This Was A Man (57 page)

‘No,’ Harry lied. ‘Let’s discuss it again, when . . .’

Harry had one more task to carry out before he could return to the Manor House. He had promised Emma he would pick up a copy of her favourite novel from Hatchards, so he could read a chapter to
her every evening. When he got out of the taxi in Piccadilly, he didn’t notice the window in which only one book was displayed, with a banner that proclaimed:

He walked into the bookshop and once he’d found a hardback copy of
The Mill on the Floss
, he handed over a ten-pound note to the young woman behind the counter. She placed the
book in a bag, and as he turned to leave she took a closer look at the customer, wondering for a moment if it was possible.

She crossed to the central display table, picked up a copy of
Heads You Win
and turned to the author’s photograph on the back flap, before peering through the window at the man
who was climbing into a taxi. She had thought for a moment it might be Harry Clifton, but looking at the photograph more closely, she realized the unshaven man with dishevelled grey hair she had
just served was far too old. After all, the photograph had been taken less than a year ago.

She returned the book to the top of the table of bestsellers, where it had been for the past eleven weeks.

When Emma was finally confined to her bed, Dr Richards warned Harry that it could now only be a matter of weeks.

Although Harry rarely left her alone for more than a few minutes, he found it hard to bear the pain she had to endure. His wife was now barely able to swallow anything but liquids, and even the
power of speech had deserted her, so she had begun to communicate by blinking. Once for yes, twice for no. Three times please, four times thank you. Harry pointed out to her that three and four
were somewhat redundant, but he could hear her saying
good manners are never redundant.

Whenever darkness crept into the room, Harry would switch on the bedside light and read her another chapter, hoping she would quickly fall asleep.

After one of his morning visits, Dr Richards took Harry to one side.

‘It won’t be long now.’

For some time, Harry’s only concern had been how much longer Emma would have to suffer. He replied, ‘Let’s hope you’re right.’

That evening, he sat on the edge of the bed and continued reading. ‘
This is a puzzling world, and Old Harry’s got a finger on it
.’

Emma smiled.

When he came to the end of the chapter, he closed the book and looked down at the woman who had shared his life, but who clearly no longer wanted to live. He bent down and whispered, ‘I
love you, my darling.’ Four blinks of the eyelids.

‘Is the pain unbearable?’ One blink.

‘It won’t be much longer now.’ Three blinks, followed by a pleading look.

He kissed her gently on the lips. ‘I have only ever loved one woman in my life,’ he whispered. Four blinks. ‘And I pray it will not be long before we see each other
again.’ One blink, followed by three, followed by four.

He held her hand, closed his eyes and asked a God of whose existence he was no longer sure to forgive him. He then picked up a pillow before he could change his mind, and looked at her one more
time.

One blink, followed by three.

He hesitated.

One blink, repeated every few seconds.

He lowered the pillow gently on to Emma’s face.

Her hands and legs twitched for a few moments before she fell still, but he continued to press down. When he finally lifted the pillow, there was a smile on her face as if she was enjoying her
first rest in months.

Harry held her in his arms as the first of the autumn leaves began to fall.

Dr Richards dropped by the following morning, and if he was surprised to find that his patient had died during the night, he did not mention it to Harry. He simply wrote on the
death certificate
Died in her sleep as a result of Motor Neurone Disease
. But then he was an old friend, as well as the family doctor.

Emma had left clear instructions that she wanted a quiet funeral, attended only by family and close friends. No flowers, and donations to the Bristol Royal Infirmary. Her wishes were carried out
to the letter, but then she had no way of knowing how many people looked upon her as a close friend.

The village church was packed with locals, and others who were not quite so local, as Harry discovered when he shuffled down the aisle to join the rest of the family in the front pew and passed
a former prime minister seated in the third row.

He couldn’t recall a great deal about the service, as his mind was preoccupied, but he did try to concentrate when the vicar delivered his moving eulogy.

After the coffin was lowered into the ground and the rough sods of earth had been cast upon it, Harry was among the last to leave the graveside. When he returned to the Manor House to join the
rest of the family, he found he couldn’t recall Lucy’s name.

Grace kept a close eye on him as he sat quietly in the drawing room where he’d first met Emma – well, not exactly met.

‘They’ve all gone,’ she told him, but he just sat there, staring out of the window.

When the sun disappeared behind the highest oak, he stood, walked across the hall and slowly climbed the stairs to their bedroom. He undressed and got into an empty bed, no longer caring for
this world.

Doctors will tell you, you can’t die of grief. But Harry died nine days later.

The death certificate gave the cause of death as cancer, but as Dr Richards pointed out, if Harry had wanted to he could have lived for another ten, perhaps twenty years.

Harry’s instructions were as clear as Emma’s had been. Like her, he wanted a quiet funeral. His only request was to be buried beside his wife. His wishes were adhered to, and when
the family returned to the Manor House after the funeral, Giles gathered them all together in the drawing room and asked them to raise a glass to his oldest and dearest friend.

‘I hope,’ he added, ‘that you’ll allow me to do one thing that I know Harry wouldn’t have approved of.’ The family listened in silence to his proposal.

‘He most certainly wouldn’t have approved,’ said Grace. ‘But Emma would have, because she told me so.’

Giles looked in turn at each member of the family, but he didn’t need to seek their approval, because it was clear that they were as one.

1920–1992

H
IS INSTRUCTIONS
couldn’t have been clearer, but then they’d been at it since 1621.

The Rt Hon. Lord Barrington of Bristol Docklands was to arrive at St Paul’s Cathedral at 10.50 on the morning of April 10th, 1993. At 10.53, he would be met at the north-west door by the
Very Reverend Eric Evans, canon in residence. At 10.55, the canon would accompany the Lord Chancellor into the cathedral, and then they would proceed to the front of the nave where he should land
– the canon’s word – at 10.57.

As eleven a.m. struck on the cathedral clock, the organist would strike up the opening bars of
All people that on earth do dwell
, and the congregation would rise and sing, the dean
assured him. From that moment until the final blessing by the dean, the memorial service would be in the safe hands of the Rt Reverend Barry Donaldson, the Bishop of Bristol, and one of
Harry’s oldest friends. Giles would only have one role left to play on the ecclesiastical stage.

He had spent weeks preparing for this single hour, because he felt it had to be worthy of his oldest friend and, equally important, that it would have been approved of by Emma. He had even
carried out a practice run from Smith Square to St Paul’s at exactly the same time the previous week, to make sure he wouldn’t be late. The journey had taken 24 minutes, so he decided
he would leave home at 10.15. Better to be a few minutes early, he told his driver, than a few minutes late. You can always slow down, but London traffic doesn’t always allow you to speed
up.

Giles rose just after five on the morning of the memorial service, as he knew he wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep. He slipped on a dressing gown, went down to his
study and read the eulogy one more time. Like Harry with his novels, he was now on the fourteenth draft, or was it the fifteenth? There were a few changes, the occasional word, one added sentence.
He felt confident he could do no more, but he still needed to check the length.

He read it through once again without stopping, just under fifteen minutes. Winston Churchill had once told him, ‘An important speech should take an hour to write for every minute it took
to deliver, while at the same time, dear boy, you must leave your audience convinced it was off the cuff.’ That was the difference between a mere speaker and an orator, Churchill had
suggested.

Giles stood up, pushed back his chair and began to deliver the eulogy as if he were addressing an audience of a thousand, although he had no idea how large the congregation would be. The canon
had told him that the cathedral could hold two thousand comfortably, but only managed that on rare occasions, such as the funeral of a member of the royal family, or a memorial service for a prime
minister, and not even all of them could guarantee a full house.