Cath Staincliffe - Go Not Gently

‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘I wanted to come.’

Once in the car Agnes began to discuss the funeral arrangements. Charles had already organised that. ‘It’ll be Southern Cemetery, the crematorium. She always wanted her ashes on the rose garden. That’s where they took Olive, her daughter. That was March too. Easter time.’ She seemed remarkably composed. If my closest friend, Diane, had just died I’d have been in bits. Did emotions dull with age? Had Agnes prepared herself for this or was she still in shock at the news?

We were just turning into the hospital car park when she spoke again. ‘Have you talked to the police?’

‘Not yet. I tried to get through this morning but the person I need to talk to wasn’t there. I wish we had something more substantial to go on, some sort of evidence to give them. A crime to report.’

‘Lily’s dead.’ Measured voice.

‘Yes, and the cause of death will be bronchial pneumonia. It’s very common amongst old people, isn’t it? Harder to fight infection.’

‘So no one will think twice about it.’

‘Only us.’ I climbed out of the car.

‘Sal,’ she stood beside the passenger door, ‘you will keep trying, won’t you? You will talk to the police?’ She wasn’t pleading and her gaze was steady.

‘Yes. But don’t hold out too much hope.’ I locked the car. ‘They can investigate the tablets but the rest may just sound like we’re being paranoid. You know, we could ask about a post mortem, on the grounds that the excessive medication might have contributed to her death.’

‘Yes.’ She was decisive. ‘Who do we ask?’

‘I don’t know. We’ll find out.’

We arrived at the ward and explained at the nurses’ station that we’d heard about Lily Palmer, we wanted to see her. Consternation. Glances flew between them and there was an awkward pause. The tallest nurse blushed but took charge of the situation.

‘I’m afraid we didn’t realise you’d be coming in today. Mrs Palmer’s been moved already.’

‘To the funeral home?’ Agnes asked.

‘No, she’s still here at the hospital.’ She cleared her throat. ‘She carried a donor card. We have permission to use her organs for medical research. I’m sorry,’ she looked at each of us, ‘you shouldn’t need to think about it at a time like this. But I’m sure you’ll be able to see her. Take a seat in the waiting room and I’ll ring round and find out where she is.’

‘We want to know if we can have a post mortem done.’

‘Really?’ She looked startled. ‘That’s not usual where it’s a death due to natural causes.’

‘But if we want it done – who do we have to see?’

‘Let me check for you.’

We sat in the TV lounge, which was mercifully empty. The minutes ticked by. Agnes closed her eyes. I got up and went for a wander up and down the corridor, reading the notices. In the background the curious cheer that’s endemic to places of illness rang out in the calls and comments of staff and patients. There was the clatter of a dinner trolley making its rounds. The scent of onion and cauliflower wafted through the building. I went back and joined Agnes.

The tall nurse appeared. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. We should be able to go down now. You asked about the post mortem. Now the certificate was issued giving a natural cause of death, she didn’t die during surgery, as the result of a fall or anything like that, so you’ll need to talk to the coroner and explain why you want a post mortem, and of course the next of kin will have to give their permission. I’ve notified pathology to wait until they hear before they do anything else.’

I asked her about Lily’s personal belongings.

‘Her son said he’d pick them up on Friday when he comes backup for the funeral. I’m so sorry about the mix-up. You can see her now; If you’ll come this way.’

We took the lift up and walked the length of the corridor before taking another lift down to the basement. On the way the nurse commiserated with Agnes. ‘I don’t know if it helps but it was very peaceful. There was no pain. She just stopped breathing.’

We turned left through double doors: the pathology department. The nurse led us to a door on the right. She opened it and we filed into the small anteroom. In the centre, on a trolley, lay Lily. Her face was soft in death. They’d removed her glasses, folded her arms across her chest. She wore a white hospital gown, a sheet covered her from the chest down and a towel was tucked round the back and sides of her head. There was no sign that they’d started recovering bits from her body. Thank God they hadn’t been halfway through removing her eyes or something.

I looked again at her arms. The arms that had held her daughter, Olive, in birth and death. The sentiment caught me unawares, tears prickled my nose. I swallowed hard, touched Agnes on the arm. ‘I’ll wait outside.’ This was her bereavement.

There was nowhere to sit in the corridor so I paced up and down for a bit. Double doors at the end led to the pathology labs and adjacent double doors to an outside yard, delivery area and wheelie bins. Presumably this was where the vehicles came to take bodies away to the funeral parlours. I was leaning against the corridor wall when the doors from the lab swung open. A young man in a white coat swept through and out of the doors to the yard.

I followed. I caught the whiff of tobacco smoke. He inhaled deeply, leaning back against the brick wall. He looked a little startled when he saw me, straightened up.

I smiled. ‘Hi! They ought to give you a smokers’ room.’

‘They have,’ he dragged again, ‘it’s miles away.’

‘And too smoky?’

He laughed. ‘Right.’

‘Do you work in the lab?’

He nodded, blew out smoke.

‘I’ve brought my neighbour in to see her friend, died last night. They’d already moved her down here. Bit embarrassing really. She’s an organ donor. When you do that do they use everything?’

He shrugged. ‘Depends. Some organs go for transplants, kidneys and that. They take those in theatre. Or there might be some research going on so there’s a demand for something particular. Like last year there was someone doing some stuff on livers, they wanted lots of whole livers.’

‘Do they do it here, the research?’

‘Some. Lot of stuff goes off to other centres, some abroad, research labs. Depends.’

‘What sort of thing would they take from Mrs Palmer?’

He looked uncomfortable, looked away. ‘I don’t know if that’s…’

‘I’m sorry. Bit ghoulish, isn’t it!’ I giggled, trying to play up the chatterbox character. ‘Just thought with her being old perhaps they can’t use much.’

‘She had Alzheimer’s, didn’t she?’

I nodded. So did he.

‘They’ve got her down for the brain.’

Of course.

‘They’ve still no way of treating it, still trying to work out why it develops. Lot of research going on all over the place. Like AIDS,’ he said. ‘Whoever finds the cure, they’re going to make millions. Big bucks.’

‘Do they do that here as well?’ I asked. ‘I’m so nosy,’ I added, ‘but my mum always used to say, “Don’t ask – never know”.’

‘I think they do some here but this is going to some private lab they use in Cheshire.’

‘Malden’s!’

Suspicion clouded his face.

‘My cousin works there, research. What a small world, honestly! It’s always happening.’ I rattled on inanely. ‘I went on holiday last year’- Corfu – and who turns out to be in the next apartment but someone from primary school. Amazing. Well, I’d better get back.’ I must have come across as either crass or suspect but it didn’t matter. Lily Palmer was dead and Malden’s were expecting her brain. It just added to the stench surrounding the whole affair.