Part 8 (1/2)

Our parents died the following week, within days of each other.

On the Monday afternoon I was working on the third wall of the sheepfold when my mobile rang. ”h.e.l.lo, Ben Knightly here,” I called above the biting wind.

”Mr. Knightly? This is Maria, from Sunny View. Your father was taken into Bradley General at noon today. The doctor I spoke to thinks that it might only be a matter of hours.”

I nodded, momentarily at a loss for words.

”Mr. Knightly?”

”Thanks. Thank you. I'll be there as soon...” I drifted off.

”Very well, Mr. Knightly. I'm so sorry.”

I thanked her again and cut the connection.

I continued the section of wall I was working on, placing the stones with slow deliberation, ensuring a solid finish.

I had antic.i.p.ated this day for months: it would mark the start of a temporary freedom, an immediate release from the routine of visiting the nursing home. For six months I would be free of the thought of my father on Earth, demanding my attention.

It was perhaps two hours after receiving the call that I drove into the car park at Bradley General and made my way along what seemed like miles of corridors to the acute coronary ward. My father had suffered a ma.s.sive heart attack. He was unconscious when I arrived, never came round, and died an hour later.

The sudden lack of a regular bleep on his cardiogram brought me from my reverie. I was staring through the window at the snow-covered fields, thinking that a few walls out there could do with attention.

Then the bleep changed to a continuous note, and I looked at my father. He appeared as he had before death; grey, open-mouthed, and utterly lifeless.

A ferryman came for him, asked me if I would be attending the farewell ceremony-I declined-and took him away in a box they called a container, not a coffin. I signed all the necessary papers, and then made my way to Elisabeth's house.

That night, after making love, we lay in bed and watched the first energy beam leave the Onward Station at ten o'clock.

”You're quiet,” she said.

I hesitated. ”My father died today,” I told her.

She fumbled for the light, then turned and stared at me. ”Why on earth didn't you say something earlier?”

I reached out for her and pulled her to me. ”I didn't think it mattered,” I said.

She stroked my hair. I had never told her of my relations.h.i.+p with my father, always managed to steer the subject away from our acrimony.

She kissed my forehead. ”He'll be back in six months,” she soothed. ”Renewed, younger, full of life.”

How could I tell her that that was what I feared most?

The following Thursday I finished work at five and drove to Elisabeth's. The day after my father died, she had asked me to move in with her. I felt that our relations.h.i.+p had graduated to another level. I often had to pause and remind myself how fortunate I was.

We settled into a routine of domestic bliss. We took turns at cooking each other meals more daring and spectacular than we would have prepared for ourselves alone.

I was expecting, that night, to be a.s.sailed by the aroma of cooking meat when I entered the kitchen, but instead detected only the cloying fragrance of air freshener. The light was off.

Then I made out Elisabeth. She was sitting on the floor by the far wall, the receiver of the phone cradled redundantly in her lap.

I saw her look up when I came in, and I reached instinctively for the light.

Her face, revealed, was a tear-stained mask of anguish.

My stomach flipped, for I knew immediately.

”Oh, Ben,” she said, reaching for me. ”That was the nursing home. Mum died an hour ago.”

I was across the room and kneeling and hugging her to me, and for the first time I experienced another person's heartfelt grief.

The funeral was a quiet affair at the village church-the first one there, the vicar told me, for years. A reporter from a national newspaper was snooping, wanting Elisabeth's story. I told him where to go in no uncertain terms. There was less I could do to deter the interest of a camera crew from the BBC, who kept their distance but whose very presence was a reminder, if any were required, of the tragedy of Mary Carstairs's death.

Every day we walked up to the overgrown churchyard, and Elisabeth left flowers at the grave, and wept. If anything, my love for her increased over the next few weeks; I had never before felt needed, and to have someone rely on me, and tell me so, made me realise in return how much I needed Elisabeth.

One evening I was cooking on the Aga when she came up behind me very quietly, slipped her arms around my body and laid her head between my shoulder blades. ”G.o.d, Ben. I would have gone mad without you. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me.”

I turned and held her. ”Love you,” I whispered.

I introduced her to the Tuesday night crowd, where she became an instant hit. I think my friends were both surprised and delighted that I'd found someone at last.

We were in the Fleece, three months after my father's death, when Richard Lincoln entered the main bar and handed me a package. ”Special delivery from the Onward Station.”

I turned the silver envelope over. It was small and square, the size of the DVD I knew it would contain. My name and address were printed on both sides, below the double star logo of the Kethani.

”A message from your father, Ben,” Richard said.

I could not bring myself to enjoy the rest of the evening: the package was burning a hole in my pocket.

When we returned home, Elisabeth said, ”Well?”

I laughed, wrestling her towards the bedroom. ”Well, what?”

”Aren't you going to play it?”

”Don't think I'll bother.”

She stared at me. ”Aren't you curious?”

”Not particularly.”