Part 3 (2/2)
”Because he's been dead for the last five years. You went to the funeral, you stupid old goat.”
”Robert? Did you call me?” The mousy woman came out through the back door. She was carrying a bowl full of potato peelings.
Robert Gregory jerked his head at the bedroom window where the old man leaned out. ”He's been calling from that window for the last twenty minutes. Can't you do anything to quiet him down?”
”I'm sorry, Robert, he's never like this usually. It's probably that nasty letter. Whoever sent it wants locking up.”
”I've told you, Cynthia. It'll just be kids. But can't you do anything with him?”
”Robert, he's confused.”
”He's upsetting the neighbors, Cynthia.”
”He's never usually like this. It's the-”
”The letter, I know.” Robert returned to his paper, staring gloomily at the sports pages. ”But we can't have him yelling out of the window all day. I won't be able to show my face in the pub at this rate.”
”Once he's had his dinner he'll quiet down.”
”Lord, let's hope so.”
The old man's voice sprang up again. A notch higher, as if in desperation. ”Harry! Harry! The letters have started again. Go up to the Water Mill; warn Mr. Kelly. Harry?”
”Jesus wept,” Robert Gregory muttered.
Cynthia Gregory looked up at the window. ”Don't go upsetting yourself, Dad, please.”
”Harry!”
”Go back to bed, Dad.”
”Harry! It's the letters!”
”Oh, Dad, please. I'm making your dinnera”
”Harry. It's Baby Bonesa Baby Bones is back.”
Robert muttered to himself. ”Christ. It's a d.a.m.n mad housea we'll all be as bad as him before we're through.”
”Robert.” Cynthia sounded wounded. ”It's not his fault. He's suffering from dementia.”
”It's not him that's suffering from dementia,” Robert grunted. ”We're the ones suffering from it.”
”Harry! Come to the window, Harry! It's the letters again. Tell Mr. Kelly.”
In a tight voice Robert Gregory spoke to the old man in the window. ”Dad, don't you remember? Harry's dead. He died five years ago. You went to the funeral.”
”Harrya Harry! I got a letter! Harry, I'm frightened!”
”Poor Dad.” Cynthia's eyes watered.
”Poor us.”
”He's calling his old friend,” Cynthia said, ”They were friends before they even went to school together. Harry lived in the house there, just over the back fence. Dad used to tell me he'd call Harry from his bedroom window just As he's doing now, then they'd go fis.h.i.+ng together.”
”Harry! Hara reee.” The old man's voice cracked. He sounded close to weeping.
Cynthia sighed, ”Oh, I better go up to him, I suppose.”
”Harry! Listen to me. It's Baby Bonesa He's back. He's back!”
”Dear G.o.d,” Robert Gregory murmured into his newspaper. ”If I ever get like that put a bullet in my head.”
2.
John Newton had returned home from the hospital by early afternoon. He had managed to get a message through to Val about Elizabeth's accident. She'd called in some favors to finish work early. As they made sandwiches in the kitchen at the Water Mill he'd run through the day's events. He told her about the departure of the Haslems, and seeing the old man attempting to flee the village up the back lane. How Martin Marcello had followed him from the post office, after noticing old Mr. Price, shuffling away from home in his pajamas. And how the old man had finally been reunited with his daughter and son-in-law.
Val washed cherry tomatoes in the sink. Her mind was still firmly with Elizabeth. ”Did they say anything else at the hospital?”
”No, apart from not getting the wound wet for a week.”
”And they're certain she doesn't need st.i.tches?”
”No, they used tape to hold the wound together.”
”There's bound to be a scar.”
”There will. But it will be right under here.” John pointed with the tip of the knife under his chin. ”No one will see it.”
”G.o.d, I'm away a couple of hours and all h.e.l.l breaks loose.”
”Hey, you're not blaming me, are you?”
”No, John.” She smiled, relaxing a little. ”I know these things happen. She's going to be all right, that's the main thing.”
”And perhaps a bit wiser, too,” he said. ”She might not go so fast on her bike again.”
”And pigs might fly. Just make sure she wears the helmet, John.”
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