For the first few weeks, Emma was able to enjoy a morning walk around the grounds with Harry, but it was not long before she had to lean on his arm, then rely on a walking stick, before finally succumbing to a wheelchair that Harry had bought without her knowing.
During those early months, Emma did most of the talking, never failing to express her strongly held views on what was happening in the world, although she now only picked it up second-hand from the morning papers and the evening news on television. She delighted in watching President Bush and Mrs Thatcher signing a peace treaty with Chairman Gorbachev in Paris, finally bringing the Cold War to an end. But only a few days later she was horrified to learn that some of her old parliamentary colleagues back in London were plotting to remove the PM from office. Did she need to remind them that the Iron Lady had won three elections in a row?
Emma rallied enough to dictate a long letter to Margaret, making her views clear, and was astonished to receive an even longer reply by return of post. She wished she was still in Westminster, where she would have roamed the corridors letting her colleagues know exactly what she thought of them.
Although her brain remained sharp, her body continued to deteriorate, and her ability to speak became more restricted with each passing week. However, she never failed to express her joy whenever a member of the family appeared and took their turn to wheel her around the garden.
Little Lucy would chatter away, keeping her great-grandmother up to date on what she’d been doing. She was the one member of the family who didn’t fully understand what was happening, which made their relationship very special.
Jake was now in long trousers and pretending to be very grown-up, while her nephew Freddie, in his first year at Cambridge, was quiet and considerate, and discussed current affairs with Emma as if she was still in high office. She would have liked to live long enough to see him take a seat in the House of Commons, but knew that wouldn’t be possible.
Jessica told her grandmother as she pushed her wheelchair around the garden that her Tree of Life exhibition would be opening soon, and that she still hoped to be shortlisted for the Turner Prize, but added, ‘Don’t hold your breath!’
Sebastian and Samantha drove down to Somerset every weekend, and Seb tried gallantly to remain cheerful whenever he was in his mother’s presence, but he confided to his uncle Giles that he was becoming as anxious about his father as he was his mother. Harry’s running himself into the ground were the words Giles wrote in a letter to his sister Grace that evening.
Giles and Karin spent as much time as they could at the Manor House, and regularly phoned Grace, who was torn between her responsibilities to her pupils and her sister’s well-being. The day school broke up for the summer holidays, she took the first train to Bristol. Giles picked her up at Temple Meads and warned her just how much their sister had deteriorated since she’d last seen her. Grace was well prepared for Emma’s condition, but the shock came when she saw Harry, who had become an old man.
Grace began to nurse them both, but when Giles next visited, she warned him that she didn’t think Emma would see the autumn leaves fall.
The publication of Heads You Win came and went, making no impact on the Cliftons’ daily lives. Harry did not travel to America for his planned eleven-city tour, nor did he visit India to address the Bombay Literary Festival.
During this period, he only went up to London once, not to visit his publisher, or to speak at the Foyle’s literary lunch, but to tell Roger Kirby that he wouldn’t be going ahead with his prostate cancer operation, as he wasn’t willing to be out of commission for any length of time.
The surgeon was sympathetic, but warned, ‘If the cancer escapes from your prostate and spreads to your bowel or liver, your life will be in danger. Tell me, Harry, have you had any sharp pains in your back recently?’
‘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.