‘Yes.’
‘Heart strong and blood pressure of a fifty-year-old?’
‘So he said.’
‘No sign of diabetes?’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘I think it is precisely the point. Honestly, “assisted dying”, who came up with that euphemism? Two doctors, lots of safeguards and what happens? In no time, there are dozens of clinics springing up all over the country. I read that over a quarter of all deaths now qualify as “assisted dying”. If you take away the accidents and sudden deaths that must mean that nearly half of us are having the mortal coil tugged away before we can shuffle it off ourselves.’
Marianne wanted to argue but somehow she didn’t have the firepower to confront Dorrie, who was now in full flow. She tried to find the words. ‘Sometimes it’s only a couple of days before they would die anyway,’ she said, ‘it’s better that way. Better for the patient and better for their relatives. Kinder, more digni…’ she tried to stop herself but it was too late; Dorrie couldn’t have asked for a better cue.
‘More dignified? Oh, yes, so much more dignified. That’s always been the great rallying cry, hasn’t it? Do they think that the great object of life is dignity? Ha, the tragedy is I think that they really do. It starts with birth of course, dignity in giving birth means a caesarean. After all nothing could be more undignified than a vaginal delivery – the horror of it! The pain, the mess, the sheer ugliness. You know, in America now the rich have almost abandoned natural childbirth – by which I don’t mean childbirth unaided by medicine or pain relief. Consigned it to the dustbin of history, to the dark ages of medicine. Nice, organised, hospital caesars, that’s what they want. A triumph of dignity over nature.’
Dorrie was now on her feet, addressing the room as if transported to one of her drama classes. Marianne was beginning to enjoy the rant; it was cheering her up. She took another swig of her gin; perhaps I am getting a little light-headed myself, she thought. ‘You’re right, as ever,’ she said. ‘Dignity has never been the best argument. Dignity would mean abolishing old age completely.’
‘Too right it would,’ said Dorrie. ‘A leaky bladder, haemorrhoids falling out of your bum. I won’t even ask what indignities you have to suffer but I’m sure you’ve got your fair share.’
‘I certainly have and I think there should be a law against them,’ Marianne said, entering into the spirit of Dorrie’s drama.
‘Of course, it starts before birth,’ said Dorrie. ‘It starts with conception, with sex, we must dignify the act of sexual intercourse. What position do you think would be permitted under the national dignity act?’
Marianne looked on with amusement as her friend paced around her sitting room. ‘Missionary, perhaps?’
‘Oh no, I don’t think so. Man with bum in the air. Not really dignified, is it? Have you noticed how the movies have dropped the missionary position again and gone back to the seventies and eighties with the woman sitting astride? Good view of her breasts and a manly chest exposed. Yes, I think that might be the only sexual position consistent with dignity.’
‘So ban the Kama Sutra?’
‘Ban it absolutely. No deviation permitted. I put it to you, Mrs Marianne Davenport,’ said Dorrie, now in courtroom mode, striding around the room with her glass in one hand and pointing her finger at Marianne. ‘I put it to you, that you have had undignified sex. How do you plead?’
‘Well,’ Marianne laughed, ‘I fear I have to plead guilty, although generally I would blame my late husband. You see, Ed was very fond of the doggy position which, let’s face it, is not that dignified for us girls. I have ingrained in my mind one occasion when I was well past my prime – I think it was not long before we separated – and we were doing it on the floor in some foreign hotel when I caught sight of myself in a mirror, face on the floor, boobs all over the place, with a pendulous belly wobbling with every motion. It’s a snapshot I’ve never forgotten.’
Dorrie laughed and raised her glass. ‘I salute you. I’m sure it was fun. Here’s to a world of undignified sex,’ and they drank together like fifth-form schoolgirls sharing an illicit bottle of wine on a weekend sleepover.
‘OK,’ Marianne said, ‘your turn. Has your sex life ever strayed from the path of dignity?’
‘Well,’ said Dorrie, ‘I do remember one occasion before I gave up on men. My then boyfriend – Tony was his name, I think – God, it was so long ago. Anyway, it was a Sunday morning and I had denied Tony his wishes as we had things to do and I knew that a morning fuck would mean him falling back to sleep again. I was trying to clean up the flat and Tony was pacing around with a meaningful look in his eye. One of the jobs I had to do was to try to clean out a drain just below our balcony, which had blocked with leaves, and this meant kneeling on the balcony floor and squeezing my head and shoulders through the rails and reaching down to the drain. This position obviously proved too much for Tony, who started fondling me from behind…’ Dorrie poured some more whisky into her glass and smiled to herself at the recollection.
‘And so…?’ Marianne said. ‘I want a full confession, please.’
‘Of course I told him to stop,’ Dorrie continued, ‘but he took no notice, pulling down my tracksuit bottoms and knickers and coming into me from behind. I remember swearing at him because I was completely trapped, but he just laughed and said that if I didn’t want to do it in bed I should be ready for other opportunities. It wouldn’t have been so bad if at that moment the woman from the floor below hadn’t come out onto her balcony and looked up to see my head bobbing back and forth in time to Tony’s thrusts from behind. I don’t remember if she said anything; I think she just stared at me in amazement…’
‘And?’
‘So, she was just staring up at me and I thought I needed to offer some plausible explanation so I mumbled, “Just trying, umm… trying to, umm… to… clear the leaves… from… umm… the drain,” as I lurched back and forth while Tony moved steadily towards his climax.’
20
It happened very rarely, but Marianne was still asleep when Anna arrived on Saturday morning. Her head was thick and for a second she was back in her mother’s story in wartime France.
‘Marianne, Marianne, are you OK?’ Marianne opened her eyes and saw Anna standing over her.
‘What time is it?’
‘It’s nine thirty. I left you for an extra hour but now I worry.’
‘I’m fine. I went to bed rather late last night.’
Over breakfast Anna quizzed her again about the diaries. ‘So, Marianne, you are going back to your work, that is good.’
‘Well, I am trying, but I don’t really have the energy now.’
‘Well, you must tell the story – and I want to hear more about your Latvian father, my cousin Viktors!’
‘No more about him, I’m afraid. How is Stefans?’
‘He’s OK.’
‘Any chance of a new job?’
‘I don’t know. He put all his hopes into that restaurant as well as most of our savings – and of course the money you give us. Oh, Marianne, I am so guilty about that.’
‘Don’t be silly, Anna, I told you, that was an investment that I willingly made and not all investments work out. If the restaurant had been a success, I would have made a good return on my money.’
‘He’s very upset about it.’
‘Is there any chance of him trying to start again?’
‘No, certainly not here – at the moment, anyway.’
‘Well, we must find him a job in another restaurant.’
‘Yes… Anyway, Callum and Helen are coming to see you today, I almost forgot. I must go to the shops to get some food for them.’