Cath Staincliffe: Desperate Measures

‘It doesn’t stop here,’ she said to Howard. ‘We carry on.’

He gave a shake of his head. She saw the muscles in his face move, his jaw set tight, too angry to speak. He had been with Adele every step of the way even though Marcie wasn’t his by birth. He’d moved in six years back and come to love Adele’s daughter as his own. He had been at Adele’s side day and night. They’d taken out a loan recently so he could buy a decent suit to wear to the court, and smart shoes. This morning he’d shaved his face and oiled his hair and put on a clean shirt with the suit and she was so proud of him, proud and thankful. He was a fine-looking man, a good man, skin the colour of dark chocolate, almond eyes, a slow smile which still made her stomach turn even after all these years. Not that there had been anything to smile about in these last months.

She put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Come on.’

Their appearance outside was stage managed by someone from the court press office. All the main players, the doctor and herself, had to be ready and in place. Adele would be able to speak first, if she wished, then Dr Halliwell. She did wish.

The scrum of photographers and reporters hummed and surged like a swarm of bees.

Adele felt a moment’s dizziness and reached for Howard’s arm. A microphone was thrust into her face. ‘Mrs Young how do you feel about today’s verdict?’

‘Devastated,’ she said with a crack in her voice but she reined in her nerves and spoke louder. ‘We are not giving up. We will keep fighting for justice for Marcie until we win.’

‘You’re not satisfied with the jury’s verdict?’

‘Satisfied?’ Howard shouted, ‘This isn’t justice, this is a mockery.’

Don’t. ‘Wait!’ She spoke over Howard, squeezing his hand to silence him. If he lost his temper here who knew what he might say or do and then they’d be labelled troublemakers, lowlife scum, the same as Marcie had been by the worst of gutter press.

She turned back to face the cameras. ‘We’ll get an independent review for Marcie and if that doesn’t work we’ll go to the ombudsman. These professionals need to start listening to us, to the families. And we need to stand up for ourselves and for the ones that are vulnerable, like Marcie, because no-one listens to them. We still believe that her care fell well short of what was required. We are especially concerned that our wishes were ignored, our concerns dismissed by her GP and we believe that led directly to her death. If we had been listened to, Marcie would still be with us today.’

Inside her something broke. She felt tears in her throat, and pain in her chest. She fought to breathe. At some signal, a final round of photographs was captured before Adele and Howard were edged away and Dr Halliwell took centre stage. He looked sober, dignified, with his greying hair and his smart camel coat. Silver spoon , that’s what her mother would’ve said, nursed on a silver spoon .

Dr Halliwell made all the right noises; Relieved… very sad case of Marcie Young… sanity prevailed . As though Adele with her quest was insane, mental, off the wall.

She watched him talk, the man who had been her family GP all her life, who had seen her through her pregnancy and given Marcie her first jabs, the man who prescribed anti-depressants when Adele went to him in tears, at her wit’s end with her daughter’s antics. The man who, in the last prescriptions he had written for Marcie Young, signed her death warrant as far as Adele was concerned.

She watched him speak, that mock sincerity, slick tongue and clever words. And she hated him. For his arrogance and his lies. For what he had done. She hated him and she wished him dead.

‘You have to keep calm,’ Adele said to Howard in the taxi home.

He shot her a glance, his eyes still bright with anger. ‘I couldn’t believe it,’ he said, ‘it’s all a sham, a fucking sham.’

‘It’s all there is,’ she said.

‘People like us, the system is stacked against us.’

‘You think I don’t know that?’ She was suddenly angry at him. ‘But there’s nothing else we can do.’

He looked away from her, out of the window at the rain. ‘He needs teaching a lesson.’

Adele just caught his words. ‘Don’t you dare,’ she said quietly, anxious that the taxi driver might overhear. ‘Don’t you start thinking like that. That’s no answer.’

He didn’t reply. They sat in silence. She listened to the beat of the windscreen wipers and the drone of the traffic and closed her eyes. Inside she was trembling, her stomach knotted, her chest aching. She had clung to the hope that today would bring some resolution. Instead they’d been kicked in the teeth.

Peggy’s breathing was worse. Roy checked that the oxygen mask was in the right position and that the cylinder had plenty in reserve.

Peggy was asleep, she’d barely woken in the past few days. The medicine that helped with the pain also made her drowsy.

He wondered if he should send for the priest yet. She was dying. He knew that. Dr Halliwell had explained it clearly, talked to them about hospices, but Peggy wanted to be at home. And Roy wanted her there. Nevertheless calling the priest seemed so final, like throwing in the towel. But if he delayed and she died before having the last rites she’d never forgive him. No, that wasn’t true, he thought, Peggy had always been a forgiving sort, a peacemaker, a good Catholic. It was more that Roy would feel bad for letting her down if he misjudged the timing.

She was so young, only sixty, most people lived into their eighties or nineties now. But Peggy had never been strong health-wise: asthma all her life and then the emphysema and the heart trouble, problems to do with her weight, too. She tried to lose some, countless times, diets and Weight Watchers, eating Ryvita and cottage cheese after making hot pot or pie and chips for Roy. Roy had gained weight too, and more since he stopped work to look after Peggy. At the warehouse he probably used to walk a few miles a day, overseeing the packers, dealing with snarl-ups in the system when incoming stock didn’t match the dockets or the goods were faulty.

Now and then, as a young man, he used to go out hiking in the countryside, down to the peaks in Derbyshire. After he met Peggy, walks were gentler, on the level, along riversides or through country parks, the deer park at Dunham Massey, that sort of thing.

Peggy still had a pretty face, round cheeked, warm brown eyes, even though the grey had replaced her chestnut curls.

She stirred a little, made a croaking note as she inhaled, but her eyes didn’t open. It was two hours until her next dose was due, though if she woke sooner and asked for it she could have some of the Oramorph. He wouldn’t see her suffer. He was clear on that. And the doctor had said there’d be no need.

He’d have to see if she’d take some Movicol as well to help with the constipation. She’d not eaten today. He’d made her Weetabix and warm milk but she couldn’t have swallowed more than a teaspoonful.

He left the room quietly and went into the kitchen. The parish bulletin was pinned up on the notice board. Roy took it down and turned it over to read the phone number then keyed it in, ready to speak to Father McDovey.

Father McDovey put out his hands, took Roy’s between them and grasped tightly.

‘How are you bearing up?’

‘I’m OK,’ Roy said, ‘thank you, Father. Come through. Would you like a drink?’

‘No, thank you,’ the priest said, ‘I’ve been plied with tea and biscuits all morning.’ He smiled. ‘Now.’ He set his briefcase down on the kitchen table. ‘In here I have an order of service for you, so you can follow what I’m doing.’ He drew out a laminated card and passed it to Roy. ‘Is Peggy awake?’