gave her solace. In the aftermath of Neil’s death someone had mentioned bereavement counselling to me: they offered it for children nowadays. If Sophie couldn’t talk to me about her dad then perhaps she’d appreciate doing so with someone else.

  I thought back to how my own mother had handled it when my dad drowned. Not very well. I was nine. We were on holiday, staying in an apartment in Mumbles on the Gower Peninsula. She sat me and my brother Martin down and told us in very simple terms what had happened: Daddy was missing. He’d been for a swim and must have got out of his depth. He wasn’t a particularly strong swimmer and might have misjudged the tides or the current. He had left his clothes on the beach. I imagined them neatly folded, the grey and yellow check poplin shirt, grey shorts, covered with the striped blue towel. His watch in the pocket of his shorts. They recovered his body eight days later. Martin got his watch. I didn’t get anything.

  Once I had children of my own, every seaside holiday brought a moment of intense anxiety that rose like bile, then a falling sensation, a rush back to the numb panic of waiting for news while my mother spoke to strange men in hushed tones. The earth sways. I am flirting with disaster, I am tempting Fate, bringing myself, my children here, a sacrifice to the ocean. Neil had told me about Scylla and Charybdis when we were in Greece, the two monsters that sat either side of a narrow strait. If sailors managed to avoid the sucking whirlpool of Charybdis they sailed too close to the grotesque Scylla with her six heads, each with three rows of teeth, her loins girded by dog’s heads. Scylla would drown and devour her captives. I imagined my father struggling against the pool of Charybdis, being pulled deeper and deeper, the water closing over his head, his limbs burning, heavy, feeble. Or Scylla, sated, cradling him in her loose embrace. Dad’s bones clanking softly in the slow current, crabs in his eyes.

  Determined to face down my monsters, I dandled the toddlers in the foam along the shore, showed them how to jump the waves. As they grew, I taught them to float and crawl and dive. Allowing myself to fear the worst, I pictured them gone, my eyes racing over the sand and the blue beyond. It’s a talisman: if I dip myself into the foam of tragedy and coincidence, give rein to the dread, then it will not come to pass. Some superstitions are hard to shake.

  After those first few days my father’s death was never mentioned. And talk of his life was strictly rationed. Now and again my mother would mention how he loved to sing or recall watching him play cricket when they were courting, and I would keep still and hold my breath and long for more, so afraid was I that I would forget him. But she would always snap out of any reverie and if I asked a question, tried to keep her talking, she would feign forgetfulness or ignorance. ‘I don’t know, I can’t remember. Now I must get on.’

  One ill-judged day, at the age of twelve or so, I pulled out the photograph albums from the sideboard drawer. My mother was watching television. She saw me and tensed, straightening her spine against the sofa back and studying the magazine on her lap. I sat in the armchair and began to turn the pages, thick creamy vellum with black and white photographs carefully attached by corner mounts. This album ran from their marriage to our early childhood, and at the end the photographs were in colour: Martin and I in matching jumpers and tartan slacks, in romper suits on rugs, bundled up in woollen coats and tam o’ shanters feeding the ducks. Our clothes so formal, like little versions of our parents’, save the romper suits.

  I turned the pages, longing for an invitation to share them with her but not daring to say anything. I was staring at a picture of my mother and father in evening dress. She looked vivacious, her lips dark with lipstick, her hair swept up in a chignon and her small figure stunning in a tulip gown. He gazed at her with great affection, his black suit and white shirt pristine. My mother laid her magazine aside and stood. ‘I’ll sort the ironing out,’ she said. ‘Turn that off, she nodded at the television, ‘when you’ve finished.’

  With everyone out, I listened to the house settle around me. The lack of sleep took me back to the days when Adam and Sophie were small. The same aching muscles, dry eyes pained by the light, a spine filled with sand, emotions horribly close to the surface. As a new mother I would eat to try to maintain some energy, some equilibrium, but now I couldn’t. Instead I ran a bath and lay there until the water cooled.

  Later, as I was hanging out the washing, I heard the doorbell.

  A man and a woman are on the doorstep. For a moment I think they are selling windows or are Jehovah’s Witnesses – something to do with the suits they wear even in this heat. But they aren’t smiling. They flash ID cards at me and introduce themselves. All I hear is the word ‘police’.

  ‘Is it Adam?’ My heart bucks and my skin crawls with dread. ‘Oh, God, what’s happened?’

  ‘We’re not here about Adam. If we could come in?’ The policewoman flushes. I stand back, still swirling in the relief that Adam is okay, and they walk into the house. The ground tilts. I sense it then, a punch to the gut, the enormity of what’s coming.

  ‘We realize this is a very difficult time for you but there are a few things we need to clarify about the events leading up to your husband’s death. We’d like you to come with us to the police station. Is now a convenient time?’

  My throat is dry. I don’t trust myself to speak. So I nod.

  Like a zombie I put the answer-machine on, scrawl a note for Adam and Sophie, lock up the house and follow them out to the car. It is a plain vehicle, nothing to set the neighbours’ curtains twitching and saliva glands drooling. Shame. Pauline-next-door would like nothing better than to see me bundled into a panda car. The officers are very polite; they seem completely relaxed. I will answer everything evenly, carefully, I tell myself, and it will be fine.

  At the police station I am taken to the custody suite. Like some pastiche of checking in at a hotel reception I give my name, address, date of birth. They ask me about any medical conditions I might have – mad with grief? I have to leave my bag with them. A young policewoman spreads out the contents and lists them. They ask for my earrings, my locket. They take my wedding ring. And then I have to sign the list. My hand trembles and my signature looks fake.


  They explain that I can see a solicitor before I am interviewed under caution. Have I any questions? Numb, I shake my head. They request a DNA sample and run a small wand along the inside of my cheek. This is sealed in a container and notes made on the label. They take my photograph. Then my fingerprints. The ink smells strong, metallic, and then I am given medicated wipes to remove the dark, oily stains.

  A man takes me through a locked doorway and along a corridor into a small cell. He smiles cheerily and locks me in. I sink on to the bench that runs across the back of the room. There is nothing else in the space. They took my ring. I bite my tongue. Where is Neil’s ring? In some sealed bag awaiting collection? What will they give me back? The clothes he died in won’t be fit for anything.

  The walls of the cell press in on me. My skin is clammy and there isn’t enough air. I’m aware of my ribs locked too tight, my belly a fist of tension. I cup my hands over my nose and breathe out into my palms, eyes closed. I recall how I taught Adam to do this when paranoia made him hyperventilate, sitting beside him on his grungy bedroom floor, smoothing calm into my voice, talking him down. ‘Breathe out nice and slow, let it empty out. Now wait, two, three, four, five. Very gently, little sips, that’s it . . .’

  His breathing was more regular, yet still when I tried to go to make us both a drink, he scrambled after me, eyes singing with panic, his fingers clawing at my sleeve. ‘They’re still there – they’re still out there!’

  Oh, Adam. I felt like snapping at him, ‘They’re not out there, they’re in here, in you, and you’re not the only one they’re driving round the bloody bend.’ Instead I shushed and soothed and stayed with him until Neil came to do his stint.

  In the police-station cell, as I wait, my sense of time distorts. I don’t know if it’s hours or minutes. I feel so alone and it is nothing like the solitude I usually revel in but that awful sense of being isolated, left and forgotten. ‘Left to rot’, that’s the phrase. They have locked me up and they will decide when I eat or sleep or pee, who I speak to.

  The solicitor arrives. A black woman with a frazzled look as though she’s been dragged from her bed after an all-nighter. Might worry some people but I find it reassuring – the messy black curls, creased suit and purple shadows beneath the eyes give her humanity. She introduces herself as Ms Joy Gleason in a ripe Bolton accent, and even though I guess her to be ten or fifteen years younger than me, there is a practical, no-nonsense, maternal style to the way she deals with the situation.

  She describes her role and asks me to tell her about Neil. I explain: his illness, the deterioration, the last morning, finding him dead; every so often she interrupts to clarify a point. She makes notes on a legal pad as she listens.

  She frowns. ‘The police have no obligation at this stage to disclose any information or evidence they have so we don’t know what’s prompted them to interview you. It may be that the post-mortem on Neil was inconclusive or they’ve found it hard to attribute cause of death. But I’m second-guessing and, in a situation like this, where we really don’t know what they’ve got, then I strongly advise you to offer no comment.’

  ‘Won’t that make me look guilty of something?’

  ‘That’s what the police will tell you,’ she smoothes her hands over her hair, ‘because they don’t like it. But until we know where they’re going with this, I don’t want to put you in a position of having to respond to questions.’ She thinks for a moment. ‘They haven’t arrested you for anything but they do want an interview under caution. If you choose to answer their questions there’s no adequate preparation I can give you. They will want an account from you and they will test that account very rigorously. It will be produced in court, if things ever get to court. I would only ever encourage a client to answer questions in the dark like this if I was a hundred and ten per cent sure that the account was absolutely watertight and that the police evidence wouldn’t compromise it. But if I don’t know what they’ve got, whether it’s medical uncertainty or queries about the timing of events, whether there are suspicions of negligence or recklessness, then my advice has to be offer no comment.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘It won’t be easy. And it means you have to answer the same to everything they ask. Some of the questions will be trivial or mundane or obvious, but you still offer no comment. It will feel like a weakness, it will make you feel pathetic’ She looks up at me from under her eyelids, pressing the message home. ‘Everybody feels like that. But you just persist. The police will be all sweet reason and they will make you feel ridiculous. They bank on that. And they will try to come between us. They might say I’m giving you poor advice, encouraging you to waste their time. Don’t rise to the bait. You’re recently bereaved so they know they must tread gently, but it will still feel horrible. Okay?’

  Oh, fine and fucking dandy.

  ‘I want to rehearse with you,’ she adds.

  I stare at her.

  ‘The no-comments. It helps to try it out before you go in.’

  She asks the questions and an edge of hysteria creeps up on me as I repeat, ‘No comment,’ each time. What if I laugh? Cackling inappropriately like some picture-book witch, that’d look really good, wouldn’t it?

  ‘Deborah?’

  ‘Sorry, I drifted off.’

  ‘You sure you feel up to this? I can ask for a few days’ grace. It’s just over two weeks since your husband died – we could raise that as an objection, that you’re not fit for interview.’

  ‘No, no, I’m fine.’ Why am I so keen to have the interview? I think because it seems the quickest way to get out of the place, to be freed from the confines of the cell and the awful isolation. I will say my no-comments and they will let me go.

  ‘Have you spoken to your children? Do you need to call anyone?’

  I picture Sophie coming in from school, flushed with the heat, slinging her heavy bag down in the hall, drinking a glass of water, Adam peering into the fridge. ‘No, I left a note. I don’t want to worry them.’

  ‘They may detain you overnight. They’d have to arrest you first but then you can be held for twenty-four hours.’

  Shit. I cover my face with my hands. They are cool, though they feel grimy. If I were at home, I could take a shower, stretch out on our bed (new mattress in case you’re wondering. Will that be held against me?) and let the afternoon unspool. Or sit in my workshop and gaze at the bees and the blue tits and the cabbage whites. Let their droning and swooping and flickering fill my mind.

  ‘Don’t worry about that yet,’ she adds, but now she has warned me I feel it’s bound to happen.

  ‘I’ll tell them we’ll be ready in, say, fifteen minutes. I’ll sort out a drink. Tea, coffee?’

  I sit up straight, my back rigid like a slab, and take a deep breath, but the air is dry and stale and brings no succour.

  Chapter Four

  The interview takes place in a small, bland room with oatmeal-coloured walls, heavy-duty ribbed grey carpet and recessed halogen lighting – it could be in a hospital or a school, the same anonymity. The light is garish and makes us all look washed out.

  The detective, DS Bray, explains the protocol for the session. He makes eye contact a lot and has an easy, confident manner. A little like Neil, in fact, though nowhere near as beautiful. This is how Neil would be when he gave his students’ reports at parents’ evening – friendly and open and a pleasure to talk to. The police say they will record my interview on video. The camera is already running. He reads the caution, the one from all the telly programmes, and asks if I understand it.

  He begins commiserating with me on Neil’s death, he understands what a difficult time it must be, sorry to intrude, but they would really like to hear my account of that day. Perhaps if I start from the evening before? How was Neil then?

  I hesitate. ‘No comment.’ My voice sounds hollow. He’s not put off by this: he must have been expecting it, though his colleague, a scratchy-looking man with dry skin, rolls back his shoulders, betra
ying irritation.

  ‘Your husband Neil was suffering from motor neurone disease?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘How long since his diagnosis?’

  A year and nine months. ‘No comment.’

  ‘How long had you been married?’

  Had, as though the marriage ended with Neil’s death. We still are, I want to tell him. If Neil had lived we would have reached twenty-four years this September. Twenty-four years and he’s still my husband. I long to tell the man that, to prove the longevity of our relationship. ‘No comment.’

  Ms Gleason said it would be hard but there is worse to come. ‘Was it a happy marriage?’

  My throat swells. ‘No comment.’

  ‘You cared for him as his health declined.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Was he on any medication?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘How was he that morning?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Could he work?’

  Neil, his lovely long legs, they could no longer bear his weight. He’d been so tall and strong, able to carry me. I’d revelled in his strength. My voice falters: ‘No comment.’

  ‘You have a son – Adam?’

  ‘No comment.’

  He makes me negate everything about my life. I hate him for it. And I feel craven. Unable to own the circumstances of who I am, what I am. His tone is measured and warm, but the process is brutal. Each question is a blow disguised as a caress.

  ‘And a daughter, Sophie?’

  Oh, Sophie, Sophie. My lovely girl. I should have cuddled her this morning – even if she didn’t want to talk surely a hug would have helped. A pause, my mouth waters and my eyes sting. I can feel the pressure as the tip of my nose reddens. I swallow hard.

  ‘This isn’t really helping us, Deborah.’ He is a sensible parent, a concerned form tutor. With ghastly inappropriateness I remember a joke Jane told me. About the inflatable boy who sticks a drawing pin in his foot and is called to see the headmaster. ‘You’ve let us all down,’ the head tells him, ‘you’ve let me down, you’ve let the school down and most of all you’ve let yourself down.’