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KIP FENN - REFLECTIONS  
by Paul K Lyons

Contents * Previous chapter

Chapter Ten
Alicia, Dying and Centennial Thoughts

'If I am asked to look into the future, which happens all too often (why do people imagine I have a crystal ball in my pocket), I close my eyes and shake my head. It is a comfort to find the darkness, for the future of mankind is far blacker. The 20th century was the blackest in human history, until, that is, the 21st century. I've no doubt that 100 years hence, man will be scratching his head and wondering why, despite being richer, cleverer and nobler than ever before, the 22nd century was the most terror-full and destructive in all history.'
'Please don't ask me about the future' in 'The Tap Dancing Essays' by Crispin Gregory (2086)

'One way of interpreting history is to see Homo sapiens in a constant struggle against his primitive, animal instincts. For the best part of 10,000 years, it has persistently sought to improve itself, through cooperation and civilisation, but until the 19th century, this effort was largely haphazard, guided largely by imagination and guesswork. While some philosophers, preachers and leaders pressed humankind forwards, in what we would now judge as a progressive way, others ­ many others ­ did not. Only with the understanding allowed us by the sciences of evolution, psychology and genetics, for example, can we begin to try and chart a deliberate route towards peace and prosperity for the whole human race.'
'Survival of the Fittest in International Politics ­ Towards a View of Progress ' by Zoe Bergmann (2082)

It is Thursday 3 December 2099. A memorable day, if such a term has any meaning to a man whose life and memory have but two months to go. This morning, my doctor, the gentle but direct Rupert Lipman, apprised me of the results from a sequence of tests carried out in the last few days.

'Fine, Mr Fenn, everything is fine.' He agreed to increase the dosage of some of my pills, in particular those which completely numb the pain in my joints, and those which ensure my neural alertness. (I've hardly written a thing during the last two weeks.) The tests, he said, showed that the increases were fully consistent with my planned death date, and that, with one more increase in four weeks time, I should be able to maintain my current well-being status through to the end of January ­ which is good news. Having completed so much of this manuscript ahead of schedule, and then having slowed down in the last month, I'm anxious to finish soon.

But now, for the first time since signing up for my deathday, I am having doubts about dying.

No sooner had the doctor, his assistant and Chintz all left together (a cheery, friendly word from Chintz would have been welcome), than another nurse came in to ask if I felt strong enough to see an unexpected visitor, one who preferred not to give a name. I expected a journalist or a researcher interested in my old friend Oakley or in the history of the IFSD or possibly in my 100th birthday vis-à-vis the forthcoming centennial. Any such person phoning me here at Willow Calm Lodge is given a number for Jay. Usually, he says I am very ill and cannot see visitors. Occasionally, therefore, those with chutzpah turn up at the Lodge and try their luck. Most of the time, I refuse to see strangers without an appointment, but this morning I felt more carefree than usual (and neglected by Chintz) so let curiosity get the better of me.

The woman who entered was tallish, with a dark-skinned face, light make-up, and long hair pinned back tightly into a pony tail. A chocolate-coloured roll-neck sweater beneath a beige fleece and light brown jeans lent her a stylish but modest appearance. She smiled in a warm, giving way, like a colleague, not a journalist trying to create an instant friendship.

'Visitors usually make an appointment. I only have ten minutes.'

'I would have made an appointment with Jay if you'd not been able to see me now, straightaway.' She spoke English with an amateur fluency and a strong accent, part American part Brazilian. And, then, as she sat down in the chair by the bed in front of me, I noticed how familiar her features appeared.

'Are you from Brazil? Have we met? Are you related to Arturo Magalhães, or his mother Conceição?' She laughed kindly, but sadly, for I could see hesitancy in her eyes and too many frown lines reflecting a life of troubles.

'Yes, yes and yes. For an old man ­ I hope it's not rude to call you old, when I'm old myself ­ you're sharp. I am Alicia. Alicia Magalhães, now Gonçalves. You held my hand once, and I showed you my bedroom. For years I had a camclip, but then I lost it.'

'Alicia. You're Alicia. I have that camclip.' All of a sudden, I was no longer carefree, but taken over by emotion. 'I was looking at it only a few weeks ago. I've been writing my Reflections, an autobiography of sorts ... Do you know that half a century ago, your father ...', I saw the lines on her face involuntarily tighten, and her eyelids flutter, '... Arturo surprised me ...'

'I know, he told me. Which is why I came like this.' She got up and leaned over to kiss me on the cheek. 'Hello Grandfather.'

'Alicia. Alicia. Alicia. I thought you were dead. Everyone ­ even Tina, your sister, who came here in September ­ thought you were dead. You disappeared 20 years ago.'

'I know. It's not true, though. What Arturo told you is not true. But I'll tell you my story. Not now, soon. I'm here for a while. I'll come every second or third day, and we'll talk. Will it be good for you? Now I must tell you one more thing. I have a daughter, Angela, who was 20 last month. She is married to Quasim and they have a son, Renato, six months old and as healthy a baby as you could ever imagine. We're all in Portugal, in Porto, where I live with João Gonçalves ­ not Angela's father. So, Grandfather, you are a great grandfather, and a great great grandfather. Now you see why I call you old.'

Alicia did not stay very long, but promised to return on Saturday when she would tell me more about herself. For the rest of the morning, I felt joy again ­ the first time, I think, since before Lizette fell seriously ill. Although writing these Reflections has taken me on an emotional roller-coaster ride, it has been by proxy only. I was tempted to call for an extra bath, or drift off into a dreamy sleep, one in which Alicia and I might stroll through the gardens, along by a river, hand-in-hand, chatting about old times, family parties, our shared history, as if we had known each other forever. Yet, after my chat with Dr Lipman, I realised I must press on with this writing.

There is little left to tell.

***

It is not only Alicia's arrival that is interfering with my ability to concentrate. The world is going mad with centennial fever. The nurses and doctors talk continually about their own and other people's plans for new year's eve; the media is full of programmes reviewing the century just gone, or previewing the century to come, or advertising centennial programmes; and I'm receiving more email than usual, invites from people I haven't seen or heard of for ten years or from organisations I've long since left behind. I have standard replies so it doesn't take long to deal with them. But the general buzz of excitement is distracting, and it will only get worse as the days tick by to the end of the year (and, 31 days hence, to the end of me).

The coming centennial has led me, as well as everyone else, to reflect on how life has changed during the century. I do not claim my thoughts are original since I've culled most of them from the media. I have no doubt, for example, like many commentators, that for an individual in the rich developed nations life has not changed anywhere as much this century as it did during the last one. (The very reverse might be true ­ i.e. more advances in this century than ever before ­ if one considers scientific understanding, industrial processes, medical techniques etc, but these are beyond my knowledge, and I am only reflecting on daily life for an ordinary person.)

During the 20th century, there were so many major advances. To list but a few: transport (the car and the aeroplane); health (sewage and fresh water systems, electricity, antibiotics, vaccines, organ and joint replacements); communications (the telephone, the internet); the home (central heating, carpets, labour saving kitchen appliances, personal computers); more time and money for leisure pursuits (volleyball, television, holidays, eating out); and the individual's relationship with government (human rights, the vote for all, media freedom). If I take this same sample collection of categories (transport, health, communications, the home, leisure and citizenship) which affect the daily life of an individual such as me in Western Europe, it's not easy to identify any in which there have been changes as fundamental as those experienced by my forefathers.

In transport, the fuels and engines might have changed and the outward appearances may have gone through fashion trends (in the 40s Diana had a Fiat Klimt!; and, currently, Jay has an Archangel Flitter which, frankly, is a triumph of design over function), but we still use cars, buses, trams, trains, metros and aeroplanes. Yes, we learned to plug our cars into cables on returning home from a drive, or to 'fill up' on a journey by plugging in at roadshops, and we became accustomed to planning trips according to toll costs (with monthly toll bills) and to using dashboard congestion busters, yet traffic jams continue to blight our society. Despite commonplace fictional predictions, evident in my childhood, of traffic moving to the skies, there is no real prospect, even today, of a mass aerocar/aerohover transport system (for obvious reasons of safety, cost, fuel consumption, traffic management complexity etc.). But, at least vehicle traffic creates negligible atmospheric pollution and far less noise than in ages past (engines naturally became quieter with the switch over to the hydrogen fuel system, but it took decades for European Union laws to encourage improvements in road surfaces).

In terms of our health and well-being, I'm living proof of many advances. One hundred years ago, I would probably have died in my 80s or 90s; but who knows exactly how many years have been added to my life by better information on diet or by improved medical advice and treatment. Life expectancy certainly crept up during the first four decades of the century, but nowhere near as sharply as it did in the 20th century; then, during the wars and the Grey Years, it slipped back again. I am certain, however, that the quality, as opposed to the quantity, of life for older people, certainly in Western Europe, has improved significantly. If, a century ago, I had lived to 100 I would not have done so in comfort, free of pain, and neurally alert.

Certainly, there have been far-reaching developments in communications during this century (but few would argue they are more significant than the invention of the telephone, radio or television). Large wallscreens were not ubiquitous when I was a child in Surrey and a student in London. Moreover, then there were important limitations on computer memory and speed, and on digital information flow through the net, and these, in particular, restricted the way people accessed sound and moving images. And, although cams, for personal use and surveillance, were becoming more popular, these too were unsophisticated (limited by memory, quality and battery technology) and consequently the cam infrastructure (and the public debate on personal freedom issues) was in its infancy. Our relationship to computers and screens was thus immature at the start of the 21st century, and it took a while for the way we store and access information, of all kinds, and how we relate to screens to become more fluid and natural, more freewheeling. It was not until the 30s-40s that most of us were communicating with screens (using personal or installed computer consoles) to find information, access a film or documentary, or talk to a friend as smoothly as if we were talking to a librarian, a disc store attendant or a neighbour on the front porch. By then, of course, we could transmit and receive across the world (as easily as our forefathers made telephone calls) high quality private broadcasts, camclips or films of any event: a journey, a conference, a family reunion. For the running cost of a highly efficient light bulb, we could Livepicture our lounges or bedrooms with streamed views of Mars, Himalayan pandas, Serengeti giraffes, an Australian termite colony, a Red Sea coral reef, a Bangkok brothel, the latest volcanic eruption, Fifth Avenue or Tiananmen Square pedestrians, views from a friend's lounge or bedroom, Tokyo stock market transactions, abstract art images, and so on. What we do not have today, despite movie-inspired predictions in my youth, is three-dimensional screens. It seems our brains do 3D better and cheaper than any technology can.

In our homes, no change has been more evident than the use of wallscreens, but there have been many other not so spectacular (!) developments. Houses are far more energy efficient than they ever used to be, and I'm sure (no, I'm more than sure, I'm certain, because Lizette told me often enough) the materials for house construction, furbishing and decorating have changed a lot (s-glass is an obvious change, and now z-glass), but not so that you would necessarily notice. Lots of gadgets have come and gone and come again (various heat and recycling units for example). My personal favourite was the bath/shower thermostat that guaranteed a regular water temperature every time without fuss or fiddling. I first experienced them in hotels, but, unless you remained several days, there was no benefit since it took effort to calibrate the controls. I didn't have one in my own home until we moved into the Oldwijkgaarten house. Before then, now I am thinking along these lines, Harriet had a favourite gadget too: the intelligent microwave that reliably cooked according to barcodes. I could also mention the major changes in food packaging (one of Lizette's favourite topics), but I'm already spending too long on this deviation. What we do not have today, again despite 20th century fiction implying we would, is domestic robots. Most regular tasks around the house or garden are too complicated by far, and can be done much more efficiently by humans. Besides, we enjoy many of them; and they can provide welcome relief from sedentary occupations.

After several decades of increasing wealth during the latter part of the 20th century, the developed countries went on getting richer in the first half of the 21st century, and so we had more money and time for leisure. Nevertheless, I don't believe this century has given us anything truly new or important in this area. In the 1990s, the internet had already created international gaming communities, and it was only an extension of this that led to the gaming pubs which I used to frequent (unwillingly) in the 10s and 20s with my buds. Already by the end of the last century there was no corner of the globe left unexplored by intrepid tourists, and there was no action sport or adventure not available to those with the right amount of foolishness and money. As for virtual reality 'trips' into the so-called Matrix world, it soon became clear that very few of us wanted to sit around with goggles on all day, especially when the real world is so exciting as it is.

It is true that movie holidays did not take off until the 20s but they were no more than a repackaging of the kinds of experiences you could buy at adventure complexes (such as Disneyworld, and later Dracula Park, Bride's Galaxy, The Wild West) or on adventure tours (white water rafting, skyscraper climbing and game park trekking come to mind). I remember discussing this fad with Tom once. We had gone to a guzzleshop after seeing Pacciotti's glorious bio-flick Garibaldi. This must have been in the early 30s, for it was not long after our trip to Malta. Tom was so taken with the film and Vincent Mallow's performance (as the Italian hero) that he mused on whether he would be able to buy a Garibaldi holiday. Then he wondered if he would prefer to re-enact being the first real (as opposed to fictional) astronaut on the moon (Neil Armstrong), or the first (fictional) spaceman to encounter extraterrestrial life as in the film Planet Sister. For my part, I confessed that if I were forced to take a movie holiday I would want to be Manuel from the film Trumpet Boy. I said I would choose the scene where, having defeated the evil Reefland dictator, Manuel walks proudly into the main government building to address the country's parliament. Although all the establishment cronies are sniggering and joking, for they expect Manuel to act and talk without maturity, he wins them over with a powerful speech full of traditional ideals and practical suggestions for how to achieve them. A year later, Tom sent me a camclip of himself as Garibaldi (kitted out in red shirt, scabbard and beard ­ which was a shock because I had never seen him with more than two day's stubble) and a band of compatriots apparently engaged in a gun fight along the length of a Palermo back street. An attached note said: 'Didn't fancy having to wear a spacesuit, and, in any case, Fragrance hates all that space stuff.'

Finally, to finish off this digression, the only major innovation in terms of citizenship that springs to mind is the electronic identicard. Although the European Union introduced a standard format for identicards in the 10s (leading to a huge civil rights campaign in Britain and elsewhere), it was not until the late 20s, when faced with chronic and acute immigration problems, rising crime trends and the spasmodic chaos caused by First Tuesday Movement activities, that the Union began to enforce their use. By this time, identicards also had the ability to hold a vast amount of additional private information (medical records, for example, emergency telephones numbers, photos, written/voice signatures, Galileo position coordinates) accessible through most standard consoles via the card-holder's individual access codes. Over time, it has been shown, by research and public acceptance, that carefully-planned and regulated identicards provide, for society as a whole and individuals, far more advantages than disadvantages. Civil liberties may have been breached in many well-publicised cases, but the debate is no longer over whether we should have identicards, but whether one day the United Nations should agree on a basic harmonised (and, obviously, voluntary for the time being) format which could replace passports. Such discussions are part of the ongoing New Century Mandate, agreed at the 95 summit in Geneva (celebrating the UN's 150 year anniversary), which, by further strengthening the UN system, aims to maintain the momentum created during the last quarter century of peace

I must stress that this brief and flawed analysis is only valid from my perspective as a citizen in Holland and England. I understand only too well from a lifetime of business errands to every corner of the world that many of the major innovations and advances in the 20th century, so significant and life-enhancing in the developed countries, did not touch many in the developing world until the 21st century (with many more impoverished, ill and hungry yet to benefit). Thus a Brazilian or Nigerian or Chinese individual the same age as me might believe his world had changed far more during this century than it would have done if he had lived in the previous one.

When I think forward towards the next century, I am full of hope, but it is not a hope that paradise can be found tomorrow if only the right beliefs or policies are pursued. I believe history has shown clearly enough how idealism, whether religious or political, can be so very dangerous if not tempered with realistic expectations and a firm commitment to peaceful, humanitarian and sustainable principles. Nor do I dare hope that war or plague or famine will vanish, for they will not; nor do I hope that all men and women will suddenly take on a Zen-like calm and be more happy, for they will not. No, my simple (and wobbly) hope is based on only two cornerstones: one political and one religious.

The starting point for my hopes is the United Nations. Despite, or because of, the Jihad Wars it is far stronger today than it was 100 years ago. It has its own army with the authority to intervene in sovereign states in a few well-defined circumstances; a plethora of powerful and improving institutions which effectively redistribute five or six times as much wealth as they did in the late 20th century; a rudimentary justice system that may well be able, in the near future, to regulate aid, competition, trade and environmental issues fairly and effectively; and well-equipped and funded emergency response teams to deal with sudden disasters. Moreover, the New Century Mandate appears to demonstrate that all the fine words from the world's major regional groupings about further strengthening the UN will be translated into action ­ eventually.

The other foundation for my hopes is the Church of Moral Atheism. I would not have said this in the mid-80s when I retired, and when the Church was largely confined to the Notek and other alternative communities. But since then it has swept through Europe and the Far East, attracting millions of adherents, many of them writers, artists and intellectuals. Catholic and Muslim religious fervour is as strong today in parts of the world as it was prior to the First Jihad War, but now that non-religious social and political intellectual leaders have an alternative (apart from sport and celebrity-worship) to offer those needing religious-type passion or wanting religious-type guidance, it is possible to believe that the Church of Moral Atheism might forge a new way for man to mould his faiths and hopes.

I am in danger of preaching, which is certainly not in my nature.

***

Jay is in excellent spirits. All is well in his relationship with Vince. There were reasons, personal to Vince which I shall not go into, which led him astray. It is possible, Jay says, they may 'reaffirm' their marriage vows next year, on the tenth anniversary of their wedding. Normally, Jay is careful not to talk about the future, and especially not 'next year'. I wouldn't mind, but he thinks it would be tactless. On this occasion, though, his enthusiasm got the better of him, so I was tactful and did not say 'I'm sorry, I won't be able to come'. If I had, he would not have taken it as an offhand quip, a joke, a way of dissipating the ever-present tension about my death date. Instead he would have apologised ­ three times.

During his visit this morning, he cleared up the Chintz mystery. One of the other nurses, whom he chats to now and then, told him Chintz has a strict policy with patients who have signed up for a deathday: exactly three months before the day, she closes up, shuts herself off emotionally. It's the only way she can cope, or so her colleague told Jay.

As I've already commented, there is not much left to say about my own life. Lizette went through a tough period in the mid-80s. It began with a work row, in 83, over plans for one specific area of future research efforts. The department head, Sidney Jensen, had taken a neutral stance, leaving Lizette in dispute with Olive Norrington. One Sunday, Olive and her partner Marcella (a senior lecturer in psychology, and named, I presume, after the movie heroine) had come for lunch at Taunton House. It was already late in the afternoon, and we had all been drinking. I was showing Marcella some 19th century photographs through Portia, when an explosive argument between Lizette and Olive erupted in the other room. It stopped abruptly. Olive shouted through the house to Marcella that she was leaving, and we heard the front door slam. Marcella collected her things, apologised, and raced off after her friend. This argument, or whatever had caused it, left Lizette moody for weeks, but she would not talk about it. By the end of the year, Lizette had begun to consider leaving Surrey University. In the spring she told me there was a job vacancy at her old college, the Farnborough Science University which, having closed during the Grey Years, was up and running again. It would mean, she said, the end of her research career but a comfortable few years stoking her retirement funds. She also, finally, explained a few details about the departmental row, admitting that Olive had been in the right all along. In May 84, Lizette informed me she would be starting at Farnborough in October. This was not a moment too soon, since Sydney was about to retire as head of the department at Surrey University, and Olive would be taking over.

I semi-retired from my duties at The Josephine Collection immediately after the launch of Portia, in February 86, and then fully retired in December the same year. The staff organised a party at Farmer King's, a newly opened zini bar in the next street, to which both Jay and Lizette came. I was fêted with presents and mini-speeches. The night before, at a private supper in her apartment, Josephine had given me the most astonishing gift: an original Marc Ferrez photograph of Copacabana beach, wild and undeveloped. It was housed in a Perfect Frame, meaning I could hang it on a wall without having to worry about damage from light, humidity or heat conditions. It must have cost her well over ten thousand euros. When I tried to express my thanks, Josephine dismissed them saying the gift was only 'a very small token' of her gratitude for my contribution to the Project. I put it in a prominent position on a wall in the office at Taunton House (replacing an over-sized reproduction of Le Gray's Garibaldi which moved into storage).

The following year, 87, was the year the world held its breath, as it were, while the caldera in Yellowstone Park, United States, growled more loudly than it had ever done before. It was also the year Great Britain won the football World Cup for the first time in more than 100 years (alas I'm still waiting for GB to win any volleyball cup), and our neighbour, Sami, smashed the international record for a marrow size. According to Guinness World Records, the heaviest marrow was 55.1 kilograms, and Sami's was over 56 kilograms. I had been invited to inspect his specimens in early September, while the vegetables were still growing. He rattled off a list of weights and sizes, which I thought were village records. When he tucked a special set of scales under the largest of his marrows, and confided a dream that he might beat the world record, I thought he'd gone loopy. A few weeks later, the very same specimen hit the headlines. Journalists began arriving in their hoards, parking their strange vehicles in our lane, and coming to us and other near neighbours for additional comments and colour. Iona pranced around the village as if she were a queen, and, no doubt, dreamed Sami's marrow would give her more than 15 minutes of fame. Lizette, who had never liked the woman but tolerated her because I was Sami's patient (he was treating rheumatoid arthritis in other parts of my body by this time), began to loathe her. Fortunately, their brief celebrity status left Sami and Iona with such a long list of potential dinner party acquaintances that we were no longer in demand. By 89, they had moved, to a bigger house in socially-upmarket Hambledon.

My life during the later years of the decade ­ it seems like yesterday ­ was not only happy (apart from the deaths of friends) but peaceful. The happiness came from being with Lizette. Our partnership, nearly 20 years old by this time, was a rich one, full of enjoyment in each other's company and many shared pleasures (not least 'affection, tenderness and other pleasant things'). Lizette did have a sporadic tendency towards depression, and could be demanding at times, yet I never sensed or believed these difficulties were caused by me. Indeed, the reverse was true. She made it seem as though I helped her through the bad times, that I was a rock onto which she clung temporarily during the storms. In consequence, I always felt wanted, needed, loved.

And the peacefulness came from the fact, I suppose, that I did adjust to a routine without deadlines or meetings or responsibilities, my tenure with Josephine having served well to ease me into full retirement. Not that my involvement with The Josephine Collection terminated the day of my retirement. As an unpaid non-executive director, I sat on one of the advisory boards, which convened every quarter. Moreover, at Josephine's initiative, she and I met once a month for lunch. Less often, I saw others from the museum, usually Giselle or Belinda (who had become a highly competent administrator). In addition, there were certain photo-world individuals ­ Arnold Cowerbridge for one, and Max Voll for another ­ who considered me a friend and, when in London, would invite me for a meal or to join them at a gallery or auction.

I visited Jude Singleton, who had reluctantly entered a sunset hospice (not dissimilar to this one), and had opted for a medical regime leading to a deathday 18 months hence. But I think she made a mistake in telling everyone, for it made contact with her near the end awkward. I found saying goodbye on my last visit a very unnerving experience: I could not find the words, emotions, or actions to equal the occasion. One day, perhaps, when our society has become more comfortable with the notion of death, those of us with planned death dates will be able to have our parties before lights out, not after.

At Taunton House, we continued to receive guests regularly. Jay, who had taken a job teaching in London, visited fortnightly, sometimes with a friend; and during school holidays would stay for several days at a time. I enjoyed having him around (especially when Lizette was at work), he was helpful and companionable. Already by this stage he had begun to take on a paternal role with me, worrying about my health and prompting me to do more exercise or to try a newly marketed Chinese remedy for arthritis. He was less comfortable with his mother who, on occasions, would still let loose flurries of criticism (much as she had done on her husband Clint during their marriage ­ she confessed this once). They originated not so much out of disappointment with him, I came to understand, but out of a deep-seated inability to let herself accept the situation, because it would be wrong to do so. From what I learned about Mervyn Sanderson, her Pa, I suspect this tendency came from him through a combination of genes and the domestic environment which he dominated.

And now from preaching I've moved on to psychoanalysis, which suits my writing disposition no better.

Horace continued to stop over on his way back to Southampton. Tim had died in 84, leaving Horace devastated, uncared for and lonely. He appeared to lose all of his ebullience over night, as if he had been waiting for an excuse not to go on performing; and, at the same time, he developed a form of senile dementia. A doctor took nine months to find adequate medication. He became maudlin too, and would hark back to his youth and our days at Witley Academic. Then, in 86, urged on by his publisher, he completed a second book. It was published under the title Uncommon Times and promoted as 'a companion volume' to Reflections of a Political Lightweight; but it revealed nothing different or new. Consequently, the media ignored it, and this vexed Horace more than the meagre sales that followed. He hired a driver/assistant at his own expense and went on a gruelling book signing tour. Less than halfway through, at a lit-arcade in Exeter, he was seated at a table with his books piled high, waiting for customers, when a stroke saved him from any further embarrassment. He died the same day. His body was brought back to Southampton. One of Tim's children who lived not too far away and suffered his uncle better than others, organised the funeral. Horace would have been disappointed at the turnout. Too many of his friends had already died, and, others, especially those in the Progressive Party and other Conservative Alliance parties, had been alienated by his scandal-rich autobiography. I couldn't help wishing he had made it to 50 years as an MP, for the achievement might have given the media more to focus on in their obituaries than the secret affair with Terrance Spoon.

Our other guests at Taunton House were mostly Lizette's family and friends. Mercurio kept up his annual ritual, although age forced him to relinquish the bicycle for a car ('the scourge of post-Victorian man') adapted to Notek standards. Samuel and Lynn visited too. Gratifyingly, they often talked about how much they had enjoyed the experience in Peru. If they had been any younger, they both said, they might have taken another contract. We also saw Irene Sanderson, Lizette's niece, for she lived in south London, and would drop in to visit before or after an ice skating excursion to the sports complex in Guildford. She was curious about our interests, following Lizette into the garden to ask questions about the fuchsia varieties, or browsing with me through old photographs on Neil. When Lizette and I began taking mini-tours, she was full of advice: beforehand, on what to look out for; and, afterwards, on what we had missed. We never saw Saul and his family, or Mahonia, who had married an architect, given birth to twins and moved to the Shetland Islands.

Nor did we have any contact with Esos, although Mercurio kept us informed of his news. He moved for a while to a Notek community in Denmark, but, after three years, returned to Pembrokeshire. He is still there, at Stackpole Haven, with his father. Yewla showed up a couple of times at Taunton House, once when Mercurio was there; they argued the whole time. He hated that she had left the community and that she was happy working in the real world, for a company which made children's broadcast programmes. However, they must have patched up their relationship for, when the two of them came here to Willow Calm Lodge some months ago, they demonstrated a good rapport. (Having brought me a beautiful bunch of lemon yellow roses and sunset gladioli, however, they did have one argument ­ I couldn't tell whether it was testy or tongue-in-cheek ­ about the glittery vase on the windowsill: Yewla loved it, Mercurio hated it. I didn't dare tell them why it was there. Although much in tune with the bright and tacky end-of-the-century fashion, I think it's a ghastly thing in itself, forever trying to upstage the flowers that it holds, sometimes succeeding, sometimes not, yet how can I help but love it.) Mercurio looked very weathered, but retained an impish look around the eyes. Yewla was pregnant, visibly so, and, therefore, must have been with child already when she visited with Irene a couple of months previously.

As for Lizette's friends, I would say we saw Rhoda too often. She had retired, but rather than taking retirement as an opportunity to slow down, she speeded up. She was one of these middle-aged women who dress up and make up as though they were 40 not 60, and who not only delay the onset of the menopause with pills but deny it forever with self-psychology. She was always on the move, searching for a new man. I've no idea why she thought she would find one at Taunton House. Jay said she was a typical Maysie (middle-aged young, single, independent and exciting). By contrast we did not see Pete and Clarity often enough. By the mid-80s, Pete's health was poor. Since he refused to travel, and Clarity would not leave him on his own, Lizette and I made the trip north once a year, usually in the summer.

In the late 80s I lost Peter de Roo and his wife Livia. Livia went first, in 89. I travelled to near Leiden for the funeral, sad at Livia's death, but looking forward to seeing Peter. But he was a shadow of his former self, with grey skin, and a rake-thin and stooped body. Rudy played a beautiful tune on his sax ­ apparently Livia's favourite ­ at the funeral, and Ulla spoke some words I could not hear for her sobbing. Four months later, I returned for Peter's funeral, which was less depressing, probably because Guido was there. After the funeral, we spent a nostalgic evening with Rudy and Ulla and a few others at Rudy's house in Amsterdam. The next day, Guido and I together went to the old Oostlander family house in Utrecht to visit Dominique and Waltar, who were relatively fit and active (still are, I hope), to catch up on their news and the progress of their children. I hoped Guido would return with me to England for a few days, but he was obliged to fly straight back to Quito.

The peace of my retirement years was regularly punctuated by bad news. Barely a month went by without my finding an obituary of someone I knew. I became so accustomed to the idea of past friends and acquaintances dying that I regularly checked two obituary netsites, one dedicated to United Nations staff and the other focused on international politicians. The names and biographies triggered memories, and led me into reflecting back over my working life in a way I had not done before. Otherwise, I continued to play bowls in Tilford, once a week usually, but never very well. I became friendly with a handful of other players, and would stroll home with one or another of them for a drink and a chat. I continued trying to work my way through a teach-yourself bridge course. I would sit in front of the screen and play demonstration hands with three very attractive photo-constructed young ladies (I could choose from hundreds of composites), and the games would proceed as slowly or as fast as I wished. At any time I could stop the game, ask for hints or explanations; or I could instruct the screen to intervene whenever I played below a certain standard. I could even set one of a dozen styles of cross-table banter (which had a higher humour content than I ever encountered playing bridge for real). But learning was a pain: I could never recall what cards had been played and, however odd it might sound to others (and to Lizette), whenever I made a mistake, I could hear my father Tom calling me a 'stupid idiot' as clearly as if he were one of the players onscreen.

While Lizette continued to work, my life was relatively quiet. Somewhat whimsically, I called this period my yoga and yeast years. Jay teased me, saying if I lived any longer I'd turn into a Notek. The idea irritated Lizette, which may have been Jay's objective, but I found it intriguing, flattering almost, as though there were more to my personality than I had realised.

I had Sami to thank for the yoga. He suggested I take up the discipline soon after installing my new ankle, but I ignored his advice. Then, as the arthritis progressed, he urged me further to consider yoga as a natural way of keeping my joints as supple as possible for as long as possible. With the right commitment (up to ten minutes every day permanently), he said, I might need less pills to control the pain and keep me mobile. He directed me to a tailor-made course of exercises (onscreen, and demonstrated by an elderly man, not unlike me, with movements restricted in the same way as my own). Daily practice was laborious initially but, after about three months, the exercises had become as much part of my daily routine as breakfast, watching the news, or preparing a pot of Ceylon tea for Lizette on her return from work.

And I had Jay to thank for teaching me how to make bread, a skill he picked up in Cumbria, and for finding a shop nearby which sold fresh yeast, without which the process would not have been so satisfying. I liked that I could conjure up breakfast baps or olive bread with very little cost in terms of time or money; and, besides, kneading dough was good exercise for my fingers. Apart from the trips to London, the visitors, the bowls, the yoga and the yeast, and the onscreen auctions, there was plenty to read (I was partial to biographies), and I spent a fair amount of time listening to and extending my classical music collection. I also became attached to Alan's clinic in Bangladesh. As a significant donor, I was sent regular reports on its activities and budgets; and the administrative staff were friendly and forthcoming whenever I called by camphone.

***

Alicia has now met up with both Jay and Guido; and, Mireille and Guido have spent time with Jay and Vince. They all get on, or so they say, and intend to stay in touch. Mireille and Guido are coming tomorrow for the last time. Alicia visited a couple of days ago and told me more of her story. She grew up at Arturo's ranch in Goiânia, accepting that her natural mother, Edna, had died during childbirth, and loving first Luz and then Fatima as her own mother. But as brothers and sisters came along, Ignacio, Juliano and then Tina, her own position in the family became more tense: Arturo seemed to be permanently angry with her, and Fatima was too weak not to be prejudiced towards her own children. Alicia, like 'Cinderella' (her own description), was given far less spending money than her siblings, she was taken fewer places, and was given endless chores. At 14 she ran away, to Rio, and became a night club prostitute. By avoiding the drugs trap and being lucky with friends (including a man called Rodrigo whom she called Sao Rodrigo ­ 'without him I would have been washed away in the Rio sewers'), she gravitated towards the safer and more lucrative call girl scene. At the age of 17, she decided to make a journey home. It took a while to find her family because they had moved to São Paulo (this was about three years before Lizette and I went to South America). On day one she was welcomed as 'a prodigal daughter'. On day two, though, she had a violent argument with her father. A fish tank got broken, and she stamped on one of the fish floundering in a puddle on the marble floor. Arturo lost his temper and told Alicia the truth: she was a clone, and Edna was nobody, just a girl he had married for fun, who died from a drug overdose.

The news devastated Alicia. Immediately, she ran away again, back to Rio where not even Sao Rodrigo could comfort her. She felt 'worthless', like a 'freak', like 'nothing at all'. She told me she had known a few clones in Rio and they had all been 'messed up, more messed up than everyone else', and some had died very young. As a child she had seen documentaries about the terrible things that had happened to children cloned in Brazil (especially female clones from a male parent), and, although she saw other films and read books that showed how most clones were healthy, she gave more credence to the bad stories than the good. She decided to run further away, to Los Angeles. There she hitched up with a charity group ostensibly aimed at helping cloned individuals integrate themselves into society. This particular organisation attracted her and other foreigners because it offered not only clone counselling but help with work and residency permits. Alicia got sucked in for a while, until she realised it was a clearing house for slaves. All the instruction and help came with a persistent message: you are nothing, therefore expect nothing but be grateful for any mercies. After six weeks, she was offered a poorly-paid job as a domestic servant in the household of a rich Mexican family in Baja California, 300 kilometres from Los Angeles. She was pressed to sign a contract which committed her to the job for five years. She refused. The organisation threw her onto the street. She went back into prostitution, this time with as many chemicals in her blood system as she could get her hands on. More and more she came to believe all the clonist media hype, and expected to die at any time, from a defective organ, a failure to resist a virus, or from an overdose (because she was not psychologically strong enough to be alive).

While Alicia sat by the bed telling me this story, she appeared to grow more calm and self-confident. It was as though she was not telling me about herself, but about someone who had been in her care, someone she had cared for and guided to safety. Some of the time, when she was talking or responding to my questions, she took hold of my hand, as if it were me she were trying to lead to untroubled waters. She has promised to come again in two days time.

Tomorrow is the day I must say goodbye to Mireille and Guido. They do not know about my deathday. Outside of this hospice, only Jay knows I have scheduled my death. It was distressing enough to decide on a definite limit to my own lifetime, but then I had to make a decision about who to tell and who not to tell. My overriding aim was, and is, to give friends and family the minimum amount of sorrow, both before and after my death. To begin with, I considered whether I should tell Jay. After Lizette's departure he became my closest friend, and then my carer. I honestly did not believe his behaviour towards me would alter in any significant way if I told him. Indeed, having made up my own mind and before finally signing the papers, I discussed the idea with him in some detail. He objected vehemently (as any loving son would) using practical and emotional arguments, not least that such a course would be unfair to those who loved me. But anyone who loved me, I responded (trying to match Jay's tone) would respect my decision. It boils down to quantity versus quality, I concluded. I'd prefer to enjoy the days and weeks left to me than have extra time just to be a spectator at my own mental decay show. In time, he accepted my decision, albeit grudgingly and under pressure (as any loving son would). I am sure this was the right approach with Jay. He may have become slightly more over-attentive and condescending, especially as time is now running out, but, if I hadn't told him, he would have been very deeply hurt afterwards.

With Guido, my closest relative apart from Jay and my only living natural son, it is not the same. He may be pained when he discovers my deception, and then feel guilt at not having found more time to spend with me in recent years. But I am planning to speak to him by camphone on 30 or 31 January, and then, within an hour of my death, he will receive a letter. I have already written this letter, and Jay will organise its courier delivery. If I should die prematurely, then Jay will act accordingly. In any case, Guido will know from these Reflections that I believed it for the best to act in this way. It would have been an excruciating experience to have him, with or without Mireille, here for days or weeks prior to the end ­ excruciating for him and for me. We have been apart too long, and there is no easy rapport between us (as there was a long time ago when we worked together on Ginquin) which would see us through the anti-drama of hours and minutes ticking away towards the final moment, the moment when I let the paradise poison-soaked disc of rice-paper melt slowly on my tongue.

Having sorted out my own mind with regard to Guido, it was clear that I would not tell anyone else either. But that was before Alicia. Such is my sudden and deep affection for her, and her apparent affection for me, we are as father and daughter, once estranged and now together.

***

This last chapter, these last few pages, seem to be transforming themselves into a kind of diary which is definitely not my intention. Perhaps I am losing my ability to concentrate, or perhaps I simply do not have much to say about these final years of my life.

Guido and Mireille, who departed yesterday, gave me all the news from Paris, mostly about the Rocard family (several distant relations of Mireille have become famous or infamous), but also about Guido's relations on Diana's side and his friend Rudy. They described their own plans for a centennial eve theatrical extravaganza in Plaza Chica, Quito, which they are to host, and which is to be given a major live broadcast. Guido promised to email me the relevant net details and times, and I promised to tune in; and when he went out to the loo, Mireille whispered (to imply she was telling me a confidence) that Guido was secretly planning to deliver, live on air, a special message for me close to midnight Ecuador time. There are not many presents you can give a 100 year old man who has no possessions other than those stored and waiting to be distributed to his heirs (in a room at Jay's house), and who rarely leaves his bed ­ but that might be one.

When Guido and Mireille walked out of the room, both of them smiled. They were confident of seeing me again ­ which is for the best. I felt sad, very sad for a few minutes, and then, astonishingly, I caught myself thinking of Alicia, and feeling happy again. This fickleness of human nature, in others and in me, never ceases to amaze.

Alicia, who came this morning, continued her story as follows. In 77, she fell pregnant and aborted the foetus without a second thought. But, thereafter, she could not stop wondering about being fertile. It gave her a fresh perspective on herself, one which included, for the first time in years, a sliver of pride. She began to believe that if she could give birth to a normal child, she could be normal herself. She weaned herself off the drugs, and chose her clients more carefully. And then, when the time was right, deliberately avoided contraception with one handsome regular client. When a pregnancy was confirmed, she packed her bags and flew to Lisbon to start a new life. Since she had managed to stay in the United States for over two years on the back of a month's visa, she hoped Portugal would pose no problem. And it didn't. Within weeks she had found a man, João, a carpenter, who wanted to marry, despite her condition.

When I nodded slightly, Alicia stopped and asked me why. I began to explain about how Lizette was already pregnant with Jay when we fell in love. But, having talked at length with Jay, Alicia already knew this.

'I'd like it to be the same, but it's not is it? I was desperate and I cheated my way into João's heart before telling him the truth. I had too many tricks. With you and Lizette it was different, no? An accident of fate? I was not an accident of fate, and nor was Angela.'

'But João didn't mind. You are together still, so the marriage must have worked.'

'I owed him too much. It had to work. I could never want anything different. Yes, I love him and he loves me. It was not easy. I thought Angela would be the end of my problems, and I would feel good again, as I did when I was a girl. I planned to go back to Brazil for a holiday with João and Angela, but I couldn't. I hated Arturo too much. I told myself, over and over, I'm normal, I'm normal. And then I discovered I was afraid again. This time not for me, but Angela. She wasn't a healthy baby and I kept thinking it was my fault. One day I was worried about her heart, the next about her liver, and then about her brain. I was ­ what do you say ­ a hypochondriac about her. João wanted a child of his own. I wanted one too ­ at first. But then this fear came, and I couldn't do it, I couldn't have another one. My unhappy João. He took me to doctors, and persuaded me to join another organisation to help clones, a proper one this time, but I couldn't change what was in my head.' She paused here. During our previous encounters she had looked at me hesitantly, but now she gazed at me intently as if trying to discover who was behind my eyes. It was such a strange moment, I don't think any girl ­ Popsicle comes to mind ­ had done this to me since my student days.

Feeling abashed, I broke the silence: 'You'd been through such a lot, it's not hard to understand.'

'It wasn't only that I was a clone, but how I'd lived, what I'd done.'

I could think of nothing to say, so we sat there silently for a few moments. Then, all of a sudden, she flicked to life, with a warm happy smile filling her face. She told me about her life with João and Angela, about how she trained to become a tour guide for American tourists (travelling up and down the Douro river twice a week, and spending more time in port wine lodges than with her husband), and how João became an artisan earning good money from making tables and desks to order. Angela filled out as a teenager, became healthier, grew taller than both Alicia herself and João, went to university, fell in love and gave birth to Renato.

'I never wanted her to get serious with a guy so quickly. I never pressed her to marry or have children. I didn't push my troubles onto her; she understood about my background, but not about the fears in my head. She went that way. She's an apple pie girl ­ not complicated. She cooks and shops and goes to the beach. She finished university with a degree in business, and was working in a big store. Now she'll go back in six months, when Renato's one year old.'

At this point, Alicia used my screen to access her private memory store so as to show me a collection of camclips and camstills of her family. When she pointed out Angela's husband, Quasim, I asked what he did for a living.

'Quasim. He's lovely. His parents are Moroccan. They run a large fruit and vegetable import company. Quasim works there part-time, but he's studying to be a town traffic planner. In one year, he'll be qualified. It is a good profession, it pays well, but if he gets a job, it might be a long way from Porto. We'll see.'

'Won't you mind?'

'Yes, of course, but things are changing for me too. My fear has gone. It's why I am here. After Renato was born, I went back to Brazil. With João. We tracked down my brothers and sisters, and this is how I found you. Tina had only just returned from London. This is not all. I have one more thing to tell you.' She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek, then took hold of my hand and said: 'I'm pregnant myself ­ nearly three months ­ with a boy.'

'Oh, how wonderful.' I am not very good at communicating on an emotional level, but I felt elated. 'João must be a very happy man.'

'He is. We are. And you know what's so strange? It happened in Brazil.'

A nurse interrupted us to make a routine check on my monitoring equipment, to remind me to take my pills (which I had forgotten), and to forewarn me that my lunch tray ­ salmon trifle and spinach wafers ­ was waiting.

'I should go,' Alicia said, 'I will check times with Jay and be back tomorrow or the day after.'

'I'll look forward to it.'

'It's good news, my Grandad, is it not? By July, you'll have another great grandchild. A boy. I'll bring him to see you, in September or October, I promise.'

***

Lizette retired from her academic career in July 90. The Farnborough University gave a splendid party, to which several of her past Surrey University colleagues were also invited. Sydney Jensen was there with a strange-looking woman who Lizette said was his sister. He had recently published a book on the history of the use of plastic materials in the transport industry (we had a copy in the house). Olive and Marcella were there too. Despite not having seen them for several years, we fell easily into a friendly banter, which, on this occasion focused on the writer Gregory. He had died a few months earlier, and the publicity had led me to seek out some of his books. Marcella hated him and his ideas. She called them pop psycho-history, and claimed they were nothing more than a concoction of bubbles and sugar.

There were plenty of young people there too, and it felt good to hear from them that Lizette had been a fine teacher and popular. One of her colleagues, an overweight middle-age woman called Jane, who had been at the university ever since Lizette first worked there (having been laid off when it closed and then re-employed), was half-glossy and outspoken. She said this to me: 'I don't know why she ever went back to research, she is such a talented teacher.' On the way home, when I enquired about her, I discovered Jane was none other than Lizette's bête noire, the most troublesome person in her department, the one she referred to as 'Findzinski' or 'that Findzinski woman'. So then I quoted what she'd said, about Lizette being a 'talented teacher'. It was part of a pattern in our behaviour: she over-impressed by science and scientific discovery and undervaluing the job of teaching, and me arguing that education was as useful to society as science, if not more so. I thought I had partly won this battle when she went back to Farnborough, yet she could never rid herself of the idea that teaching was a job of secondary importance. I wish she had known my mother, Julie or, better yet, my grandmother Eileen.

Lizette planned to pursue several interests in her retirement, all of which involved me. I did suggest she might want to try wearing whites and playing bowls, but I never had as much success in persuading Lizette to share my interests as she did in coaxing me to share hers. There was the garden. We did a lot of digging, planting, potting, mulching, weeding; we browsed books (many of them from the 20th century ­ Lizette had a special fondness for Graham Stuart Thomas) and netsites; and we made regular expeditions to the Royal Horticultural Society gardens at Wisley.

There was also the bridge. Lizette had always been an aficionado. It was a family pastime, and we played when together with Samuel and his wife; Mercurio too enjoyed a game. In Brussels, Lizette had indulged twice a week. When we moved to Taunton House, she played only occasionally with friends, until, that is, she switched to Surrey University where she found a thriving bridge club. Once every few months, I was taken along for a 'social'. Then, with a playing partner, she joined the larger and more serious Guildford Bridge Club and rarely missed a Thursday evening session, when competitions were played. I was rarely required. In retirement, though, she decided that she wanted to spend more time at the club, and so every Tuesday afternoon she and I played together informally against other mixed ability couples. It was fun, at times. We met some interesting and some not so interesting people. This is where Lizette began to employ me as a social crutch ­ I don't know how else to put it. She had always been proud of my achievements, particularly my career at the IFSD. To my knowledge, though, she had never boasted about me to friends or acquaintances, as she began to do at the bridge club during those Tuesday afternoon sessions.

Lizette's other burning interest was to visit parts of Europe she had never seen. Thus, for about three years, we embarked on a series of expensive, comfortable and well-organised mini-tours, lasting no more than three or four days each. Among other places, we visited Bergen, Corfu, Helsinki, Kiev, Linz, Porto, Rome and Zagreb, most of which I'd been to on business but not as a tourist. Some of our trips were arranged to coincide with bridge conventions. Lizette's playing partner (a woman called Carla Rawlins) would travel separately. While Lizette played with her in the formal tournaments, I would either watch or take in a few historical or cultural sights alone. On these trips, whether purely for tourism or for bridge, we met many people, and Lizette's incessant need to brag about me became a constant pain.

It was an incremental process. In the beginning, Lizette would use the chit-chat sessions at the bridge club to explain that I had been not only 'a UN official', which was how I described my past career to strangers, but a 'very important UN official'. I guessed she was trying to make up for my inadequate card play, about which I felt, if not guilty, then censurable. Within a few months, though, she had progressed to introducing me as if I was the most important UN official on the planet (never mind that I had retired 20 years earlier and that I had failed at director-general level). If this did not impress, she would move on to elaborate other achievements of mine, by mentioning REACH or The Josephine Collection. I began to worry there might be more to her behaviour than a crude attempt to compensate for my bridge skills. I wondered, for example, if she was embarrassed by my age. I thought to broach the subject with her but cowardice prevailed: I was painfully aware that, over the years, she and I both had often derided our ex-neighbour Iona, Sami's wife, for precisely the same kind of self-aggrandisement talk.

About 18 months after Lizette's retirement, Jay saved me, us, from this ridiculous predicament. I confided in him about my growing discomfort in going places with Lizette. Speculatively, he suggested that the behaviour trait might be connected with her depression. I had not detected any unusual symptoms of depression, nor had she mentioned any. A different person might have quizzed his son for more details, but I was reluctant to admit my ignorance, a habit acquired from too many years in meetings and negotiations. I did ask Jay if he might be able to persuade Lizette to see a doctor or psycho-counsellor. She didn't trust his opinions on anything, he commented, but he promised to try. One weekend, and without any apparent immediate cause, Lizette announced she had been feeling depressed and had booked an appointment with her local doctor, for whom she had much respect. When I probed gently, she refused to discuss the subject any further.

A week later, in the afternoon, Lizette came into the lounge where I was snoozing on the long sofa, with the Sony Reader I had bought her for Christmas on my lap. (Incidentally, I had always disliked reading on portable screens, such as the early Book-Mates and Palimpsests, and the later Shelfmans, Noveleases and Readers. I suppose it was because I had been brought up with hardback books and paperbacks. I was certainly at one with the Noteks on this. But I had to admit, at the time, that the new Reader was a pleasure to use, especially its soft leather mulberry exterior, and the smooth operation of the thin film page, that felt like parchment, and allowed one actually to turn a page giving the all-important sense of a book. Also, with my eye/spectacle combination losing tone and definition, it was more convenient to read larger type which the Reader does so well; and, I do admit, I did find it pleasurable to drift off to sleep in the afternoon with the Reader's dulcet tones reciting some Kolin Delvreux, Unwin Johns, John Betjeman or Walt Whitman.) She woke me gently, teased me about using the Reader, sat down by my side, snuggled up to my shoulder, all soft and giving, and curled her arm through mine.

'Have I been a pain?' I shrugged my shoulders. 'It's like I've been charging around through a fog trying to find something, or get somewhere. It's hard to explain. But I can think clearer now. The doctor gave me Chalaminth, only a mild dose for three months. It's working. She said my odd bouts of depression might have been caused by retirement. I had no idea. Did you notice?'

'I didn't know you were depressed, you never said.'

'No, I didn't really know.'

'You mentioned it to Jay.'

'Did I? How have I been difficult?' I could sense her thought processes working. 'How have I been difficult? Why didn't you tell me? You sod.' She mock punched me and I evaded the questions.

Chalaminth was the latest wonder drug, first released in the 80s. I do not pretend to understand how these medicines work, but, because of this one, Lizette developed the self-confidence to reflect on her own behaviour and feelings, and to talk them over with me. At the root of the problem ­ she worked out ­ was the fact that she had staked too much of her sense of self and worth as an individual on her work and career. Thus, on retiring suddenly from a near full-time post to nothing, she had become insecure and vulnerable and sought to cover over such feelings with activity. Having acknowledged the problem, and faced up to it, Lizette slid off the Chalaminth more quickly than her doctor advised. She said she felt much better, more alive, more conscious than she had for months. And, because she became less determinedly busy and less manic, our journeys abroad were more widely spaced, I was hauled off to play bridge less often, and our social intercourse with friends and strangers alike returned to a more measured rhythm. For about two years, we continued our pleasurable jaunts to Europe. Then, in 94 Lizette had a horrible fall. We were walking through the botanical garden in Monte Carlo when she fell and broke her left hip. The emergency services were excellent, given the awkwardness of our location, but then we faced tedious administrative delays and other difficulties in organising the flight home. By the time Lizette had recovered from her operation and a new joint, she had lost all enthusiasm for further travel.

As I hope I've indicated, Jay remained an important part of my life, a regular visitor to Taunton House. The tension between him and Lizette invariably present to one degree or another until this time, had ebbed and flowed in response to Lizette's moods or Jay's life choices. There was a tense period after he chose to study teaching, and another when he opted for a secondary school post in Ealing, London, teaching pure geography (Lizette wanted him to teach one of the sciences), and yet another when he announced, in October 90, that he was going to marry Vince Wells, the advertising designer friend we had met several times. Lizette had accepted Jay's homosexuality better than she had done his teaching career, but she did not condone the idea of gay weddings in general, let alone her son going through with one. Jay claimed then, and still does today, that he wanted to marry Vince out of love, and scorns the idea that he wanted to spite his mother. He knows, however, that I suspect there was an element of filial revolt. Fortunately, Jay and Vince chose to indulge in one of those expensive wedding holidays, to the island of Bermuda, over Christmas that year, thus allowing Lizette to ignore the whole episode. In Jay's defence, I would say he has taken the marriage seriously, and it has lasted longer than many orthodox heterosexual marriages.

Things between Jay and Lizette remained tense and complicated after her retirement more or less until she went on the Chalaminth. Thereafter, we all got on surprisingly well. And then, after Lizette's accident, Jay began to recognise that Lizette had become old and fragile, and that, like me, she required more help and support. In 95, Jay won a much sought-after head-of-department position at a well-respected school in Highgate, in north London. It was only a small department, teaching sustainable balance, with three other staff, but Jay was so enthusiastic about the job even Lizette was full of congratulations. Today, Jay has five staff, and expects to be considered for deputy headmaster within a couple of years. He'll make it. Vince, too, changed jobs in the mid-90s, from advertising (the excitement of which had worn off) to product design; and the two of them bought a pretty Victorian terraced house in Muswell Hill. It had three bedrooms, a backyard and a permanent parking permit. As a house-warming present, Lizette took them six fuchsia plants, ones she had nurtured from cuttings and planted up in attractive glazed Spanish pots. She arranged them on the concrete steps at the back of the yard along a high wall, and she organised (and paid for) the installation of a reliable and automatic watering system. From then on, whenever we went to the Muswell Hill house during spring or early summer, Lizette took a bottle of plant food with which to feed the fuchsias. The last time I went to the house in summer, in 97, just months before Lizette's death, they were still dripping crimsons, purples, and violets.

I do not wish to dwell on Lizette's illness, which proved the most tortuous time for Lizette and those around her. It began with intestinal ulcers, and progressed towards increasingly serious attacks of peritonitis one of which ultimately killed her. In retrospect, I am far from convinced she had the best treatment. I suspect the first surgical intervention which should have relieved her condition, exacerbated it instead. When we moved, in August 96, she did switch to a different consultant but, by then, the damage ­ if my suspicions are correct ­ had been done. How can we ever know the truth of these things. There are so many cases reported of clear-cut medical malpractice and mistakes, what about those which are not so clear-cut? However sophisticated our equipment has become, doctors are only human.

But how unfair that modern medicine should have kept me in such good relative health to 100 years of age, well past my sell-by date, yet been unable to cope with Lizette's physical and mental deterioration. Lizette, herself, was a saint, there is no other word to describe her. She was stalwart and unselfish; she rarely complained (a characteristic which does not always serve an individual's best interests with the national health service) and she regularly tried to minimise the emotional and practical demands on myself and Jay. On the practical side, I was no longer able to drive or walk very far so I rarely accompanied her to the surgery or hospital for tests. During the periods when she was hospitalised, I went twice a day by taxi and used a hospital Swifty to negotiate the long corridors to her room. On the emotional side, I loved her too dearly to want to do anything other than talk through every nuance of her illnesses and treatments, and share as much suffering as she allowed. To my surprise (I confess this freely), Jay demonstrated how much he cared for his mother by visiting often, and making himself as available as possible to act as her chauffeur. Without his help, I don't know how we would have managed our move from Taunton House to a rented bungalow in Finchley, on a street called Meadowland View (but only in the imagination), not far, in fact, from here. The trauma of the move did nothing to ease Lizette's illness, but with my own mobility declining fast, we had no alternative. I guess Jay's readiness to help us out caused strains in his relationship with Vince, and may have led to Vince's first affair. But this is really none of my business, and I am only glad things are working out between them now.

Lizette died a week short of her 79th birthday in October 97. The funeral service was held at Golders Green Crematorium. Jay made all the arrangements. It was a busy funeral, with a reception held in private rooms at a nearby tavern. I was too distraught to take much part in the proceedings. Lizette's brothers (Samuel and Mercurio) and Jay all coped well with the social responsibilities. As it happens, it was the last time I saw several members of Lizette's family: Samuel's oldest son Saul (with wife and near grown-up children); Samuel's youngest daughter Mahonia (with husband, also an architect, and twins, not yet architects!); and Mercurio's son Esos (so similar to Mercurio when younger). I did not expect to remain much in contact with Samuel or Lynn either but, surprisingly, they made an effort to visit me in Meadowland View whenever they were in London. They were among my first visitors here at Willow Calm Lodge; and, since they are planning to come in January (Jay says) they may be among my last. (Which reminds me, I must ask them if they've heard any news of Liam.) After the funeral, I lost touch with Lizette's friends: Clarity and her daughter Joan went on extended sojourns to Kurdistan; and I don't know what happened to Rhoda (but surely she must have grown out of being a Maysie by now).

There was not much left of me after Lizette's death. We had shed many of our things in the move out of Taunton House, but we still had a bungalow full of possessions, many of which were Lizette's. Jay helped me go through them, and make decisions on their distribution or disposal. It was an unpleasant task. Within six months, I had a stroke that left me unable to walk, partially paralysed in my arms, and incontinent. Fortunately (or, as I thought at the time unfortunately), there was no damage to my brain, and I was as conscious of my disabilities as I was of Lizette's absence. Thus, in the spring of 98, I went into hospital where three months of treatment stabilised my condition. Then I moved into this hospice which Jay found. After extensive discussions with Dr Lipman, and a talk with Jay, I decided in October, 12 months after Lizette's death, to sign up to a deathday, and to spend my last year writing these Reflections. The journey ­ inspired by a letter from Lizette and made possible by Jay's unflagging support and Lipman's pill menu ­ has been exhausting but rewarding; painful and pleasant by turn, sad and joyful.

In these closing paragraphs, I will resist the temptation to pass any further judgements on myself or my times (not that I've been entirely unopinionated so far) with one exception. I have regrets, many of them to do with Crystal and Bronze, but there are other, lesser ones, such as not having gone to St Petersburg to spend time with Alan, losing Guido to South America, and having had minimal contact with my grandson Inti.

More generally, though, I can see now how I have lived most of my life on autopilot, not stopping to appreciate the taste, the colours, the feelings of life. I don't mean that I did not enjoy a good meal, film or political discussion, but rather that I did not enjoy the enjoyment ­ I'm not sure how else to put it. It is possible that there were good reasons for this during my 20s, when I was with Harriet, and when I was caught up with Caxton, but there were 20 years with Diana, mostly content, which drifted by in a haze of domestic routines, work deadlines and theatre society. I wish that I had been more conscious of my good fortune in being alive, and in being alive in a rich peaceful country, and through such a golden age of human history. It was only in the 60s that I began to reflect more on the pleasures and essence of being alive. I link this change in me to the First Jihad War and to meeting Lizette. The war was long predicted. I remember Alfred saying to me in 43: 'The IFSD is swimming against the tide. It's only a matter of time before there's a real war ­ five years or 20 ­ it's inevitable now.' But when it came, it still shocked the Western world out of its political malaise. And as for Lizette, her enthusiasm for the real (as opposed to Diana's imaginary) world, and in particular its scientific foundations, opened my eyes. Unfortunately, my conversion came too late ­ the best had passed. Yes, I was lucky enough to have found Lizette, and, yes, we had a good second half, as it were, together; but the world had fallen into decline, the golden era of oil and chips was gone. I ­ we all in Europe and the US ­ had been living through a great age, surrounded by a fairyland of riches, in a culture prosperous, free, full of art and science and invention and imagination, and we hadn't noticed how special it was, not until war tore us apart, and the sun's shine was taken away.

I am aware of a dichotomy here, a set of incompatible regrets. How can I reproach myself for not having luxuriated (enjoyed the enjoyment ­ I am at a loss for words) in the golden era when I believe it should never have been so golden, not with so much of the world poor, hungry or diseased? Having spent much of my life in the service of the United Nations trying to ensure a more balanced distribution of wealth, how can I not regret that we achieved so little, and that our failures led to such terrible wars, to terror, destruction and death, and, because the wars had left the world so deficient in resources, all of that terror, destruction and death multiplied tenfold during the Grey Years. But I recall Pravit Krishnamurty saying, of the development aid we were trying to negotiate in the 30s, 'You know and I know it is not enough' and, 'It will never be enough'. And I try to understand what common sense tells me: it could not have been any other way. As I have said, I tend towards Zoe Bergmann's view on this ­ although I certainly would not have done so as a young man. And, as I've also already said, I do have hopes for the new century, modest ones. Recalling (or paraphrasing) something Flip once said: if you look carefully enough at history you can detect a progression, not of nature which always has its own balance ­ and you'll have to go to a biologist for that ­ but in the civilisation of men and women, mankind and womankind. Since I've never had any difficulty in separating out the professional and quasi-political aims I espouse from the ordinary human actions I take, I do not really perceive any need to resolve the dichotomy.

***

This morning, before Alicia's visit, I spoke to Dr Lipman. I did not inquire directly about the consequences of delaying my own death, instead I asked him if he had had much experience of patients reneging on death date contracts, and deciding to hang on 'for dear life'. We had discussed this early on, but then I'd had no doubts about my decision or about my will to carry it through, and hadn't needed to pay any attention. This time I did. He told me that about a third of his patients change their minds in the last four weeks. Of these, half deteriorate very rapidly; a quarter take longer, a few months, to die and do so without comfort or dignity; and a quarter do get a tad more life, of acceptable conscious quality. But there are other factors, he explained. Most of those few patients whose pain and discomfort can be controlled longer than expected do not appear to benefit from the extra time because of the 'emotional confusion' experienced by the individuals themselves and/or their close friends and relatives. I had thought to close my conversation with Dr Lipman at this point, but I succumbed to asking him, without any further artifice, whether I might be one of the few that could hold on for a few extra months. I have a new great grandson on the way, I said, in June. He'll be the first born of my kin in the 22nd century. Dr Lipman's head nodded very slightly, he pursed his lips, as if about to impart bad news, and informed me that I was on such potent medical doses that, in his professional opinion, I'd be 'ga-ga or dead' long before the summer.

Since the day she arrived, I have scarcely been able to stop thinking about Alicia. I am a schoolboy again, daydreaming, but not of Melissa or even Gabriella. I have come to terms with saying goodbye to Jay. I assume this is because our relationship is mature, tidy. But I did not foresee Alicia's arrival, and if I had, I would never have guessed that I would adore her, or that she would tell me she was pregnant and wanted to return. So, when she came this afternoon, and after we'd spent 20 minutes or more looking at family camclips ­ hers and mine ­ I told her that I would be dying on 31 January, and why. She wept, which made me feel terrible. And then she stopped suddenly, as an actress might when a director says 'cut'.

'I'm so sorry, that was terrible of me to do that, to cry. That's so selfish. It must have been painful for you to tell me. What use is crying. I'm going home tomorrow. And in January, when all the centennial business has finished, I'm coming back. I'm coming with João, and Angela and Renato ­ they'll come, I'll make it work ­ and we're going to have a late fiesta for your 100 years. Is it good? Will it be good?' She was holding my hand.

'Yes, Alicia, it will be good. But please arrange it with Jay. He can help with the fares; please, please don't be shy about that. And, before you go I have something for you. I'm not giving it to you now because I'm worried I might die before you come again, because I won't I promise, but because I want you to have it now. It's under the bed. Don't open it. Take it home with you, and share it with João, and then, if you can, pass it on to your son.' In anticipation of Alicia's last visit, I had asked Jay to unbox the Ferrez photograph and frame and parcel it up in gift paper. Months ago, I had thought about giving it to Tina, but changed my mind.

'Then I too shall give you a present. I was thinking this already on that first day with you, and I've already talked to João. The name of our boy shall be Kip. Will it be good for you?'

'Yes, Alicia, it will be good for me.'

EXTRACTS FROM CORRESPONDENCE

Kip Fenn to Guido Oostlander-Fenn

31 January 2100

Once before you received important family news by letter, and now this time it is me choosing not to tell you something face-to-face. By the time you read this, I will have gone, and my hope is that I will be cremated quickly without any fuss, and my ashes will be buried near my mother's in a garden at Parsonville. If all goes according to plan, we will have talked on the camphone earlier today. You will have asked me how I am, and I will have said I am fine. But I have only been of sound mind, and relatively free of discomfort for this past year because I chose to fix a death date and take increasingly strong medication until then.

If you and Mireille had not planned to come in the autumn, I would have asked you to do so. I wanted to see you both very much, thus your visit was beautifully timed. But I did not want our last hours together weighed down by you knowing about my deathday. This was my selfishness, and I am apologising now as sincerely as I can. I did not want you returning to Europe just to see me die, not for you and not for me; nor did I want you to be conscious of me moving weekly, daily, hourly nearer the fixed date. I saw this happen to a friend of mine. You could say this should have been your decision not mine. But I took it anyway. Perhaps I was wrong. It is of no matter now. Jay was the only person who knew my death date for certain, and since I see him nearly every day, it was not possible to hide my decision from him. He has been a stalwart friend and confidant, helping me to organise my thoughts and write my Reflections. You will be sent a copy (in which I plan to append both this letter, some of those written by Diana, and some by you) and I hope you find my story interesting and accurate. As I write this I am thinking about those days we spent together on Ginquin, and I am wondering whatever happened to our boat. Perhaps if you ever come back to live in Holland, you will seek her out. Beneath her panels, she holds some of my very happiest memories.

Guido, I want you to know that you have been a star in my life, from your birth until my writing of this letter, more than 60 years, whether near or far, you have been a source of comfort and joy in my heart. It has been a privilege to be your father, to know and to love you.

Remember me to Inti, and to Mireille, and, above all, to yourself ­ take me with you into the 22nd century.

All my love.

Lizette Sanderson to Kip Fenn

October 2097

My darling Kip, if you are reading this then the worst has happened. I am so sorry for leaving you. It seems wrong and unfair that you should have had to look after me, and watch me slide away. It is 3 September as I write, you have fallen asleep on the sofa in the next room listening to one of your favourites, the Berlin Philharmonia playing Zanichelli. Tomorrow, I go to hospital again. I fear I might not have another chance to write this letter.

It's a silly letter really, a selfish one with three requests.

I'd like you to do that thing with my ashes, put them in a pot, a flower vase. It was Rhoda's idea, she read it in a magazine. Do you remember us laughing about it. Best of all, I'd like it if my ashes could be turned into glitter ­ it's possible, some potters (but please not the Noteks) have the equipment ­ and used for the glaze. I'm confident you'll appreciate why I'd prefer a flower vase to a plant pot.

Secondly, tell Jay how much I loved him; look after him, as I know he will look after you.

Finally, I want to say this: do not mourn my passing, rather hold on to life, on to what we had together, on to what you are ­ and set it down. I mean I want you to write your Reflections, Kip. You have lived so long, seen so much good and bad, joy and suffering, you have done so much for the people around you, for me, for Jay and for the world, even though I know you do not feel this. Write it all down. You've thought about it before, and I should have encouraged you, but I didn't ­ as usual, I was thinking of myself not of you. Do it, write your Reflections, don't let yourself be forgotten.

We had a good time, though, didn't we. It wasn't all plain sailing, but you kept your hand so firmly on the tiller of our sailboat that when the inclement weather came along I couldn't help but feel safe and loved and in love.

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Paul K. Lyons

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