How Not to Die Alone

by Richard Roper

you didn’t really get many septuagenarian Jakes. At least not yet. It was going to be strange in fifty years’ time when all the nursing homes would be full of Jakes and Waynes, Tinkerbells and Appletisers, with faded tribal tattoos that roughly translated as “Roadworks for next fifty yards” faded on their lower backs.

The whole point of his being there was to bear respectful witness to the poor soul departing on their final journey, to provide some company in lieu of any family or friends. Dignity—that was his watchword.

When he’d thanked Cameron “for the opportunity” it had nothing to do with the job, it was because he’d been given the chance to indulge, however briefly, in the fantasy of having a family. How strangely thrilling and scary it had been to feel so normal.

Maybe the deceased had just been unable to look after themselves properly in their last days, but Andrew liked to think that they were actually giving the finger to convention. Nobody had bothered to hang around to look after them, so why should they carry on giving a shit? You can’t go gently into the good night when you’re laughing uproariously imagining some mug from the council slipping on some shit on the bathroom floor.

The truth was that it had made him see that everyone who died alone had their own version of that chair. Some drama or other, no matter how mundane the rest of their existence was. And the idea that they’d not have someone there to be with them at the end, to acknowledge that they’d been a person in the world who’d suffered and loved and all the rest of it—he just couldn’t bear the thought of it.

I could just accept the ending’s coming, then I could concentrate on enjoying the rest of the song so much more.”

(Andrew did take the occasional bit of enjoyment from hating things he’d never actually experienced.)

Being silent during meals was for married couples on holiday in brightly lit tavernas with only their mutual resentment of each other left in common.

it was then that the realization hit him: he might not know what the future held—pain and loneliness and fear might still yet grind him into dust—but simply feeling the possibility that things could change for him was a start, like feeling the first hint of warmth from kindling rubbed together, the first wisp of smoke.

What followed over the next couple of days were boat trips to the Farne Islands, where Andrew was unceremoniously shat on by a puffin (much to Suze’s delight), and blustery coastal walks punctuated by tea and cake pit stops (much to Imogen’s delight), followed by delicious dinners back at Imogen’s and two occasions where Peggy fell asleep on Andrew’s shoulder (much to Andrew’s delight).

The realization came to him like a radio signal finding its way through static: a lie can only exist in opposition to the truth, and the truth was the only thing that could free him of his pain.

we practically spent the first few years in bed. That’s the thing with someone who works with their hands. Very skilled, you see?

As the old drinking adage goes: beer before wine, then you’ll be fine; six beers before half a bottle of wine, then you’ll be dizzy and believe the story you want to tell to be much more important than anyone else’s.

“Have . . . have you ever told a lie so big that you felt there was no way out of it . . . that you . . . that you had to just carry on pretending?”

the moment we first held each other that something in me had changed forever. Up to that point I’d never realized that life, just sometimes, can be wonderfully, beautifully simple. I only wish I’d remembered that after you’d gone.”