‘That’s the impression I am beginning to get – but there are supposed to be safeguards – I mean to ensure people are not pressured…’
Claire said nothing and Jake wondered whether she was finding the conversation uncomfortable. He was about to change the subject when she said, ‘It’s not about external pressures; it’s about how old people start to think of themselves: am I becoming a burden; how long is it reasonable to go on living?’
‘But you wouldn’t think like that?’
‘Not me – I’m too selfish, and I don’t have any financial worries – but I know people who have done it, and I know others who are thinking about it.’
‘Is it something you talk about – I mean with your friends?’
Claire didn’t answer. She got up to clear the soup bowls and bring a plate of cheese to the table. Sitting back in her seat, she said, ‘Believe me, Jake, while for a few it’s been a blessed relief to be able to choose the timing of their death, for many it’s greatly increased the anxiety of old age. Sometimes it’s easier not to have a choice.’
At first Marianne was quite bewildered; to receive a telephone call from Jake was the last thing she expected, until she realised that Claire must have received her letter, and was intent on sending her grandchild as a spy – no doubt to report back on whether Marianne was serious or was playing some sort of game. She told him he couldn’t come. She repeated what she had written to Claire in her letter; she was trying to create order in the last weeks of her life, and couldn’t cope with seeing him.
Marianne knew she had only just held herself together with Leah. But she had achieved something. Leah would have a positive memory of her as a sentient human being and not some drooling semi-corpse in a nursing home; the memory of others being the only sliver of immortality we can hope for. As for Jake, she was fond of him, but if she wasn’t going to say goodbye in person to Claire or Julie, she certainly didn’t need a face-to-face session with Jake.
To her surprise, however, he had been remarkably persistent. He appeared genuinely interested in the diaries and asked a lot of questions about her mother’s experiences. She had also been reminded that he spoke good French and was well educated on the history of France and the Second World War.
In the end Marianne found she was unable to say no; she agreed that he could come.
To speak to Jake was inevitably to bring back thoughts of that afternoon at Les Trois Cheminées, when, in her memory now, a premonition of death hung in the air. She has been asleep in her room. When she opens her eyes, she closes them again immediately. Although the shutters are fastened, a streak of sunlight lies across her bed. For perhaps half a minute she lies without moving. Then with one hand she pushes her damp hair away from her face, reaches for another pillow to put behind her, opens her eyes again and sits up.
With her familiar hobbled gait she moves to the window and opens the shutters. The brilliance of the afternoon sun forces her back into the room. In the dimness of the shuttered bedroom the walls had looked grey, but as the sun now picks out the mouldings on the opposite side to her bed, it seems that a more distinct colour has been intended. Is it a long-faded eau de nil? She isn’t sure. She will ask Claire.
Now she is walking down the corridor to the bathroom and splashing water onto her face. Reaching for a towel she begins to frown: the image on her retina – the sun reflecting off the long gravel drive – isn’t right. She returns to the window. Perhaps she simply hasn’t seen it. Blinking to adjust her eyes to the brightness, she gazes out at the familiar vista. It isn’t the wooded valley that has her attention however, it’s the drive leading down to the gate, and the absence of the old Renault van.
Jake has been out all day, but Fran was in the house when she went upstairs. She goes to check her bedroom; a paperback lies face down on the unmade bed. Is there still a hint of warmth on the bed? She picks up the book. A thriller – but at least it’s in French, she notes. Good girl. She calls from the top of the stairs. Getting no reply, she searches the house and then goes outside. Fran’s bicycle is propped up against the side wall but there is no sign of the old van.
Later, when the police arrive at the front door, they almost carry Jake from the car; his red-rimmed eyes and his ghostly white complexion tell her everything. He says nothing while the gendarmes give her an outline of what has happened, and she then has the agonising task of telephoning their mother, Juliette, and trying to comfort Jake. All evening he will neither speak nor eat but she manages to get a little cognac into him. Not wanting to leave him alone, she sits at the end of his bed and talks to him; talks about his sister Fran; talks through the night about her own life and losses; talks till the light begins to creep under the shutters and she is too exhausted to continue.
Jake got out of bed and pulled on a shirt and jeans, before heading to the corner of his living room which passed for a kitchen; meanwhile Leah was pacing around the flat wearing his baggy blue sweatshirt and complaining about his refusal to take her with him on his intended visit to Marianne. ‘I don’t understand your objection – and I’m a closer relation than you are,’ she said.
Jake put some water on to boil and looked in his cupboard; food wasn’t in great abundance, so he took down a jar with a little pesto left in the bottom, to which he added some olive oil. ‘It wouldn’t be fair to ambush her like that,’ he said.
‘Tell her in advance then – I told you, she knows about us, and she approves.’
‘That’s not the point – she chose a way to say goodbye to you that was easiest for her and I think you have to respect that.’
‘So I’m never to see her again?’
‘I am not saying that. Just let me go on my own this time – I had difficulty enough in persuading her to let me come. When I’ve seen her we can decide what to do.’
‘We need to persuade her to change her mind – there’s nothing wrong with her.’
Jake put a frying pan onto the gas and sprinkled some pine nuts into the pan. ‘Is that really our job? We don’t know what it’s like to be her age. We can’t tell exactly how she feels…’
Leah sniffed and continued her trawl around the flat – examining objects and putting them down again. Picking up a pad from his desk she studied it. ‘Is this a poem?’
‘Don’t look at that.’
‘Too late – I already have. I like it.’
‘You do want some pasta then?’
‘Is this Fran?’ she said, picking up a framed photograph of a teenage girl.
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t see much resemblance to you.’
‘I’ve put some pasta on for you anyway.’
‘Why won’t you tell me about her?’
‘She was my twin sister who died in a crash.’
‘I mean about her. Everyone says you were very close.’
‘She was my twin.’
‘Is that all you are going to say? Did you love her very much?’
‘What do you think?’
‘So are you going to tackle Marianne properly – make her change her mind? I want to know.’
Jake pulled out a strand of spaghetti and put it in his mouth.
‘So you’re not even going to try?’
‘I’ll see how it goes – but the best person to influence her would be your father. What are you doing?’
‘Getting dressed.’
‘Aren’t you going to have something…?’
‘I’m going home.’
‘Now?
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t you want to eat?’