Page 27 of The Spare

One: my father is dying, and I’ll inherit the title, and I don’t know how to do this.

And two: I jumped into marriage as if it were a game, and I don’t know how to do this.

What makes the situation even bleaker is that, if Pa’s dying body is the most macabre reminder of my own mortality, seeing my parents together is an equally depressing reminder of the future I’ve signed myself up for. No shade on Slinky—she’s fantastic, obviously—but ours was a very rushed, very transactional marriage. Ma and Pa’s union was equally transactional, if far better planned, and the future of that is staring me starkly in the face. What I see before me isn’t devastation, but a kind of dutiful vigil-keeping that feels pretty fucking hollow from where I’m sitting.

She’s upset, obviously; she’s exhausted and wrung out. But she’s not devastated. She’s losing her partner… but not her person. I’m not getting a ‘he’s the centre of my universe; I can’t bear it’ vibe but more of a stoical resignation. I can—and do—tell myself it’ll be different for me and Slinks. Of course it will. We’re far more fun than Ma and Pa. More dynamic. We live larger lives than they ever have. But honestly, the invasive tubes and relentless beeping and Ma’s grim-faced acceptance all make me wonder, what the fuck is it all for? If you can’t live gloriously and widely and loudly, why the fuck bother? If this is the destination, then I should have paid a lot more attention when I set myself on the path for this lifetime journey.

Maybe this should make me glad. Maybe I should remind myself that it’s better to be this way, like Ma, mourning her partner but knowing life goes on without him, than so in love with one person that they’re the sun and moon and the entire world goes dark when they pass.

Fuck. We’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t, aren’t we?

When I escape from this bloody room—and even thinking that makes me feel guilty, because I shouldn’t be wishing Pa’s death upon us, but come on—I’m going to keep focusing on Slinky. She’s in this mess because of my family—although I don’t for a second think she would have been happier with Xav—and I want to keep an eye on her. I want to make sure she doesn’t wilt in this gilded cage. Is that a mixed metaphor? Gilded glasshouse, maybe? Greenhouse?

Anyway, my point is that I want to make sure she’s okay. That she flourishes. That I find a way to give her both the space and the support she needs while she processes her new normal.

I’d far rather focus on helping her process than have to work through any of my own shit, that’s for sure.

Pa lives on, although ‘lives’ feels like an ambitious term to describe this state. He loses consciousness at some point and doesn’t regain it. The atmosphere in the room shifts a little: this is it. He’s crossed a line, he’s not coming back, and soon he’ll cross another, bigger line. He’s been clear about not being resuscitated, nor does he want any kind of intervention as his body shuts down of its own accord. No life support. Fuck knows, there’s no living here to support.

And while Pa may be surrounded by his family, by his longtime wife and his three children, while this tableau may look like the personification of loving and dutiful care, a dying man remembered until the end, I know better.

Everyone around this bed knows better.

We are waiting it out, politely biding our time, stiff upper lips engaged. You might say that one of the largest dukedoms in the UK is a hell of a legacy, and you’d be right, but I always think the word legacy is a giant fucking red flag anyway.

Surely living a big life is far more important than what you leave behind at the end of it?

It always feels to me as though the latter is nothing but a compensation for a lack of the former.

I’m probably supposed to care about this shit, now that I’m about to become the steward of the whole fucking thing, but that’s always been my brother’s department, not mine: to care, to think about the future, to worry. None of those are really my bag.

All of this is to say that it strikes me that our parents have spent way too much time and energy focusing on legacy than on living. It almost cost them their relationship with their eldest son, a bloke who, until recently, has never asked for anything. And it makes me determined that Slinks and I shouldn’t survive this life together but thrive in it. I want us to build a huge, messy, fun-filled life. I want us to be partners in crime. I know I can loosen her up, and she can keep me on track. I know that, together, we can be more than the sum of our parts.

I have faith in us.

I have to have faith in us, because what else is there?

The doctor calls death at eleven thirty-seven p.m., eight days into the new year and nine days after I fell on my sword for him and my king and my country. The end is… anticlimactic, if I’m honest. Quiet. He just ebbs away, and when the doctor performs his regular pulse check, there isn’t one to be found.

We rise, one by one, stiff as boards after sitting there for hours, and kiss him on his forehead. His skin is paper thin and dry as hell. Poor old fucker. I don’t think I’m alone in saying that we’re all glad to stretch our legs and leave the on-duty doctor and nurse to whatever they have to do as we lead Ma gently downstairs to the drawing room, where one of the housekeepers, God bless them, has kept the fire filled with logs and burning nicely.

Xav takes charge, pouring everyone an inch of scotch from the bar cart, and we huddle around, exhausted and depressed and deflated. Thank fuck that’s over, I think, though I stay schtum. Thank fuck the old bugger is out of his misery.

After half an hour or so, we say goodnight. There isn’t much to do or say at this point. The waiting around is over, and tomorrow will begin the process of executing his wishes regarding the funeral and the estate. Xav takes Ma off to bed, and I give my little sis a tight hug before wishing her goodnight. Like the rest of us, she seems too knackered to show much emotion.

Utterly drained, I head for my bedroom, turning the door handle as quietly as I can so as not to wake Slinky. But, to my pleasant surprise, she’s awake, sitting up in bed reading her Kindle. Fuck, she looks beautiful. Her hair is pulled back, a soft-looking cardigan over her shoulders, and I can see the V of coffee-coloured lace at the top of whatever unhelpful silky nightie she’s wearing tonight. When she sees me, she immediately lays down the kindle and raises her eyebrows in a silent question.

Just as silently, I nod. I’m so drained, even that gesture feels like an effort.

‘Shit.’ She throws off the covers and her cardigan and slips out of bed. ‘I’m so sorry, Ben.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Was it okay, in the end?’ she asks, padding towards me. The nightie hits far too high above her knees, with a lace-bordered slit exposing one shapely thigh.

Fuck my life.

‘Yeah.’ I shrug. ‘He just sort of drifted off.’