Paper? Marriage? Ours? Ceremony?

‘They say they can’t do it tomorrow. The papers haven’t come.’ Catriona, just back from the village, was shouting up the stairs.

‘Oh?’ I said. ‘Who can’t do what? What papers?’

‘You know. Our marriage papers. For the ceremony.’

‘Papers? Marriage? Ours? Ceremony?’

‘Well, not exactly marriage. Of course not. It’s a civil partnership. For tax purposes.’

‘With a ceremony?’

‘A signing. Just our signatures, to be witnessed by the mayor and another. That’s all.’

‘Ah. And who’ve we got?’

‘I was thinking the foreign correspondent and Mel [his wife].’

‘We’d better take a bottle.’

‘Champagne.’

‘To celebrate our marriage.’

‘Our civil partnership.’

‘For tax purposes.’

‘Yes. For tax purposes. Or else the state grabs 60 per cent of everything after you die.’

‘Robbing buggers.’

‘Steady. You’ve done pretty well out of the Republic so far when you think of the taxis alone.’

‘And afterwards I can call you Madame Clarke?’

‘I’d like to be Madame Clarke. But that would be another step and extra paperwork. Would you like a cup of green tea?’

‘Oh, please be Madame Clarke.’

That was on the Friday. On Sunday the foreign correspondent and Mel came for lunch. The sun was fiercely hot and we sat on the terrace beneath two parasols. Everyone as usual was very kind, insisting I need only put in an appearance if I felt fit enough. But no matter how rotten one feels, it seems churlish not to descend a few stairs when the guests have got washed and dressed and come miles.

And I did feel rotten. I feel rotten most of the time now. I’m asking God to take me. Constant pain, constant and worsening breathlessness. And now a plethora of smaller ailments. Blurred eyesight. Unaccountable spasms like electric shocks. A new and troubling weakness in my right hand making it difficult to grip a pencil or crack open a new box of morphine.