ECHO 26/2/06

She tells me the story of F over breakfast. F had been a school friend in the 60s and died a few months ago after years of alcoholism. Her family were no longer traceable (a brother, who had two aliases, eluded the police; all other immediate relatives were dead). Brian her lover, also an alcoholic, had died of throat cancer four years before. F was left with her cats and a friendly hairdresser who would visit once a month to cut her hair, and who it was had found F’s corpse slumped in an armchair. At the time the police were unsure as to whether or not she had taken her own life. However, at the inquest in Winchester, the doctor’s report made it clear that it was a combination of cirrhosis of the liver and hepatitis that had killed her. She had no effects of any worth, having spent all her money primarily on drinking; her clothes were borrowed or cast-offs passed on by friends. She did spend some of her income on her cat as the creature was found to be in good health. What was ultimately most tragic was that this woman, a wreck at the end of her life, had been a staunch anti-Apartheid journalist in South Africa for fifteen years, and had been imprisoned for what she had written. She had achieved something powerful with her life and talent. Had shown huge courage, bravery and commitment. How did she end up dying alone? What led her to a place of such despair having been someone of such strength? Was it simply down to the alcohol addiction? If so what had caused her to use it that way?

The details and the bigger picture of a life. Reconstructing it appeals to me. Why? Primarily because no one else was there to celebrate it. Her funeral had been attended only by a handful of school friends and some professional mourners and a few nuns. Because that final solitary part of her life must have been so painful, agonizing, and presumably full of hidden grief.

I wonder what happened in South Africa during her imprisonment. Something tough that never left her? Perhaps she was the victim of, or witness to, some of the beatings and torture that went on as part of the justice system or the violence perpetrated elsewhere? Something difficult to deal with in the long run? Maybe a friend or friends were killed? I think back to my visit to Robben Island and know that anything was possible in that time. Sad too to realize that in the end her life had only moved from one cell to another, that she became as much a prisoner of addiction and place in the UK as she was a prisoner of conscience in SA.

Wine from 11a.m. So she was a wino. Something slightly more feminine about that than say whisky. She could, as many alcoholics are, be capable of great charm that would be subsumed by an abusive, volatile personality when visited by friends or when talking on the phone.

Something was being gently revealed as the story was told – something elusive yet important and fascinating, sad as it was. I became curious to know what fears she had and what, if any, ambitions still made her daydream. She was highly intelligent after all. Who was the husband she married for three weeks in SA? Why did his brother when contacted by the authorities about her death claim he had paid for the funeral and wanted reimbursing when in fact it had been a Council burial as there was no immediate next of kin to pay for it?