The plane was now passing over the Caucasus but the majestic snowy peaks which Marianne knew to be there were once again covered by cloud. Now they seemed to have hit a patch of turbulence. The seatbelt sign went on, the meal service was suspended and the plane made a series of stomach-churning jolts – a few seconds during which Marianne could sense the plane being forced up and then the inevitable, sickening drop. After a particularly heavy thud, one of the overhead lockers flew open and a bag fell into the aisle, scattering its contents. An air hostess rushed to help gather up the bag and re-stow it in the locker, smiling reassuringly to Marianne as she did so. Marianne was not unduly perturbed; she was used to flying and had experienced bad weather before. She was disappointed, however, when the captain announced that the weather was bad all the way to Moscow and they would not be able to resume the food and drink service. She tried to read but the bouncing and lurching of the plane became too distracting so she sat with her eyes shut and tried to sleep.
Her efforts were not successful; with her eyes closed the illusion of security which flying creates – the banality of rows of passengers snoozing, the lucky ones drinking; some trying to read – disappeared and was replaced by the image of her body in a small metal tube being tossed around five miles up in the sky. Suddenly she felt small and vulnerable and wished she had Edward with her. Now they were approaching Moscow airport. The flight was nearly over. She began to feel more relaxed. In ten minutes, I’ll be on the ground, she thought. But first the plane must land and why couldn’t they stay level? Why was the plane tipping left and right as if engaged in some crazy gymnastic exercise: arms outstretched, now up left, up right, keep the arms in a straight line…
‘Seems like we have a strong crosswind,’ the man in the adjoining seat said. Curiously, they were the first and only words she heard him utter. And then it happened. She saw it from her window. The wing – her wing, the wing she had been watching all flight – hit the runway. The noise was strangely muted, unless it was so loud as to temporarily deafen her, but there was no escaping the sickening and disorientating somersault, an explosion of pain, screaming, followed by darkness and a brief moment of silence. Then more pain… prayers… the smell of burning… followed by more screaming; more and more screaming.
Now all I need to do is die. And as quickly as possible. To end the pain and not to burn. Please, don’t let me burn. I’ll just die now. But how to do it?
She hadn’t thought of it like that before. Dying was something that happened to you. People said ‘John died’ as if John had done something, but really it was death that did it to John. ‘Death took him’ – a funny expression, but surely that’s how it is. Death kills you. John is the victim. Yesterday, John died. Hier, Jean est décédé. Aujourd’hui, Marianne est morte. I like it better in French; it seems like less to do. Isn’t that why we personify death – the grim reaper, the angel of death? It comes along and ends your life. But perhaps I’ve got that wrong. Perhaps there’s more to it than that. Perhaps I need to do something which I haven’t done yet. It’s the last thing you do, everyone has to do it, the dying thing, but I’m not sure how.
7
Marianne lay on the floor, a sharp pain in her wrist and the side of her face on the cold tiles. For a while she didn’t try to move, waiting to recover her breath and cursing her increasing decrepitude. It wasn’t the first time she had fallen visiting the bathroom in the early morning, and she knew it might not be the last.
She experimented with a small movement of her wrist; painful, but not broken, she thought. Although her face had hit the tiled floor, and she would have a nasty bruise on her cheek, the damage could have been a lot worse. Slowly, she raised herself to her knees, crawled to the edge of the bath and using her uninjured arm she got to her feet, hobbled back to her bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed.
She looked at the clock. In less than an hour Anna would be there. Marianne would normally get up and dress herself, making a conscious effort not to become over-dependent on Anna. That morning, feeling fragile after her fall, she decided to await Anna’s arrival and enjoy her assistance for the routine of bathing and dressing.
Anna had been with Marianne for three years, and if it was a cliché, it was nevertheless true that now Marianne couldn’t imagine life without her. She hadn’t known what she was looking for when she had seen a posting which caught her eye: ‘I’m a 22-year-old woman from Latvia, living in Cambridge and looking for work as a carer…’ It wasn’t the right way to go about it, as Callum was at pains to tell her. She should have gone through a reputable agency, taken up references and so on, but Anna had become far more to her now than she could possibly have imagined when she replied to the advertisement. She got back under the duvet and shut her eyes.
By the time she was having her breakfast, her wrist bandaged and Anna fussing over her, Marianne began to feel better.
‘You must look after yourself,’ said Anna.
‘Bumps and bruises have to be suffered in old age – like being a child again.’
‘But the kids – they recover more quickly. You must rest today.’
‘Well, I won’t be able to type, but I do need to get on.’
‘Maybe I could help?’
‘That’s kind. But I’ll probably just spend the day reading. I’m still trying to work out who’s who.’
‘So exciting – about your family history.’
‘It is, though it’s hard work trying to make sense of it.’
A month earlier, her sister Claire had been sorting through some old trunks and boxes which had belonged to their mother, and which for years had lain untouched in her attic, when she had found a pile of wartime notebooks. Claire had taken one look, then bundled them up and sent them to Marianne.
Marianne’s curiosity had been aroused immediately. Her mother had died without ever disclosing any more about her wartime experiences. Most of all there was the question of Marianne’s biological father. The diaries were difficult to read. Spidery writing combined with frequent use of codes and shorthand meant deciphering them was a laborious business, but bringing all her research experience to bear, Marianne had started the process of preparing a typescript and simultaneously an English translation. She had looked ahead to the last volume to see if she could find a clue about her father, but so far without success.
‘I will go to the shops now,’ said Anna. ‘Don’t forget Callum and Helen come for lunch tomorrow.’
‘I haven’t forgotten.’
‘Maybe Leah as well?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Marianne’s son, Callum, had come back from Australia the previous year. Initially this was due to a bad bout of pneumonia which Marianne had suffered but they had subsequently decided to stay ‘for a few years’ – as Callum had put it. Marianne was in no doubt that Callum was the driving force behind this plan and his wife, Helen, was far from enthusiastic about leaving her beloved Australia. It also meant that whilst their daughter Leah had come with them and was now at school in London, their elder daughter, now at Melbourne University, had stayed in Australia.
At first, Marianne had been thrilled to have Callum in the same country, and finally she was getting to know at least one of her grandchildren; but more recently she had sensed that it was causing strains in their marriage. Nothing had been said to her, but she had little doubt that Helen would whisk Callum back to Australia the moment she breathed her last.