This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Source ISBN: 978-0-00-748260-3

Ebook Edition © July 2015 ISBN: 978-0-00-748261-0

Version: 2015-07-01

Dedication

To Alison

Who made my life habitable

after the feast was finished –

with much gratitude

In loving memory of my wife,

Margaret Christie Manson Aldisss

Epigraph

I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,

But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,

There falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;

And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,

Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:

I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

ERNEST DOWSON

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Introduction

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Postscript

About the Author

Also by Brian Aldiss

About the Publisher

Introduction

We must all be grateful to Brian Aldiss for his courage and determination in writing this fine book about the terminal illness of his wife, Margaret, who claimed she was not ‘important’ enough for such attention. In doing so, he has given us a portrait of a remarkable woman and a remarkable marriage; he has also produced the best day-to-day, personal account of a terminal illness I have ever read.

Anyone who has worked with the dying will instantly recognise the authenticity of this account, which is particularly valuable to medical professionals in its report of the first-rate hospice care provided by the Sir Michael Sobell House, Oxford. For this reason alone, the book should be read by every hospice worker and all medical and nursing students and practitioners.

For the general reader, the extraordinary honesty of the book makes it compelling reading. Brian Aldiss is an excellent writer and he writes as life really is: raw, contradictory, repetitive, bright at one moment, unbearable at the next, glorious, infuriating, ultimately mysterious beyond our power to comprehend.

I believe it is a book that will comfort many people who face similar circumstances, including the dying themselves, as well as the care-givers and the bereaved. Such a fearlessly intimate glimpse into lives in crisis serves to remind us all that whatever happens, we are not in this alone.

Sandol Stoddard

Leading advocate of

The Hospice Movement and author of

The Hospice Movement:

A Better Way of Caring for the Dying

I

It was a faultless day in July, hot, sunny, and still. Margaret and I drove over to the country pied-à-terre of our friends Hilary and Helge Rubinstein for lunch. The Rubinsteins welcomed us with their usual warmth. Already other guests were gathering in the garden.

Hilary had set up three tables in the shade of an apple tree while Helge was preparing a lavish cold buffet. Lots of wine, white and red, stood waiting, together with mineral water and Pimms in jugs, brimming with fruit. Margaret sat at one table, I at another, and we enjoyed conversations with friends. Anthony and Catherine Storr were there. This cottage was where I had first met the Storrs, many a year ago, and we are on affectionate terms. One of Anthony’s books is being translated into Korean, another into Mongolian.

Also present was Catriona Bass, a brave and elegant lady who visited Tibet shortly before Margaret went there. The Rhubras, cheerful as usual – Ben, the portrait painter, and his clever potter wife. We enjoyed the company of Philip Sievert and his new wife, Veronica. Philip is youthful and his carefully poised sentences give him an air of stateliness, as if he had emerged from a Henry James novel. On the morrow he was to start editorial work at Harvill Press. Amazingly characteristic of him.

Several other people were there, including the charming Cissy Gill. I loved them all. Perhaps the reflection occurred to me then that to grow old held its own pleasures, when the need to compete had faded and ambition had put away its armour; that to be middle class and English was not the worst of fates the world had in store; that stability was a fortunate quality which had come Margaret’s and my way; and that to be sitting under that particular apple tree at that particular time with those particular acquaintances was to be rated among the good things of this world.

But the afternoon wore on, the apples slowly ripened on their tree, and I was a little anxious about Margaret. As we were leaving, I expressed a wish to Hilary that that 1997 afternoon could have gone on for ever, forever warm and golden, forever in good company.

When we got home, the sun was still blazing away as if intending to fulfil my wish. Margaret and I sat together outside in our little amphitheatre, almost purring. Despite our earlier trepidations, Margaret seemed perfectly well.

That morning, as we were preparing for the occasion, I had seen Margaret, walking slowly in the garden, sink on to a bench. Going to her, I asked her if she was well enough to face the occasion.

‘I’m not sure. You know if I have to stand …’ She smiled at me, letting the sentence trail. We both knew she had a slight heart problem, an enlarged left ventricle, which made her weak on her legs.

‘I can ring Helge now and put it off. She’ll understand. I’ll tell her you’re not well.’

‘No, we’ll go. I’ll be all right.’

‘If you feel the slightest bit rotten when we’re there, just say the word and we can drive home at once.’

In truth, Margaret was far from well. I have searched my old diaries for hints of when her illness began. We spent many years living happily on Boars Hill, to the south of Oxford, where we tended a large woodland garden. The house itself was an unspoilt Edwardian building, with an unusual feature, a large living-room with clerestory windows that surveyed the rear lawns and pond. There, Margaret frequently became tired and would go to bed early, leaving me to read or watch old films on TV. It was her habit; we accepted it as part of life.

Despite her beautiful clear English voice, Margaret was a Scot, although she had been born in England, in Maidstone, Kent. The Clan Gunn, to which she belonged, hailed from the Shetland Islands. Perhaps it was this northern heritage that made her somewhat vulnerable to hot weather. In May 1995, she and I had met up with the rest of the family in the Cyclades. We stayed in the pleasant town of Naussa, on Paros, to celebrate our son Clive’s fortieth birthday. It was certainly warm there; Margaret had to spend one day in our hotel, resting.

Slowly, it became apparent that she had a heart problem. This was diagnosed in September of 1995. At that time, our four children having grown up and left home, we were planning to sell our large house on Boars Hill and move to a smaller one in Old Headington. Margaret noted in a laconic diary entry:

I am diagnosed with heart trouble, enlarged left ventricle, owing to high blood pressure.

Although she remained under doctor’s orders, she was unable to take life as easily as we might have wished. The house we had bought, Hambleden, needed much attention, such as a complete rewiring and the ripping out of all the old pipes, which were a mixture of copper and lead. For a while, most of the floorboards in the house were up. We moved in that October, living uncomfortably while additional rooms and a new hall and staircase were added to the house, and the garden was landscaped.

It was all a serious challenge for a lady with a heart problem. I’m amazed to think back and recall how casually we were house-hunting on that summer’s day when we agreed to buy the little place. But in those days we were high-spirited and relaxed together about most things.

My diary note for the 3rd of July 1996 mentions that we went out for a meal on the evening before Margaret had an angiogram.

As we were driving home, she said, ‘I know this is silly, but there’s something I want to say.’

What followed was, ‘If anything goes wrong tomorrow, I would like to be buried here, in Headington Cemetery.’ (She did not want to go alone to East Dereham.)

East Dereham was the small Norfolk town in which I had been born. In Margaret’s and my palmy days, I had bought a plot adjacent to my grandfather’s grave in the town cemetery. Why had I done it? As a joke? Or was I prompted by an absurd longing to return to the town I had left at the age of twelve?

Of course I heeded what Margaret said. If she wished to be buried in our local cemetery, so it should be – and I would follow her there. I tried to sell my Dereham plot to Betty, my sister living in Norfolk, but she turned down the offer. She did not think it a good idea, any more than Margaret had done.

My poor darling! This was one of her few indications of worry. In the night, I dreamed that she was driving on the wrong side of a fast road. We witnessed an accident, where it seemed that a man, possibly a cyclist, was killed; but he got up and walked away.

I drove her round to the John Radcliffe Hospital this morning. We were there before eight. She was installed on Level 5c, private ward 16. She gives me her dear sweet smile – as ever, she is calm and collected, maybe too collected. I feel that her delicacy of character permeates and informs the family. We would all be lesser people without her presence.

Although I hated to leave her, she sat on the bed, radiating confidence. Angiograms are minor exploratory ops, but hardly comfortable.

During an angiogram, a dye is inserted into the coronary arteries, so that they are clearly outlined in X-rays. It causes some discomfort and may possibly bring complications, but it does provide clear evidence of disease.

I left Margaret because I had to go to see Andy, a carpenter working on the extension of the house. The builders were with us for a year.

Later, I walked back to the hospital at 1 p.m. There was my darling, in bed, alert, looking quite rosy. The angiogram all over, with positive results. No arterial deterioration, merely an enlarged left ventricle, which could be cured by exercise and dieting. I tell her, next week we can swim in Spain.

She must lie flat, then semi-flat, and I may be able to collect her by six, and bring her back home.

Rang my sister Betty with the news.

5th July 1996

Margaret seems fine. A bruise on her groin, otherwise lovely. We’re relieved, of course.

Wendy brought her some freesias.

6th July 1996

She really seems happy with the weight off her mind. We strolled round Headington and bought some art materials. Then a wardrobe for the guest room, for Clive and Youla [Clive’s wife] when they arrive from Athens next month. It’s Youla’s birthday. We phoned her in Prigipou.

Moggins [my pet name for Margaret] now takes pleasure in organising Twinkling of an Eye [my autobiography]. Has provided excellent index. Now she separates chapters, in preparation for submitting disks to publisher. As ever, we work amiably together.

Walking about in the sun, we admit to each other that we don’t relish the day, sure to come, when we can no longer stroll about the world freely, as now.

At this time we were light-hearted, happy in each other’s company. Nevertheless, we were under some strain. The builders, good though they were, were constantly about us. Until the new study was built on to the north of the house, Margaret and I operated in a small room, each with our computers on our desks, crunched together in a space eight by fourteen feet. The enlarged ventricle seemed a small matter, curable by cutting down on cream teas in Norfolk, by walking daily to the shops and bank.

I wonder now why we were so carefree, why we purchased with hardly a thought a house which initially caused us so much trouble and expense. Well, houses in Oxford were hard to come by but, above that, we enjoyed each other’s company, found life fun, and did not think much beyond the day. And we took it for granted that I, six years Margaret’s senior, would die first.

So our mainly sunny life continued, with trips to Spain, Portugal and Greece. This last Greek visit was in May 1997. Before we left England, we had had some anxieties regarding the heat factor and Margaret’s energies. Our problems were eased by Clive and Youla who, ensconced in Athens, made many preparations which smoothed our way.

After relaxing on the island of Aegina with Clive and Youla, we headed northwards, to the Meteora, which we had been hoping to visit ever since the mid-sixties, and then into the wilder northern Greece. Northern Greece is very different from the Classical Greece which existed to the south; here one traffics with the ghost of Byzantium, where several transitory tinpot empires ruled. When we arrived in Thessaloniki, Margaret was tired, although still game. I booked us a room in the Elektra Palace Hotel in Aristotelious Square, looking out to sea. ‘Delighted to see how happy the touch of luxury made dear Moggins’, says the journal I kept. ‘Perhaps the journey – this gorgeous idle journey! – has been a bit tough on her.’

Now I see how she felt unwell much of the time, saying nothing. She became impatient with my nostalgie de la boue at one point. We were strolling in a quieter part of Thessaloniki, as far as there is a quieter part, when we saw a pretty side street in which pseudo-acacias grew on the pavement. A little rickety hotel stood in the street. If you took a room up on the sixth floor, high above the pedestrians, you could stand on a balcony with green railings and look out on sun and the tops of the trees. It was so romantic, I longed to be there.

Saying as much started an argument. Margaret said we were too old for that kind of thing. It would be a sordid little room, up too many steps. We needed comfort at our age.

She was right. It might have been squalid up there, perched in a cheap Greek hotel. Her diary reports the incident thus:

B goes on about small romantic hotels in crummy side streets. I finally shut him up, saying I’m not up to travelling that way any more. We argue. It’s unusual.

Later, as a gesture, he buys me a pretty candle.

Although I found nothing to complain about, and much to interest us, I was not ill. Now I’m sorry I did not see how little she enjoyed the northern part of the trip.

‘You must think I’m an awful person to take out,’ she says. She smiles and takes her supper pill. She has left her food again, as invariably she does. She has the appetite of a sparrow.

Privately, she had more serious complaints. Her diary entry for the 14th of May reads:

Dreadful night, noisy music from lobby, noisy lorries setting off up hill, wild dogs barking in garden. And an empty stomach. This is something of an endurance feat and I will never agree to another trip with such hardships – Greece is such a difficult place.

It comes hard to acknowledge that my responses were so different. My journal speaks quite fondly of the hotel we were in at this time. It was called the Hotel King Alexander, and stood on a hill on well-kept grounds just outside the city of Florina. As well as the customary Greek flag, the hotel flew EU and Australian flags. We were installed in Room 104. I report it as being clean and comfortable, with a balcony, overlooking the red-roofed outer town and the mountains. I note that Margaret was pleased with it.

I was writing my notes out on the balcony at dusk. Dogs were barking in the hills and a bird occasionally gave out one beautiful liquid note. The scent of lilac lingered in the air. I wrote, in my naïve way:

I adore – am excited by – Florina. The plump little lady in the pizza restaurant speaks a few words of English, and I’m pleased.

Now I’m sad to see that Margaret suffered so much in May 1997. Our holidays abroad had always been pleasurable for her. Clearly the cancer was already surreptitiously working to make her miserable.

Margaret spoke longingly of the isle of Bornholm, in the Baltic, ‘where people are civilised and food is good.’ ‘And,’ I said, ‘it’s windy and cold.’ Here in our room, she, smiling, says, ‘You’re content wherever you are.’

And content nowhere without her.

On Greece’s northern frontier with Macedonia, she bought herself a pack of little bottles of Unterberg, ‘natural herb bitters taken for digestion’. It was uncharacteristic of her. She made a joke of it, and I swigged a bottle with her.

This account stands as an example of male insensitivity. It is also an example of Margaret’s self-effacement. She was ‘a good sport’; she tried not to spoil other people’s enjoyment. At this period, neither of us knew that a more sinister and lethal ill than her enlarged ventricle was creeping up on her. And she looked so well …

Back in England, summer was upon us. Our house was finished, our garden was landscaped, our waterfall was tinkling away. We sat in our pleasing paved helix outside the house, doing very little. Margaret read gardening books and nursed Sotkin. We had two cats, the second being Macramé, but kindly, furry Sotkin, was her treasure. Perhaps she needed his comfort as he obviously needed hers.

Although I was writing my utopia, White Mars, in collaboration with Sir Roger Penrose, I now worked fewer hours. When I bumped into my neighbour Harry Brack, we went and drank coffee and conversed in the Café Noir. When I returned to Margaret, she said, ‘That’s just the sort of thing you should be doing, now that you’re retired.’

But. I find it is one thing to sit and talk over coffee with a friend when you can go home to your wife, and quite another when you can’t, when there’s no wife. Who wants to talk in those circumstances? I would rather be alone, skulking.

Our last summer drifted by. It was on the 20th of July we enjoyed that happy lunch with the Rubinsteins in their garden.

But on the following day, Margaret wrote to our GP, Dr Neil MacLennan, asking for another appointment with Dr Hart, her cardiologist, whom she had been consulting since September 1995. On that occasion my diary says:

My peachy creature had to go to the cardiologist, Mr Hart (sic), for examination. She gets short of breath. The diagnosis: the walls of her heart are too thick, while slight blood pressure affects the situation. More tests to come.

She displayed no anxiety before the examination. I concealed my anxiety. Afterwards she appeared smiling and calm as usual.

Following Mr Hart’s advice, we’ll now be careful about diet, to protect the tender walls of that tender heart. No more cream teas, jam roly-polys, pork pies, etc. … A part of me regards myself as indestructible; another part admits the truth – about both of us …

One cannot resist searching through old notebooks for indications one ignored, warnings to which a blind eye had been turned. For instance, during that last summer in Woodlands, on Boars Hill, Margaret was under the weather. Hardly surprising. It was the third hottest August since records began.

‘My dear wife wilts’, says the diary on the 3rd.

On the 10th, she went into the Acland, Oxford’s private hospital, for a colonoscopy, under Mr Kettlewell. When I went in to see her, she was enjoying a light meal and was in bonny spirits. She always made so little fuss. On the following day, when she was back home, I took her her breakfast in bed, and she had a gentle day. On the 16th, we drove up to Stratford-on-Avon to see Vanbrugh’s The Relapse or ‘Virtue in Danger’, and laughed heartily.

During this hectic time, we were endeavouring to sell our Boars Hill house and to prepare the place in Old Headington for human habitation.

And why did we sell up, after eleven happy years on Boars Hill? To leave was originally Margaret’s idea. She explained that we were growing older and feebler. Her diaries of the time indicate that I was rather unwell and working under stress, at least in her opinion. There were many old Boars Hill couples living deteriorating lives in deteriorating housing; she did not wish us to follow the same downward path. She was finding the tending of her long flowerbed beyond her. Soon the pruning and lopping of borders would be beyond me.

Slowly I warmed to her plan. One of the few shortcomings of Boars Hill was that one could walk nowhere. Not down into Wootton or, in the other direction, down to the Abingdon Road and Oxford. We had to use the car to get anywhere. After much searching, we bought the house in Old Headington and began slowly to clear out the possessions we had accumulated on the hill.

The move proved to be an excellent decision. Did Margaret have an intuition of the illness that was to kill her in two years’ time? I am convinced this was the case, at least in part. If not, then it was Margaret’s good sense. We needed to live in a simpler place.

Margaret disputed the role of intuition in our move into town. However, understandings arise from our bodies and seep into consciousness by devious paths which science may one day come to understand. During our last months in Woodlands and our first few months in Hambleden, I developed a phobia of finding a snake about the house, more particularly the all-devouring anaconda. I tried to turn this fear into a joke; Margaret was not happy with it. The all-devouring one was lurking in the dark. Probably she was already in its coils.

Yet we remained happy and carefree, as far as that was possible. We were of that fortunate few for whom being happy had become a habit. On my birthday in 1996, the 18th of August, Margaret’s present to me was the newly published two-volume set of Claire Clairmont’s Correspondence. She read the letters with me.

We had received an offer for the purchase of Woodlands, and we threw a party – a farewell party it was to be. A band of musicians calling themselves ‘The Skeleton Crew’ played baroque music until late. Our local caterers, the Huxters, served gorgeous food, and sixty of our friends attended. Margaret was a wonderful hostess, looking slender and lovely. No one could suspect there was anything troubling her.

During the evening, I persuaded her to stroll with me downhill to the bottom of the rear lawn. We looked back. There in the dark, like a ship, sailed our house, its windows alight, full of family, friends, food, drink and happiness: something we had conjured up together.

And when the guests had departed, Tim and I sat peacefully together and finished up what remained of an excellent Brie.

At the end of that memorable August, Margaret and I were in Glasgow, celebrating with the Fifty-Third World SF Convention, which took over the entire vast SECC building. Something like twelve thousand people had subscribed to the event. This was the great family of SF fandom’s annual festivity. Among those present from overseas were Sam and Ingrid Lundwall from Sweden and Marcial Souto from Argentina. Margaret and Ingrid, good friends, went shopping together in Glasgow.

Marcial had once worked with Jorges Luis Borges. We’ve known each other since 1970. Conversations with him, as with Sam, rank among the pleasures of this life.

In this crowded time, Margaret remained sunny and optimistic, as my diary reports.

Monday 9th October 1995. The week when we MUST leave Woodlands. The removal vans come tomorrow. M and I have ordered our lives well and sensibly of recent years, thanks to her organising skills; we often feel this move to Headington is our big mistake. Jock MacGregor [our decorator] reassured her yesterday: ‘In a week or two you’ll have a lovely house.’

The whole matter is occasioned by our growing old and my books failing to find an audience. Best thing is to accept the situation and get on with it: as Margaret valiantly does.

So we left Woodlands and moved into the Old Headington house, in which our plumber was busy laying over four hundred metres of new copper piping.

Standing in the front of No. 39, lo and behold!, I suddenly espied both of my beautiful daughters strolling along, coming to see how we were getting on!

Both Wendy and Charlotte were as ever very close to us, and to each other. How fortunate we have been that our four children, Clive and Wendy (Margaret’s step-children) Tim and Charlotte, are peaceable people, and that we all enjoy each other’s company. One expression of our closeness was the family’s fondness of nicknames. Margaret called Tim Booj, while she herself was called Chris by Clive, Wendy and Wendy’s husband, Mark. Charlotte’s name had somehow become shortened to Chagie. And at one time, my sister Betty was known as Big Aunt Rose …

It’s a wonder that we survived the housing upheaval. We were both exhausted. Margaret was hardly able to take the rest periods recommended. The cardiologist’s analysis of Margaret’s condition was that the enlarged left ventricle of her heart was causing her shortness of breath. There was also some bacterial damage to the top part of the aorta. Her blood pressure was high.

It’s very upsetting. But Moggins remains so calm I hardly know how much to be alarmed. We got some prescribed pills from Hornby’s, the Headington pharmacy, during the day.

If one has to become ill, Oxford is an excellent city to do it in. It is well equipped with medical experts and efficient hospitals. We were to find that our new home was conveniently situated for visiting clinics, cardiologists, and those elements of a more ominous regime, oncologists and hospices. But for a while we seemed able to lead a stable life. With the aid of our GP, the heart trouble could be controlled, even improved. Margaret needed more rest; then she would be better.

Of course, rest with builders on the premises is hard to come by. Nor were we particularly expert in the subject of rest.

In 1996, I made six brief trips abroad as usual, and turned down offers of several more. On a few of these expeditions Margaret accompanied me, for instance to Madeira, Spain and Portugal. Unfortunately, she could not come with me on the most memorable visit, to Israel, on the grounds that it would be too hot for her there.

I cannot claim I was particularly well myself; sometimes I travelled because I felt an obligation to do so – although this was not so in the case of Israel. I missed Margaret on that interesting visit – indeed, I missed her as soon as I was on the El Al plane, finding I had no credit cards with me! One of my kind hosts at the Tel Aviv British Council, Mrs Sonia Feldman, trustingly lent me her credit card.

Turning up a journal I kept of the days in Israel, I find my first entry, made on the plane, reads:

I’m alone. M and I were due to make the trip, but she is too frail and unwell. She makes light of her troubles, but it’s worrying; her cardiac weakness remains a problem. She thinks too that dust from the building site (our extension is now well under way) causes her breathing problems. It may well be so.

It’s a sadness to see how much less lively she has become in the six months since we left our lovely Woodlands.

The cancer must have been at its destructive secret work, a sapper undermining her being. It is useless to curse oneself for not looking beyond the heart trouble. But one does.

Our visit to Cascais, on the Portuguese coast, was not really a success, kind though our hosts were. This was Portugal’s first international science fiction convention/conference. The occasion was very important for the organisers and they had persuaded us to go.

Go we did, despite many difficulties. We had planned to travel on from Cascais to visit Lisbon for a holiday. Friendly people met us at the airport on the Wednesday. But, on the morning of Sunday the 29th of September, I woke to find Margaret very weepy, quite unlike her usual self. She said she was feeling ill and her heart was overtaxed by heat, standing about and difficult food.

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