Hallbury Summer – Writer’s Notes

In the comments and questions surrounding the last few episodes of ‘Hallbury’, I mentioned that I had re-written the ending of the original book, which engendered the obvious question, I suppose – what were the changes and why?

The substance of change began with Joe Palliser stumbling across Charker Smith on Wedesday Common:  Jennifer Althorpe’s fate was the same, but in the original version Charker’s gun had two barrels.  He was about to fire the second barrel into Joe when Tom Peterkin fell across the gun, taking the full force of the shot.

Next, the book moved to a bedside interview between Joe and a police inspector to clear up the mysteries of the story. Joe gave his explanation of Violet’s antecedents, the contents of the folder, etc., after which the action cut to the night of Ian’s ‘count’, and a lengthier passage concerning his arrest for the murders.

In the afterword, a crippled Tom and Emma raised the child she conceived during her liaison with Joe.   Financially, they were reliant upon Joe, who never found an emotional constant of his own.  He had a distant half-marriage with Sophie: ‘It took three years before he and Sophie finally got together in a sort of marriage.  Even now it is a long-distance relationship, especially since Aunt Sophie’s father died’   and a continuing relationship with Michael, his mentally ill brother, whom he also supported.  For most of his life he was destined to drift, alone with his memories of Marian:

‘The last time I spoke to my father?  No, I am not afraid of the question – I telephoned him just the other day.  He was vague, as usual.

“Are you off to France?”  I asked.

“Yes, I suppose so.  Next week, I believe it will be.”

“Are you going on your own this time?”

“Why not?  Marian will be there.”  My father said.’ 

Other details?  A disabled Jennifer Althorpe became much closer to Sophie, while Charker opened his logging business in Canada, rather than Scotland.  And that’s it!

On the face of it, they seem quite minor, these changes, but they altered the complexion of the last chapter considerably.  Why?   Well, this is the boring stuff!

To shorten the book for serialisation I removed quite a lot.  That altered some practical details; Joe’s explanations to the detective in the original included research he had made into Parkin family history, but for serialisation his visit to the library was cut, so Joe had to catch up with that in the postscript.  Immediately after the fire he simply wouldn’t have the facts.

Charker setting up a logging business in Canada?  I can’t imagine Canada would be anxious to welcome an immigrant with attempted murder on his record – so for the serial I changed the location to Scotland.  Lucky Scotland!

Editing made a huge difference.  Making sex scenes more ‘acceptable’ to a blog audience (and agreeable to WordPress) I blue pencilled much of Joe’s epic last night with Emma, the original version of which was loaded with nuances and tensions.  Here’s one of the tamer bits:

And now he saw her need, saw how her whole body was quaking in its grip; and this was his need, too.  There were no more words of resistance, no more pitiful pleas against the inevitable.  Joe took Emma in his arms.  She struck out at him, ineffectual bird-like flaps not meant to hurt.  He parried them, pushed her back so the wall was behind her head and there was nowhere she might escape, and then he steadied her tear-damp quivering chin with his fingers and took her in a kiss.  It was their first kiss in twelve years, yet it might as well have been the umpteenth kiss and no time between, because Emma fell to drowning in it as gratefully and as openly as she had always done, and the time that had slipped away from them both was forgotten.

It speaks for itself, doesn’t it?  But it isn’t right.  Emma isn’t stupid.  She can differentiate between passion and love.  She knows this is the man who left her, claimed to marry someone else, never wrote to her or gave her much thought for a decade.  She knows that they see each other across a class divide, which means that however much Joe thinks of her, he can never belong to her.   No, she has a man she loves in Tom, and Tom is warm and generous, and kind.   Her heart is his, but her body craves the only thing outside Tom’s power to give her; the child she is convinced only she and Joe can create.

Would Tom forgive her?  Of course he would; we will always forgive the ones we love.  And his friendship with Joe is closely akin to love, close enough, once Emma can persuade him Joe is not a threat, to be rekindled.  I didn’t like a relationship in which a crippled and helpless Tom was reliant upon Joe.  Unfair.  So instead I only allowed Charker one shot, and kept Tom healthy.  He, Emma and Joe can agree, the three of them, to live openly with a truth acceptable to them all, for all it is not often articulated!

If Tom does not deserve to be injured, neither does Joe deserve loneliness.  From Marian he has inherited security, which is the kernel for much more.  The Joe of my ‘final reel’ is a changed character with a love of his own; so I gave him a chance meeting (for brevity’s sake – he would have tracked Sophie down in the end) and she approaches him for the desired result.  Yes, I think Joe and Sophie belong together, don’t you?  She has the true generosity of the upper class, and in their brief acquaintance, despite their differences she and Joe found bridges they could cross together.   Unanswered questions remain – would Sophie’s understanding be stretched to accept the ‘arrangement’ he has with Tom – would they, perhaps, have children of their own?  I think they will be happy.

In writing this book about village life, the elephant in the room was class.  Class in the UK has always been and still is the greatest limitation upon progress both materially and socially.  Upward mobility is stifled into virtual non-existence because of it, education reinforces it, birth right has greater worth than ability in any theatre, but none more so than the English village.   If there is a single thought to leave in the wake of this book, it is this: could Ian have murdered Violet Parkin if she was his equal in class, or would he have been forced to take a different road?

© Frederick Anderson 2019.  Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Frederick Anderson with specific direction to the original content.

A Place that was Ours.  Chapter Twenty – Exclusive:  The Hargreave Papers

“And here we are!”  I make an expansive ‘here we are’ gesture.

Matthew Poultney frowns.  “I’m sorry.  Exactly where are we?  So Crabtree cuckolded your father nearly thirty years ago.  If that’s your final clue, your story doesn’t amount to much.  It certainly doesn’t render Crabtree unfit for power.  In fact, having a famous footballer as his bastard son rather adds to his image, don’t you think?  Where’s the story, Chas?”

I grin at him.  “Did I say that was the last clue?  It was not.”   I cross to the bar and press the intercom button.  “Can you come up please, sweetheart?”

The voice at the other end sing-songs, “Just a minute!”

“You didn’t tell me you had a partner!”  Poultney exclaims.

“Matthew, you’re the newspaperman, you’re supposed to know these things!  We’d best wait; she gets annoyed if she is left out of the loop.  Another drink?”

As I refill his glass I draw my guest back to the window, which gives him a view of the river at twilight, one of my own favorite moods.  “You’ll be selling all this, then?”  He says.

I answer him reflectively:  “No – as I said, I like it here, my partner does too.  We’ll be in the States a while, but I’m still under contract to Torley.   The official version of my status is ‘on loan’ while I’m in LA.  The directors at Torley have identified a number of opportunities over there – they see the Millennium year as one for new ventures – so I may not return for a season, but I will come back.”

“Is that your boat?   How strange!  I expected something more of a statement.”

“Acres of white fiberglass and decks ripe for partying?  We prefer a boat to sail in.  We’ve an ambition to take her down to the Mediterranean; maybe next year, if we get more time.”

“You and your partner?   Where is she, by the way?”

“Behind you,” Nel says.

Matthew turns, a spontaneous word of apology on his lips, but his eyes take in Nel’s condition and it changes to a startled “Oh!”  which he quickly recovers.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise…”

“Nothing to be sorry for!”  Nel absolves him blithely.  “We two are soon to be three.  It’s quite natural, you know.  It happens all the time.  I’m Nel, by the way; he always forgets to introduce me.  I’m sorry I couldn’t join you earlier; I had some work to catch up on.”

“I’m neglectful of my manners but very protective,”  I tell Matthew.  “Now you see why I am so insistent that what we are about to tell you doesn’t get traced straight back to us.  Nel’s going to be here alone for a few weeks clearing up her caseload before she follows me to LA.  I don’t want her to be troubled by anyone; your colleagues in the press – or Mack’s friends from the local boxing academy, come to that.   So this is yours exclusively; we give you all the clues, now, and you follow them up, will you?”

Matthew nods.  “Let’s see what you have.”

A file has been sitting neatly on one corner of the coffee table all this time.  Nel opens it, spreading the contents, a photograph or two, sheets of A4 covered with Nel’s spidery scrawl, and one rather scruffy little notebook.

“The book belonged to John Hargreave,”  I explain, bringing John’s memory freshly to my mind as it has, time and again, in these last few years.  “John was my friend and a friend of Susan, Crabtree’s daughter.  It was found on his body.”

“What happened to him?”  Matthew asks.

“He was found lying beneath the old viaduct bridge in Casterley.  He had multiple injuries.  I ended up with the book because he had expressly wished his father should give it to me if anything happened to him.  It was almost as if he had a premonition.”

“It’s a diary,” Nel chips in, passing the book to Matthew, “most of it is filled with mundane stuff, apart from the last couple of pages; they’re crammed with sequences of dates, numbers and letters.”  She aligns the sheets of A4 paper neatly across the table.   “There are a lot of sequences covering four specific dates, and we have worked on most of them, but I’ll just take this one example.”  She lays out the letters and figures she picked out on our first weekend together.  “The whole sequence reads LBEWHT1727MB1812WE HCL19.”

Matthew frowns:  “That sounds like a registration code – for an operating system, or something.”

“Doesn’t it?  It isn’t.”   Nel gives him her bleakest lawyer’s smile.  “It took me a while to decipher, but it finally came together on one of our regular weekends. We were sailing out of Bedeport, then, and a chance sighting of a boat called the ‘Lizabet’ moored on the East Wharf provided the spark.  The Harbormaster’s records did the rest.  The date fitted, and so did the time.  LB, or, in Harbormaster’s longhand, a boat called the ‘Lizabet’, is recorded as mooring on the EW, the East Wharf, at HT (High Tide) which was at 17:27, or 5:27 pm that day.   With me so far?”

“Only just.”  Matthew mutters,  “So this is a log for something?  ‘MB’, what’s that?”

“Or ‘who’ if you prefer.  Martin Berry.”  Nel interprets for him.

“Ah.  The ex-chairman of Casterley Football Club, no less.”

“No Less.  And the owner of a mysterious company that operates lots of little white vans – unmarked little white vans that beetle about all over the place.” Nel enriches the image by making her index and middle fingers ‘run’ back and forth across the table top.

“So you are saying one of those little white vans picked up something from this boat, the ‘Lizabet’, and took it to Martin Berry’s warehouse, where it arrived at 18:12.   Then what?”

“Then WE.  It was taken from there to Wesfane Electronics, before finally being moved on to HCL at 19.00 hours, or 7 o’clock.”

“HCL being High Cheviot Lodge, Mack Crabtree’s place.” I cut in.  “John was clearly tracking a package along its journey from the ‘Lizabet’ to Mack’s home.”

“That could be anything!”  Matthew protests; “Something he asked Berry to obtain for him – they’re close friends, aren’t they?”

Nel’s hands sweep the air in an animated gesture of frustration.  “No, no!  This is on an industrial scale!  The delivery we’re describing took place on 12th of August in that year.   It’s just an example.  There were eight similar movements tracked by John that day, another ten the day after.  Some were reverse sequences.  The ‘Lizabet’ appears to have loaded six parcels from Wesfane via Berry before she sailed on 14th.   All-in-all there were 48 movements across the four days when John was on vacation from Uni and was able to record them.”

“And these photographs?”  The journalist waves at two pictures resting amongst the other paraphernalia on the table.

“These are of the Lizabet when she was last moored at Bedeport.”  I tell him.  “Nel and I took them.”

“But that’s a private yacht.”

“Exactly.  So this isn’t all above board, is it?  This is a smuggling operation, Matthew, and a big one!  Drugs, we suspect.”

“Not what is regularly thought of as drugs;”  Nel explains.  “Not class A amphetamines, heroin, cocaine… these are very specialist drugs, often travelling with their own teams of advisors, medical professionals, highly qualified chemists?  Where, in the context of a major sports event, do you find a covert organization to administer an instant blood transfusion, or calculate your maximum EPO tolerance from your personal body mass and energy profile?”

If Matthew had been a rabbit, his ears would have twitched.  “Organised doping?”

“Come on!”  I  implore him,  “We all know it happens! The Athletics World Championships took place in Stuttgart, Germany, on 21st of that month, by which time it would not have been difficult for an inconspicuous German registered boat (the ‘Lizabet’) to have navigated through the Rhine and Neckar Rivers to a little town called Bad Wimpfen, which happens to be about sixty-five kilometers from Stuttgart’s back door.  Or for a little white van to make Manchester in time for the World Triathlon Championships, which were also held in that month.   We’ve been investigating the biggest sponsors of sport, and their employment of performance-enhancing techniques, for a while now.”

“Innovating continuously to keep ahead of testing regimes imposed by the world’s sports authorities  is big business.”  Nel takes up the thread.  “There are enormous sums of money involved, with each sponsor seeking market advantage, and a famine of sufficiently talented specialists ready to compromise their careers.”

“A small backwater like Casterley is an ideal situation for a laboratory,”  I add.  “It needs a front, of course.  Industrial coolers seem as good a cover as any.”

Matthew grins.  “Casterley at the hub of all sport’s doping problems?  That’s a little hard to take.”

Nel snaps back: “No, not at the hub of it, just one outpost of a peripatetic network thriving throughout the European market.  But if one of the hands on its helm should become UK Minister for Sport?  I wonder what a difference that would make?”

I continue: “We believe Crabtree’s and Berry’s organization exists on the wealth the larger sponsors are prepared to pay to ensure their competitors win.  That makes Crabtree the last man you’d want to be in control of future sports strategy for the whole of these islands.  There’s a greater cause, though.  Wherever there’s big money in sport there are doping problems, and it’s getting more sophisticated with every year.”

Nel reassembles the contents of the file, selecting a single sheet of paper which she places on the top.  “Chas and I have done a lot of work on this, and this is the first time we think we might have evidence that could fuel a criminal investigation if you want to play it that way.  Personally, I would rather see Mackenzie Crabtree’s face decorating the front pages for reasons other than self-aggrandizement.”

Matthew clicks his tongue:  “What about Berry’s part in it?”

I nod.  “Both of them – we owe it to John Hargreave.”

“His material was a catalyst, for us.”  Nel passes Matthew the A4 sheet she has singled out.  “His last diary entry: WE1225MB1403.  It is sketchy, rather hurried.  He was following a consignment from Wesfane, which arrived with Martin Berry at 12:25.  He picked up its trail again when it left Berry’s for the docks at 3 minutes after two o’clock – that would have been to make the tide, presumably, although John was never able to verify it…”

We explain our belief that John was discovered by Berry’s security men.  “He was not exactly a stranger to them.  They had come upon him pursuing a more innocent mission on Berry’s land some years before.”

Only this time, perhaps because of the sensitivity of the package he was tracking, John paid the ultimate penalty.  His father had confirmed to us that he had seemed preoccupied when he left the house after an early lunch that day.  When he didn’t return in the evening, Mr Hargreave telephoned the police.  John’s body wasn’t discovered until the following morning.  The notebook was found on him because, presumably, Berry’s ‘security’ didn’t bother to search him before they threw him off The Bridge in the early hours.

“You’ve no evidence he was murdered?  No.”  Matthew strokes his chin, then sits quietly for a moment, riffling through the notebook’s ragged pages and staring at Nel’s tidily organized stack of notes.  “And this – this book – is the only link to those consignments?”

Nel and I exchange glances.  “The book stays with us,” I tell him coolly.

Nel taps on the top of her file.  “I’m passing this to you if you’re interested.  There are photocopies of the relevant pages and transcripts of all our workings.  It’s all there, but this…”  She takes the book firmly from Matthew’s hand, “We’ll reserve for the police investigation.   We provincial solicitors, you know, we have such suspicious minds.”

“Rightly so.”  Matthew grins.  “It so happens there is somebody at our ‘paper working on the ‘drugs in sport’ story.  I’ll need to liaise with him, but I think we’ll all end up in agreement.  The regulatory authority for athletics, the IAAF, is heavily engaged in the same battle as yourselves.”

“Mack gets fried, then?”  I am looking for his confirmation.

“We’ll certainly look at that angle…”

“Oh, Matthew, you know that won’t do!  We can’t let that man get where he wants to go!”

“You really resent him, don’t you?”

“Shouldn’t I?  Looking at this, shouldn’t you?”

“Looking at this, I don’t know what his connection is.  Nor do you.!”

I glance in Nel’s direction and she returns my enquiring expression with a nod.  “Yes, let’s do it.”

“One more clue, then,”  I say.  “And a story, about the day we thought we would move our boat from Bedeport to its present mooring.   Nel has moved in with me here, it’s summer and the weather has been good, so we elected to do the transfer by sea.”

“This was recent?”

“This was last week.  We needed to replace some equipment, and I knew there was a chandlers’ in Bedeport.  I didn’t know (although apparently you did) that it was owned by Dave Crabtree.”

“Mack’s son.”

“I’m unsure which of us was more shocked at the sight of the other.  For my part, I wondered if I had inadvertently walked right into the centre of the very organization I was investigating; for his, the reasons were quite different.  We managed to complete my purchases with a minimum of communication then, as I was paying the account, he suddenly asked if I wanted to go for a drink?  I said yes.

“Well, we sat in the corner of the lounge bar at ‘The Shippe’ for about ten minutes cuddling our pints and avoiding looking at each other.  Then he suddenly said:  “You deserve the truth.”

“I asked him what he had on his mind and he didn’t seem to know what to say.  When I suggested whatever it was would be better out than in, he just stared into his drink like he wished he could dive in and drown.  Then he blurted it out.  ‘You haven’t forgotten her, have you?’ I asked if he meant his sister and he said, ‘She would want you to know’.

“He needed to unburden himself so badly, I could see that, yet he couldn’t bring himself to betray his family.  So I dug the story out of him, pint by pint and piece by piece.

“The night before my court case, he told me, Susan discovered the real reason her father had split us up.  Since our break-up, she had been sullen and angry with everybody, and especially resentful of her father’s insistence that she accept Dave as a sort of chaperone, but that night, to quote Dave’s words exactly, she ‘went completely mad’.   She was going to tell the world all she knew about her family’s business affairs, she was going to come to court the next day and show her father for the liar he was.  She didn’t believe anything her father told her.  Susan stormed out, went to her room, declaring her intention to pack her things and leave.  Mack pursued her. He was enraged.  The row went on in her room.

“At that point, I asked Dave if he thought something had happened to Susan.  I felt if I could frame the question correctly he might let the whole truth slip out because we’d consumed a powerful amount of beer by then.  The only reply I could get was that there had been ‘a terrible row’ that wasn’t only centered on Susan’s relationship with me, but because ‘she knew a lot’.

“Do you think she was murdered?”  Matthew asks.

“I think Dave meant she knew a lot too much, more than Mack could let her divulge in open court.  I remember Angie telling me once that Susan was ‘dead good’ at chemistry.  Assuming our suspicions about her dad’s activities are correct, she must have had some awareness of what was going on around her.   Dave claims he left the house because he ‘couldn’t take it anymore’.  When he returned, two days later, after my court case, Susan’s room had been cleared and he was ‘heavily advised’ by his father to say she had left home that night.”

“So Dave will say he doesn’t know what happened as a result of the row between Susan and her father.”

“He doesn’t; I’m fairly convinced of that, and nor can I say for sure.  Could anyone kill their own daughter?  She would have to be found, wouldn’t she, if we wanted to prove that after so long.

“The other day I was looking at a map of the Casterley area, with the idea of rounding the evidence off, you might say – checking out any loose ends.  I came upon this loose end quite by chance, as I was tracing the road that passes the front of High Cheviot Lodge, Mack’s place, the one I used when I went to visit him and the one I was accused of using as a way of stalking him – it’s known as the Leverton road.   I saw that another road ran parallel to it – I’ve since learned it’s actually called ‘Old Leverton Lane’, and in more prosperous times it was a second route to the town.  That’s all in the past now, though, and it lost its purpose when the main South Road cut across it.

“Anyway, ‘Old Leverton Lane’ passes the rear of High Cheviot Lodge.  I’ve used the road a few times without realizing and you can’t see the house from that side because there are a stream and a heavily wooded bank hiding it from view; woodland where Angie and I once walked before the property owner, Mackenzie Crabtree, recently fenced it off. I believe he did that so no-one else would discover a place of rest we stumbled upon quite accidentally, a place beside the steps that lead up through the wood where someone lays flowers still.  Where someone, at least, remembers.”

I stop talking then because I know if I continue my voice will break and the tears I feel filling my eyes will overbrim.  I don’t want to reveal how I still carry the rose of Susan Crabtree’s life, sister or friend, in my heart.

Matthew Poultney is saying something I am required to hear.  “You think his daughter is buried there?”

“I do.”  I will not disclose too much.  If everything and everybody in my life has been a carnival of shadows since one moment of consummation  on a riverbank; if the days, the weeks, the years, have counted nothing since, and every road in my soul leads back to my remembrance of Susan, I would not make it known to those who I try to love – who have tried so hard for me, and from each one of whom I have striven ceaselessly down the years to seek an essence I discovered once, and never will again.

I turn to find Nel’s eyes upon me.   She knows because she has always known; and perhaps, although I can’t be certain, she accepts.

“So that’s it,”  I tell Matthew.  “You have all the clues now, and unless we are wildly wrong, they will provide you with enough nails to crucify the old demon.  It’s a strange feeling, really, because in a number of ways he’s protected me almost as if he has feelings for me, but there are some crimes you cannot forgive.”

“You’re off to America.  Tonight?”

“Tomorrow, I think.  I’m doing a bit of a tour, taking in Paris, first.  John Hargreave’s absolute favorite aircraft was the Concorde, and since they’ll be scrapping it soon, I thought I’d hitch a ride on one to New York from Charles De Gaulle.  It’s almost impossible to get bookings, so I’m going to try my luck with a travel company who’ve commissioned a flight; they usually find themselves with a seat or two to spare.  I’ll sort out the New York to LA link when I get there.  I have one or two friends I want to look up – experience the Big Apple for twenty-four hours or so.”

Nel smiles at me, quietly, and I am able now to return her smile.  We fall into silence.  Matthew Poultney stands by the window.  The sun has set out there, beyond the glass, beyond the river, beyond the hills.

Nel puts her hand in mine.



© Frederick Anderson 2018.  All rights reserved. Each chapter of this book is a work of fiction.  All names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events in the story or stories are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places or events is entirely coincidental.  Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Frederick Anderson with specific direction to the original content






23rd July in the millennium year 2000




A Word in Passing

There are two places in my world where I would wish to be.

The first is a seashore, a mile of firm wet sand beneath my feet, a spray-loaded westerly gale in my face, and white-caps marching in military file upon the rocks. To stand before the might of nature and feel her snatching at my toes: to be for an instant at one with the primal power that speaks to us all, had we the ears to listen, these are the sights and sounds and sense of glory for me.

The second place within my heart is a quiet wood, among placid deciduous trees where tiny sunshine sprays of summer heat slip in between the leaves and birds provide quiet music to a percussion of breeze-stirred leaf and twig. A different perfection this, to sit upon some ancient bench beside a tripping forest stream, watching time drift past me into nothingness.

In either place, alone – for at the last Nature is our one true friend – I would gladly meet my fate. If I could my quietus make from earth to oblivion with such an image imprinted in my soul I would pass through the gate without fear.

When I watch the brief lives of our smaller cohabitants on this planet pass before me, expired in little more than a season, or a year, or ten, I reflect that the one true advantage we have gained over them all is comfort. Churchmen may sanctify life, politicians may play with it, but we normal mortals gain only by having food on our table, a place away from the snow, and the ability to express and resolve pain: and yes, it is right that we should bestow those gifts upon our brother species, and it is charitable to do so, where we have the means, so even when we feel the need to satisfy our carnivorous appetites we afford some dignity to the hordes we kill. If we count ourselves as ‘civilized’ we try to make death quick and painless, for every species but our own.

Somehow we have allowed ourselves to be persuaded by an argument that human life is different to that of the other animals that are forced to co-exist with us; that we are made ‘in the image of God’ and therefore a special case. We have taken the simple truth of death as an ending and made a science of an improbable land beyond it; and from that science derived a plethora of reasons why we should delay and protract our own death in a way that, if we observed it practiced upon an animal, we would denounce as gross cruelty.

I have my views about religion. It has been responsible for the genocide of millions yet we still espouse it in one or other of its forms, whilst I regard it as the greatest perversion of thought to be visited on mankind. Our greatest gift, on the other hand, is not a theoretical, but a real victory over death. We can end life, terminate it without pain. We should feel free to reject the sorrowful protestations of the former and joyfully sanction the latter.

If I wish it, and of course only if I freely wish it, I should be allowed my final hour without pain, dreaming of that seashore, or resting in that wood. Rejecting all peripheral arguments about family pressures and financial complications I should retain that essential right. By simply gaining agreement that medicine is primarily about mercy, at a stroke I would save treatments and bed-space needed for those with hope, rather than wasting them upon my losing battle. The timing would be mine. I would give my relatives peace, and leave my life as I have lived it.

I believe that, given a vote, an overwhelming majority would agree with me, and at last even the great and the good seem to be coming round to acceptance. After all, we take willingly all the other benefits medicine can give us – why not bestow the freedom upon us to use this last one?