Cath Staincliffe - The Kindest Thing

‘No.’

‘But your mother had insomnia in the months leading up to your father’s death?’

‘Yes.’

‘In your estimate, how often did your mother have broken nights?’

‘I’m not sure.’ There’s a trace of a frown. Sophie is always so concerned to be honest, to get things right.

‘Once a month?’

‘More than that.’

‘Once a week?’

‘At least.’

‘And after sleepless nights how did your mother seem?’

‘Tired,’ Sophie says drily, and a little ripple of laughter runs around the room. Dolly snorts and Alice smiles and I feel a rill of pride at Sophie’s wit.

‘Did she ever snap at you?’

Did I? Well – yeah!

‘Yes.’

‘Lose her composure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you remember seeing her distressed during this period?’

‘No.’

That’s not what Mr Latimer hoped for and he changes tack. ‘Is it true your brother Adam has had mental-health problems?’

‘Yes.’

‘This pre-dated your father’s diagnosis?’

‘Yes.’

‘And Adam also has a history of drug abuse?’

Adam’s face has reddened; the spots on his forehead look angry. Jane’s expression is heavy with disappointment. I am grinding my teeth.

‘Yes.’

‘Can you tell the court how this impacted on the family?’

‘It was difficult. They worried about him – they never knew what would happen next.’

‘A stressful situation?’

‘Yes,’ she says quickly, aware that he’s getting close to what he’s trying to prove.

‘Miss Draper, does your mother usually confide in you about her problems?’

Sophie blinks, swallows. ‘No, not really.’

‘She is quite a private person?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, it might be hard for you to know how circumstances are affecting her.’

Sophie doesn’t know what to say and I hate it. ‘Maybe.’

‘Did you discuss your decision to go to the police with anyone?’

‘With my grandmother.’

‘Veronica Draper?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did your grandmother encourage you to go to the police?’

‘Not at first – she didn’t believe me. Then, later… Well, she didn’t push me.’ Sophie is a little defensive and in the note of protest is the chime of a different truth.

‘How was your grandmother in the aftermath of your father’s death?’

‘Very sad – she couldn’t stop crying. She had to see the doctor.’

‘And you moved in with your grandparents shortly after your mother was arrested?’

‘Yes.’

‘You live with them now?’

‘Yes.’

My skin prickles as I sense him circling my girl. A sharp pin after a winkle.

‘Did your grandmother talk to you about your father’s death?’

‘Yes. She couldn’t understand it, like me. It was so fast. We never got a chance to say goodbye or anything.’ Sophie’s face flushes and crumples and she squeezes tears away. ‘Sorry,’ she says. My own throat locks in sympathy. Oh, Neil, what have we done?

Some of the harshest criticism I’ve faced, on television and in the newspapers, came from disabled people. Many with life-threatening illnesses have spoken out about the risk to human rights when carers and relatives make judgement calls on a person’s quality of life. Members of the MNDA have issued several persuasive statements about the misleading portrayal of the disease by the pundits and the very real possibility of a dignified and peaceful death if people seek out the appropriate resources. Some of these arguments are familiar to me. I raised them when Neil asked me the second time to help him die.

We’d gone away to Barcelona for a weekend – three nights actually – to a resort a few miles north of the city. It was almost a year after his diagnosis and we had all been adjusting to the new situation. Neil now had ‘foot-drop’ – he was dragging his left foot, which made walking and stairs hard work. It also ruined his shoes (well, the left ones). He used a cane, a rather stylish carved affair with a snake on the handle and a silver tip. He was still working. School had been brilliant and had offered him an early-retirement package for the following year, along with an understanding that he might need to take long-term sick leave before then if his condition deteriorated.

We often talked about how lucky we were: we had read so many horror stories of people plunged into debt and fighting for benefits, their last months a nightmare of the battle for recognition and support.

We had a ground-floor beachside apartment with a veranda. The place had a pool and a restaurant, a small shop and a beauty suite. There was air-conditioning and satellite TV in our room and a super-king-size bed. The complex catered to people who expected a little extra luxury from their holiday. Neil and I were like children exclaiming over the complimentary bathrobes and state-of-the-art wet room. Arriving, I felt the thrill of adventure – daft, perhaps, given how cocooned we were in our four-star comfort.

We walked down the few yards from our veranda to the strip of beach. The bay was fringed with palms and pines and the edge of the sand was scattered with old fronds and cones. The sea stretched calm and vivid cerulean out to the horizon. No children to worry about but the thought of Neil, weak in the water, drifting away, shadowed my mind. He wouldn’t do that to me, I reassured myself. He wouldn’t.

Neil grinned at me and edged forward to the shallows. I slipped off my shoes and walked after him. Underfoot the sand felt hot and gritty, finer near the shore, then the water silky cool. Neil caught my hand and we paddled slowly along the water’s edge, his lazy foot leaving an arc in the sand with each step.

‘Good, eh?’ He’d picked the resort.

‘Perfect.’

We soon turned back – he was tired.

‘Fancy a lie-down?’ I asked.

He turned, a sparkle of interest in his eyes.

‘To sleep,’ I said, ‘and then a little lunch. And afterwards I’ll shag you stupid.’

I dozed beside him for an hour, the room densely black with the shutters closed. I showered and changed into a sun-dress and went exploring. There was a road at the rear of the complex that ran through the resort then up to the main coast road. About half a mile along, a mini-market sold everything from lilos to cheese. I bought a selection of tapas from the deli section and some fresh rolls, a bottle of chilled white wine, a couple of squat glasses, sparkling water. We could have eaten at the restaurant but the prospect of lunch on the veranda and falling back into bed was more romantic.

Strolling back, I soaked up the little details of being in a different country. The whitewashed walls draped with honeysuckle and splashes of bougainvillaea, the lizard that scurried away at the edge of the road where rough concrete met dust, and water pipes emerged from the scrub. Tall, striped grasses hung with snails. The smell of hot resin from the pine trees and the tang of rosemary and thyme baking in the heat. The sky was unbroken blue and some sort of larks dipped and spun above the fields, mirroring the cadence of their song.

While Neil showered, I laid out our little feast. Olives with herbs, chunks of chorizo and cheese, a pot of green salad, saffron chicken.

We ate and drank, the wine still achingly cold, with an appley taste and a slight fizz. We gazed at the sea, gazed at each other.

When the food was gone, I went inside and brought out our books. I stood beside Neil and passed him his Homage to Catalonia . He squinted up at me, the sun high and bright. He ran his hand up between my legs, stroked me. I took a shivery breath. His face darkened with excitement and I bent and kissed him roughly before returning to my chair. While he read, I scanned the bay, followed a little motor-boat and its silver wake, observed an elderly couple with faces like dried fruit, who walked down from one of the other rooms to the beach and watched the insects, hornets and butterflies dance around the potted plants along the walkway.