Gillian Galbraith - No Sorrow To Die

‘Darling, think,’ he said, as if he had read her mind, ‘what would his carer make of it, finding him alone in the morning?’

‘I know, but I love you,’ she replied, speaking the words for the first time and looking into his eyes to see if he would flinch. But he did not, and his murmured response pleased her, sounding something like ‘Love you too.’

He went with her to the main front door, holding her hand in his as they walked down the common stair together and planting a kiss on her cheek before they parted. As the door of the tenement building closed behind her, Heather Brodie leant against it for a moment, her eyes closed, breathing out in a long, heartfelt sigh. In middle-age, however ludicrous it might seem, to her as much as to anybody else, love had somehow got through her defences and managed to pierce her tired heart.

Still deep in thought, she set off at a slow pace along London Street, oblivious to the drizzle that had begun to fall on her unprotected head. Loving him was wonderful, still too good to be true, but how on earth had she managed to end up in this situation? How had she fallen? And, dear God, what would the world think of her if they knew? What would her mother have thought, or, worse yet, what would her mother-in-law think?

Actually, on reflection, old Mrs Brodie would feel entirely vindicated. She had been expecting some kind of nebulous ‘worst’ from the first day she had set eyes on her ‘flighty’ daughter-in-law. ‘Flighty’ indeed! If she had ever been flighty, she would have fled on the day of Gavin’s diagnosis, in fact, would never have touched someone like him in the first place.

And none of them had any idea what it was like living with him on a daily basis − wiping him, feeding him, changing him, soothing his fears. It was like having a giant baby in the house, only one that regressed each day rather than progressed. Each week brought with it some new, negative milestone. And she had signed up to be his wife, not his mother. She was not cut out to be a bloody ‘carer’. Thank God for that day-centre, unspeakable as it was, because old Ma Brodie could not be seen for dust nowadays, too busy with her bridge parties, or preparation for her bridge parties, and the odd bout of ‘charity’ work.

And who cared about her anymore, or the children for that matter? ‘How’s Gavin?’ everyone asked in concerned tones, before getting on with their own lives.

Well, she was entitled to a life too, like everyone else. For far too long her needs, her wants, had been put on hold, and all the while the last of her youth was draining away. But this man wanted her and loved her, and such an amazing gift must be seized with both hands. Nothing and no-one should be allowed to stand in the way. After all, she was not to blame for the disease, any part of it. She would not accept any further punishment for it, or from it, either.

But despite her musings, her attempt to rationalise things and free herself from guilt, she felt a very different woman from the one who had flown along the same street earlier that same evening. Her feet, still damp from their earlier soaking outside the restaurant, were now cold, and her fallen arches ached with each step. Misjudging the speed of the traffic as she crossed Dundas Street in her high heels, a car hooted its horn derisively at her, several drunken ladettes popping their heads out of the windows and shouting obscenities in her direction.

Rattled by them, she stepped onto the kerb, hurrying onwards, and as she passed the end of the gardens in Royal Circus, a breeze came from nowhere, turning the rain horizontal and making the bare, leafless trees within the railings creak and groan.

A few minutes later and glad to reach shelter, she opened her own front door in India Street and slipped inside, quickly closing it again on the outside world. The light in the vestibule was still on and she tiptoed towards the kitchen, throwing down her jacket on a hall chair, intending to make herself a pot of tea.

Standing in the dark outside her husband’s bedroom with her mug in hand, she waited, listening at the door, trying to make out whether his radio had been switched off or not. Thinking that she could hear a voice speaking, she pushed it open and took a single step inside. Instantly, the familiar, sweet scent of sickness hit her, and for a second she turned her head away in disgust, holding her breath. In the deep, black silence it was apparent that the radio was not on, and she took another step towards the bed before, changing her mind, she backed away from it. She would not take a look at him now, it might wake him, and besides, it would simply depress her further.

As she undressed in her own room, a photograph in a leather frame caught her eye and she picked it up, dusted it with her sleeve and then examined it closely. A handsome young man had his arms around a girl, and his head was thrown back in laughter as the girl squirmed helplessly in his arms, ostensibly trying to escape but, in fact, relishing the feel of his flesh enclosing hers. It was a picture of them taken on their first holiday alone together. A snapshot, preserving in celluloid a fleeting moment of happiness, and by its continuing existence falsifying their past. Because no images existed of the arguments, the sulks and silences, there was nothing tangible to chart or commemorate the slow decline of their relationship except the lines on their faces, the dullness of their smiles.

Coldly, she laid the photograph face down on the shelf. The truth had to be faced. Their marriage had not been a happy one, and the little store of goodwill upon which they had both relied had long ago been depleted. She was now running on empty.

No. Things simply could not go on as they were. The man she lived with was no longer a husband to her, bore little resemblance to the father of her children, and still less to the man whose hand she had held when they stood at the altar together. And the disease had, in its unremitting, malign way, changed her almost as much as it had changed him.

Something would have to be done, for all their sakes, otherwise they might all drift along aimlessly for another year, further damaged by the voyage and coming no closer to land. Her fate lay in her own hands and so, too, did his. The children’s as well. From somewhere deep inside herself she would have to find the strength, because what everyone said was true: life must go on.

Sunday

After escorting the tearful lady to her kitchen, the young constable pushed open the bedroom door with the tip of his highly polished boot and peeked gingerly round the side of it. Involuntarily he inhaled, and then whipped his head back into the hallway, retching convulsively, his hand now clamped over his mouth. His companion, PC Rowe, seeing the horrified expression on his mate’s face, instantly and enthusiastically stuck his own head round the door and remained there, spellbound, taking in everything and relishing the sight before him as if at a show.

‘We’d better phone the Sarge, eh?’ he said excitedly, remaining fixed to the spot and continuing to drink in the scene before his eyes. ‘Looks like there’s been a fuckin’ bloodbath in there, eh?’

Within twenty minutes, a small, overweight woman with a purposeful air, dressed in a paper suit and bootees, marched into the hallway of the Brodie’s India Street flat. Immediately, and as if it were her own, she started taking control of the situation and issuing orders to the uniformed officers.

‘Constable,’ DCI Bell began, looking hard at Rowe, ‘no-one seems to be at the door logging movements in and out.’ And though he had no idea who the middle-aged woman was, the young man said, ‘No, Ma’am. I’ll see to it the now,’ and immediately disappeared, obeying her unspoken command.