The Kindest Thing

by Cath Staincliffe

  I hauled the coat out of the wardrobe and put it on. It dwarfed me, the cuffs covering my hands, the waist hanging by my hips. I stuffed my hands into the pockets but they were empty. What had I expected? A secret note? Clues to our past, to her innermost thoughts? Even while I ridiculed the notion, I rifled through the shoeboxes at the bottom of the wardrobe, then the bedside cabinet. And came away empty-handed.

  I was numb, chilled through. I slid the rest of the garments from their hangers in the wardrobe and laid them one on top of another on the bed then rolled them lengthwise into a bolster. Climbing on the bed, I nestled into the bulk of the bundle. I spoke to her, muttering and carping at first, trying to voice the cold anger inside me. And then, halting, by way of apology. Because I hadn’t loved her enough – I hadn’t loved her as a daughter should. I had failed her. I spoke to her through slow, hot tears and shuddering breath, my nose thick and my lips dry. Swimming upstream after my mother. Never catching up.

  In time, the sensation of being submerged, of weight and incapacity, and the waves of panic grew worse. At two and a half, Adam was lively and incessantly active, and the demands of looking after him became harder. Neil did all he could, but he was at school every day. My emotions were so close to the surface that I could no longer bear to watch the news or read the papers. I also became fearful that something would happen to the baby and I was dreading the labour. Reluctantly, I mentioned some of this to the midwife who was visiting me at home in preparation for the birth. She strongly advised me to see my GP. Andy Frame prescribed anti-depressants. He told me that while there might be some side-effects there was little risk of harm to the baby. There would be great benefits in treating the depression and he said he would be very concerned about the consequences if I didn’t take them.

  The pills gave me a slightly giddy feeling, the world became gauzy and my capacity to cry at the slightest prompt diminished. Still my limbs felt leaden, my self soiled and raw and scared.

  Believing it would help me to confront my sadness rather than try and escape it, I spent hours poring over the family photographs. I wasn’t considering them from a professional point of view – I had no interest in the focus of the shadows, the composition or contrast or depth of field – but hunting for understanding, for memory and meaning.

  My father rarely appeared. Too often behind the camera. There was solace in the thought that I had inherited that skill from him. That I, too, had adopted that role. Among the portraits there were several black and white still-lifes and landscapes: a wrought-iron balcony in fierce light, the shadows inky against the smooth rendered wall, stormclouds above a winter field of stubble, a basket of fir cones and, my favourite, a yacht cutting through a glimmering ocean. He had written on the back, in neat print, White Sail – Whitby, ’61.

  Peering at the family groups I scouted for signs of love and affection. Felt relief when I found my mother’s smile, her hand on my shoulder. Near the bottom of the pile of loose snaps there was a small, square picture, which must have been taken on the box camera they had then. A man in dark dungarees holds a wallpaper brush, his head flung back in laughter. Beside him on a step-ladder stands a small child, her face creased in glee. My father and me. Did my mother take it? Or a friend calling by? What was so funny? I love the picture. I crave memories to match it.

  Sophie was born four months after my mother’s death and I was still depressed. The contractions started before dawn and I sat by the lounge window, rocking when the pain came, and watched the pale February sun climb the sky before rousing Neil. We called the midwife and Neil took Adam to his mother’s – luckily she had the day off – and returned to find me pacing the bedroom, restless and out of sorts. The labour was so different from Adam’s, quicker and more violent. After only four hours in the first stage, I was ready to push, the overpowering urge forcing me to the floor, clinging to one corner of the bedstead, the midwife hastily rearranging the plastic sheets, and the doctor arriving as the head crowned.

  The midwife spoke tersely, telling us the cord was tight around Sophie’s neck. The atmosphere in the room changed, a vortex of panic sucking the air. There was a whirl of activity as they readied instruments, told me not to push and prepared to cut the cord. I had read enough books to know that the cord was the baby’s lifeline and that if she didn’t get out quickly now she could be in trouble.

  As soon as the cut was made I was instructed to push. I strained and groaned, the pain tearing through my vagina and bowels. With the second push she slithered out. She was paper white, her lips and eyelids blue like a fish. In the heartbeats it took to revive her, I was falling, falling through the back of my skull into the velvet dark, falling away from everything to my own deep retreat. Her cries: a mewl, a creak, caught me. Held me, pulled me up. That, and the hot splash of Neil’s tears on my forearm.

  If we had not got her out in time she would have suffocated. Her lungs filling with amniotic fluid. Drowning. Like my father. Choking on brine. Like Neil did, the alveoli filling with the salty fluid from his body. Drowning in his tears.

  Chapter Nineteen

  They call me to the stand. They are all in the public gallery: my children, my in-laws, my friend. For a stupid moment I wonder where you are, Neil. It’s an error I want to share with you. I heard somewhere that it’s good to talk to the dead and sometimes I do. Murmur news of my day behind bars to you in the dim, dry, stifling night.

  Mr Latimer stands up and addresses the jury. It is his task to convince them that I am no feminist harridan with a smooth tongue who would perjure herself, but a loving wife and mother driven demented by circumstances, pushed to the giddy limit and beyond, now drowning in regret and desperate for understanding.

  ‘Members of the jury, you have now heard the case against Deborah Shelley. A case which rests on one, and only one, question: was Deborah Shelley suffering from diminished responsibility when she helped her husband Neil die? The answer to that is yes. And we will present evidence from Deborah Shelley to support that. We will hear from Deborah how living with Neil’s terminal illness affected her own mental health, leading to insomnia, panic attacks, anxiety and depression. Her situation was made even worse by concerns over the well-being of her son Adam. Things reached the stage where Deborah was no longer able to act responsibly.’

  Adam colours but keeps looking at Mr Latimer. I had discussed with the barrister whether we had to drag Adam into it but he made it plain I needed all the help I could get. And a drug-addled teenager who had had spells in a loony bin would score plenty of Brownie points. Though he had a more elegant way of putting it.

  Mr Latimer goes on, ‘Deborah’s neighbour and the expert psychiatric witness for the defence will describe to you a woman who, weakened and isolated, was faced with a tremendous pressure that she was incapable of resisting. Deborah Shelley broke the law because she could no longer differentiate between right and wrong.’

  He turns to me and gives the tiniest of nods, a little jerk of his scrappy wig, to calm me. It will be all right, he is saying, you will be all right.

  ‘Deborah,’ he will make a point of always using my first name – humanizing me for the jury, ‘your husband was diagnosed with motor neurone disease in September 2007?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What impact did that have on you?’

  ‘I was numb at first, it was such a huge shock, and when we learned that there was no cure, that Neil would get progressively worse and then die, well, it was shattering.’

  I let my eyes scan the jury. Dolly, jaunty today in pillar-box red, draws her mouth tight in a shrug of regret. And I see the Cook’s face soften in sympathy – or I think I do.

  ‘But you were able to carry on working and looking after the family?’

  ‘Yes. I had to. In that sort of situation you cope, you carry on. That’s all you can do.’

  ‘Some years earlier your mother had died?’

  ‘Of cancer, yes.’

  ‘Would you say that she had a good death?’
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br />   A torrent of emotions unseats me. I feel my face heat up. ‘No, not at all. She was in a lot of pain. It was horrible. She was on her own at the end. No one ever seemed to talk to her, or to us, about what was happening.’

  ‘Her death affected you deeply?’

  ‘Yes, I became depressed.’

  Hilda and Flo exchange a look. They know something of this. What? Depression, losing a parent, cancer? Live long enough and I guess the odds are good for all three.

  ‘And around this time you and Neil had your second child, Sophie?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘W-was the d-depression,’ he starts to stutter and segues into the chanting delivery that eases the flow, ‘severe enough to warrant medical attention?’

  ‘Yes. I saw my GP and he put me on medication. Anti-depressants.’

  ‘Did these help?’

  ‘A bit. Not a lot. Mainly it was the time that helped. The passing of time.’

  ‘How long did this period of depression last?’

  ‘About a year.’

  ‘And when you knew Neil had a terminal condition did you think you might become depressed again?’

  ‘No. Not at first. I was upset, angry – it just felt so unfair.’ It still does. His illness was unfair, his death too. I want him back. Perhaps this is the denial stage. People write about the different stages of grief but I haven’t a clue where I’m up to. He wasn’t dead three weeks when they locked me up. Arrested development.

  In the second row of the jury box, the Sailor nods. I’m relieved at his empathy until I realize with a rush of outrage that he is dozing, nodding off. Too big a lunch, perhaps. Not on my watch, matey. I give a sharp cough and he startles awake, rubs his face and rolls back his shoulders.

  ‘And after the initial shock?’

  ‘Then I was more worried about Neil, how he would deal with it, and the children too.’

  ‘Had you any particular fears regarding the children?’

  There’s the taste of coins in my mouth as I reply. Blood money. ‘Yes, my son Adam had been having problems. He isn’t well – mentally.’

  ‘Please can you tell the jury what is wrong with him?’

  I cannot look at Adam or I will cry. I want to fend the question off. Tell them what a lovely child he was, how he delighted in the world, show them how beautiful he still is, how he has his father’s eyes and a kindness, a naïvety, about him. Holding my jaw taut I tell them, ‘Adam suffers from delusions. He gets panic attacks and sometimes becomes paranoid. The doctors believe the illness was triggered by using cannabis.’

  Even as I say the word I see the Prof and Mousy stiffen, Hilda and Flo shuffle uneasily. A generation thing, I think. The older members of the jury probably see little distinction between cannabis and heroin. I assume those under fifty have at least tried it – even if they didn’t inhale. As for Media Man, in his sharp suit, the Artist, and the PA with her lovely tan and flawless makeup, I bet they’ve hoovered up plenty of coke in their time. The Sailor’s probably seen it all – a new drug in every port, though the ruddy complexion, the road map of capillaries, suggests a lifetime’s acquaintance with the bottle, too.

  ‘I’m told some people are more susceptible than others,’ I continue speaking.

  ‘And at the time when Neil was diagnosed, how was Adam’s health?’

  ‘Not good. Adam had taken an overdose just before.’

  ‘And as time went on and Neil’s health deteriorated how was Adam’s condition?’

  ‘Variable. The hardest thing was really not knowing whether he’d be okay or not. It was so unpredictable. He had a couple of hospital stays, in 2008, as a voluntary patient.’

  Callow Youth looks anxious. Perhaps he likes to smoke weed but gets edgy. The Prof continues to look remote. Surely he’s come across drug use with his students. I wonder what his poison is. Fine wines? Then I remind myself he may not be the academic that I imagine. He may be a catalogue buyer or a window cleaner or a brickie.

  Do any of them blame the parents? See in Neil’s and my treatment of Adam the seeds of his destruction? Are they judging me? Well, duh! The absurdity of the question threatens to make me smile. Not good body language as Latimer walks me through my descent from grace.

  ‘At what stage did you become ill yourself?’

  ‘I think the anxiety was there all along but I tried to ignore it. Then when Neil began to talk about—’ I can’t say any more, a ball of grief chokes me. I grip the edge of the stand. There’s a humming in my ears.

  The judge leans forward. ‘Ms Shelley, this is obviously very difficult. Would you like a break?’

  I shake my head. Find a word. ‘No.’ Fumble for the current of my thoughts. ‘Sorry.’ Good, Deborah, humility, weakness, that’s the style. ‘When Neil said he wanted to plan his death, it began to get worse.’

  There is a rush of interest in the court. I see it in the way the PA’s sharp face narrows with interest and the Cook’s head whips up. See it in the way the press reporters at the side begin to scribble. The truth stalks closer.

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘In March 2008. About six months after his diagnosis.’

  ‘And he asked if you would help him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was your answer to him?’

  ‘I said, no, I wouldn’t do it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I didn’t want him to die. I wanted as much time together as possible. And there was help available. Ways of making sure he had a good death, when the time came.’

  ‘Were you aware that he was asking you to break the law?’

  ‘Yes – well, I checked actually. I wasn’t sure, but when I looked into it, it was clear.’ Sitting by the computer, scanning the Internet, clicking back and forth, my stomach plunging as I found the same stark answer time and again. Now moves to change the law were gaining ground but too late for Neil. For me.

  ‘Did Neil raise the subject again?’

  ‘Yes. We had a holiday together in Barcelona, that September. He asked me then.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘We argued about it. I couldn’t agree to do it. I was angry that he’d asked me again. And I was sad. I’d hoped he’d changed his mind. Given up on the idea.’

  Is Sophie hearing this, taking it in? Does she understand that this was not my will?

  ‘How was your own state of mind at this time?’

  ‘Shaky. I wasn’t sleeping well and I’d lost weight. I was depressed.’

  ‘Did you see your doctor?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I didn’t think there was anything he could do, really. I just had to keep going. Neil was the one who was dying. I had to be strong for him.’ This is the truth, not an embellishment to prop up my defence. I had felt frayed and woozy; my hold on everything was brittle.

  ‘Did you ask anyone for help?’

  ‘I rang the MNDA helpline a lot. Let off steam. But there didn’t seem to be any point in seeing a doctor. Nothing could stop the inevitable. It was something we had to live with.’ Die with.

  ‘And did Neil ask you to help him end his life a third time?’

  ‘Yes.’ There’s a wobble in my throat and I sound feeble. What might have happened if you hadn’t? You might still be here, loved and looked after. The three of us round your bedside. A Walton family death. ’Bye, Pa. ’Bye, Adam. ’Bye, Pa. ’Bye, Sophie.

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘At first I said no, again. But he was begging me. Pleading with me. He wanted it so much and I was so confused. I told him to talk to a counsellor. He said he would.’

  ‘How was your state of mind at that time?’

  ‘Worse. I was getting panic attacks.’

  Late April and I am in the workshop. Dawn and the birds herald the sun, the raucous sparrows in the eaves, the liquid song of the blackbird. I am kneeling rigid on the rug, one arm wrapped around my chest, my hand at my throat. Pain radiates f
rom my heart, robbing me of breath; my throat is sealed, skin slick with sweat. My mind is diving through the groundswell of terror, seeking to break through to the surface. Even in this wilderness I am able to appreciate that if this kills me I will not be able to help Neil. But it is not a heart-attack: breath comes, and the pain seeps away, leaving an imprint to haunt me.

  ‘I wasn’t sleeping properly and I felt sick all the time. I couldn’t concentrate on anything.’

  ‘So you agreed to his request?’

  I can’t speak. I press my tongue against my teeth, dam my tears. The moment stretches out. Mr Latimer waits.

  ‘Yes,’ I whisper.

  ‘In your statement to the court you have admitted administering drugs to Neil and then putting a plastic bag over his head, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’ An eddy of guilt rocks me.

  ‘How long after agreeing to do this did you carry out his wishes?’

  ‘Ten weeks.’ Oh, I wish it had been longer. Another day, another week. I miss him so. I want him back now. Sick as a dog and weak as a kitten, I would take him in an instant, sit in vigil until the only muscle moving is his heart. Relishing the breath of him and the feel of his palm and the smell of his hair.

  ‘And having made the agreement, presumably you and Neil talked further about how to carry out his wishes?’

  ‘Yes.’ Oh, those macabre discussions about methods and dosages, cover stories and timing. We went over it again and again. Me rooting out objections, obstacles, dangers. Neil persistently working it through.

  Neil had spoken to a counsellor as promised. Now we had to plan his death. Spring was unseasonably warm, that day a cloudless sky. I was supposed to be working on some designs for a new apartment block but I couldn’t settle. I went upstairs to see if he wanted to come down and have lunch in the garden. He liked the idea. Once we’d got him into his shorts and shirt, I helped him to the top of the stairs. There, he lowered himself to the floor. It was easier for him to shuffle downstairs on his bottom, with me yanking his legs or shoving his back when he seized up.