The year of the virgins (27 page)

'You don't feel her, Dad?'

'No . . . no, I don't feel her; except where she's left the

bruises all over me body. That's where I feel her. But not anywhere else.'

'She's here, Dad. She's been here from the minute she died.'

'Now, Don.'

'It's no good talking, Dad. And I'm not the only one. Why do you think Stephen isn't down here chatting away? He hasn't been near the room for days. He's in bed, supposedly with a cold. He knew she was here; and so does Joe.'

'Oh, not Joe. Joe's too level . . .'

'Joe's not too level-headed, Dad. He feels her almost as much as I do. And I know one thing for sure: she won't go till I go. But I'm not afraid, I mean, of her. I've become so that I pity her. But she knows she can't hold me. I've told her that and she knows it. It is as if knowing it she's determined to see the last of me here.'

'Don't talk like that, lad.'

'Dad . . . you grew to hate her. You hated her for a long time, and the more you hated her the more she loved me. And in the end, you know, I've come to think that love is stronger than hate because it's her love, or whatever name you could put to it, that's keeping her here. I don't mind her now. I was petrified at first, sick at the thought of her being here, but not any more. And even her appearance is altered. She's sort of pathetic. I'm sorry for her. And don't look like that, Dad, as if you were scared; my mind's not affected, it's the only place that's been left whole. I know it's whole.'

'Have you talked to Father Ramshaw about it?'

'Yes; yes, we've discussed it openly and often. He understands. As he says, there's more things in heaven and earth than this world dreams of, and he's right. Have you had any takers for the house yet?'

'Yes . . . yes, I understand there's been takers.'

'Well, they'll have to wait a while, won't they?'

'I hope they have to wait for years, lad.'

'Oh, no, not as long as that, Dad, not as long as that. It'll be funny, this house breaking up; it seemed so solid at one time. Dad . . . ?'

'Yes, son?'

'You and Maggie will get together, I know that, and Stephen will go with you. Well, let it rest there; don't interfere in any other way, will you? Will you not?'

'What do you mean, interfere?'

'Just that. Let ... let the rest of them run their own lives.'

'The rest of them? Who do you mean? There's only Joe and Annette.'

'Yes . . . well, I know, there's only Joe and Annette. But whatever happens, Dad, let things take their course.'

Daniel got to his feet and, looking down on his son, he said sadly, T don't like that, Don, not the way you're saying that. Whatever I did in the past was for your good.'

'Yes, yes, I know, Dad, but that is what most people say, you know: I did it for . . . for somebody's good.'

Daniel narrowed his eyes as he looked down on the thin pale face with the sunken eyes, the face that a year ago had appeared like that of a young boy . . . well, at most, a young man about to enter his twenties. But the eyes, as they gazed back at him from the deep-set sockets, could have been those of an old man and one who had lived a life and had experienced many things. He said quietly, 'Good-night, son. Sleep well.'

'Good-night, Dad. You too.'

It was a fortnight later and around seven o'clock in the evening. Father Ramshaw was sitting in the library with Joe. Each was drinking a cup of coffee and the priest was saying, 'I'm sorry I missed Daniel, I wanted a word with him. You say he's gone to look at his old place at the foot of Brampton Hill?'

'Yes. It's odd, isn't it, that it should become vacant at this time? He never wanted to leave that house really. It was one of the smallest on the hill and one of the oldest., I think it was the first one built before the elite of the town got started with their mansions.'

'Yes, so I understand. And he's going to set up house there with Maggie and Stephen? Well, that's one part of the family that'll be settled. What about you?'

'Oh, I'm settled too.'

'What do you mean? Have you got a flat?'

'Yes, sort of. It'll all be settled soon.'

'Well, I don't think you have very long to wait. He's near his end; I feel that he should have the last rites tomorrow.'

'But. . . but he seems bright, Father. I thought he could go on for some time yet.'

'It's a forced brightness, Joe. I thought you would have seen that. But he knows that his time is running out and fast. The doctor said to me when we had a crack the other day, he's amazed that he's lasted so long. It's Annette and the child that's kept him going, and he's happy. It's strange but he's happy and quite ready to go. If I were you I'd sit up with him for some part of the next few nights. By the way, what's going to happen to the staff, Bill, John, Peggie, and Lily?'

'Well, Peggie is going to stay with Annette, and John is going with Dad. Bill and Lily will stay in the lodge,

and if the new people, whoever takes the house, want to keep them on, well and good, if not, Dad's going to see to them in some way. So they are all going to be accounted for.'

'Well, that's good to know. And you, are you going to live in this flat of yours alone?'

'Well, what do you suggest, Father?' Joe pursed his lips now as he waited for an answer. And the priest, raising his eyebrows, said, 'Well, from what I gather you wouldn't have far to look for a partner. There's two in the church I know of and one outside.'

'How do you know about Miss Carter?'

'Oh, I know lots of things, lad. It's amazing the news I get and where it comes from. Well, are you going to pick one of them?'

'I may.'

'So you've been thinking about it?'

'Yes, Father, I've thought about it a lot; in fact, I've already made a choice. I made it some time ago.'

Father Ramshaw's eyes widened. 'Well, well! That's news. No inkling to who it is?'

'Not as yet, Father. I'll tell you when the time comes.'

'Inside or out?'

'I'll tell you that too when the time comes.'

'Well, that's something to look forward to. Now I must be on my way. I enjoyed that meal. It was always a good meat house this. And it's sad, you know.' He stood up and looked about him. 'It's a beautiful house, especially this room and all those books. What'll you do with them? Send them to auction?'

'Some of them, but I'll keep most of them.'

'For your flat?'

'For my flat that could be a house.'

'Oh, oh, we're getting somewhere now. The flat that could be a house. Well, well! You know me, Joe: once I get my teeth into anything I hang on until I know whom I'm biting. But it's going to be a surprise to me. I know that, because I thought I knew all about you both inside and out.'

'There's always a depth, Father, in all of us that only the owner can plumb.'

'Yes, yes, you're right there, Joe, you're right there. Nevertheless - ' He chuckled now and shook his head, turned away and went down the room and out into the hall and to the front door. And there he stopped and, looking back towards the stairs, he said, 'If your Dad doesn't sell this place to one of the tribe then my visits here will be cut short pretty soon. Good night, Joe.'

'Good night, Father. And Father, you're a great believer in the efficacy of prayer, so you should se^ what it'll do about the new occupants.'

The priest threw his head back now and laughed, saying, 'That's good advice, Joe. Yes, I'll do that. Yes, I'll do that.'

At ten o'clock Annette said good night to Don and when he took her face between his hands and said, T love you,' she answered brokenly, 'And I you, Don. Oh yes, and I you.' And when he added, 'Be happy,' she drew herself from him, and going to the nurse who was at the other end of the room, she said, 'I ... I think I'll sleep down here tonight.'

'There's no need, Mrs Coulson. If there was any change at all I'd call you immediately.'

'I'd rather.'

'Annette.'

From the bed, Don said, 'Go to bed upstairs, please. I'm going to sleep. I feel fine, really fine.'

She went back to the bed again. 'I'd rather, Don, if you . . .'

He took her hand, 'Do as you're told, Mrs Coulson. Go to bed. If you are lying on that hard mattress I'll be aware of you all night and I won't rest. Moreover, I want my daughter seen to.' He continued to look at her long and hard, then said, 'Please.'

To hide her emotions she turned and hurried from the room. But instead of going to her own room she went along to Joe's apartment.

When there was no answer she went in and called softly, 'Joe.' And when there was still no reply, she turned about and went hastily along the corridor, through the hall and towards the kitchen. He'd likely be there talking to Maggie. Strange, she thought, that Maggie should still be carrying on what duties she could in the kitchen and sleeping in her own room while her father-in-law slept upstairs: the proprieties must not only be kept, but be seen to be kept. And after all they had gone through it seemed silly to her.

However, Maggie was not in the kitchen. Peggie said she was in her room and she had last seen Mr Joe in the library.

She found Joe in the library. He was at the table thumbing through some books, and at the sight of her he raised his head and rose to his feet, saying, 'What is it?'

'I don't know.' She gave her head a little shake. 'He seems all right, but . . . but it was the way he acted. I wanted to sleep there but he won't let me.'

'Well, I'll be staying up, and if there's any change whatever you know I'll come for you.'

'Yes, yes, I suppose so. But he seemed different, sort

of very calm and, in a strange way, happy. It ... it was puzzling, even weird.'

'Now, now. He's in a weak state and he's bound to react like that at times. Go on, get yourself to bed. I promise you, at the slightest change I'll come and fetch you post haste.'

'Promise?'

'I've said so, haven't I?'

Turning abruptly, she made for the door; but there she stopped and, looking back towards him, she said, 'Odd, isn't it, that Dad's going back to the house that he first lived in? It seems that everything is falling into place for everybody, even you; I heard Dad say that you had told him you had got a place, a house of some sort. Is that right?'

'Yes. Yes, it's right, Annette.'

'Are you going to furnish it from here?'

'No, no. The only things I'll take from here are my books and papers, because there's nothing here that really belongs to me.'

'It's all settled then?'

'Yes, it's all settled. For once in my life I'm going to please myself and do something that I know I should have done a long time ago.'

'Yes. Yes, I understand, Joe. You've never been able to please yourself. As I said the other night you've been at the beck and call of everybody, even of me of late. Well, I'm happy for you. Good-night. And . . . and you'll call me?'

'Yes, I'll call you. Good-night.'

He returned to the desk, gathered up his papers, put the books into their respective places on the shelves, then left the room and made his way to his own quarters. There, he took a quick shower, got into his dressing-gown and slippers, then went along to the sick-room.

He had hardly closed the door before the nurse greeted him with, 'We've got a naughty boy here; he refuses to take his pills. What are we going to do about it, Mr Coulson?'

'Hold his nose. I think that's the only way.'

'He's not going to like that.' She was looking towards the bed and smiling. And Joe said, 'We've got to do lots of things in life we don't like.'

Joe took his seat beside the bed and Don looked at him and said, 'All right, then; let's have them. You look very fresh and handsome tonight, Joe.'

'I don't know about handsome; fresh, yes, because I've just had a shower.'

'Yes, your hair's still wet. Funny, I could never stand my hair being wet; I always had to dry it with the electric drier. Remember?'

'Yes, I remember.'

'What's the weather like?'

'Oh, it's a very nice night: calm, not even a breeze, and quite warm.'

'That's nice. I feel very calm, Joe, very calm. Nurse!' He now looked towards the nurse. 'Do you think I could have a cup of hot cocoa?'

'A cup of hot cocoa? Why, of course. But you've never asked for cocoa before at this time of night.'

'That's what I would like, nurse.'

'Well, that's what you'll have.'

She went out smiling.

'Hot cocoa?' Joe gave a small chuckle. 'What's this, hot

cocoa?

T just wanted to say something to you, Joe. Time's up. She's gone. I told you she would stay until I was ready to go. Oh . . . oh, dear fellow, dear dear friend, and yes, dear brother, don't look like that but be pleased that I'm going

this way. Do you know, I haven't got an ache or pain in my body: in fact, you would think I hadn't got a body. I haven't said anything about this, but I haven't had a pain, nor an ache, for two or three days now. I seem to have got lighter and lighter. And I have no fear, not of Mother, or death, or the hereafter. It all seems so settled. Oh, please, Joe, be happy for me. Be happy that I'm going like this. I want you to stay with me tonight. Sit just where you are.'

Joe's voice was breaking as he said, 'I should bring Annette down.'

'No, no. I said my goodbyes to Annette. She knows it too. I couldn't bear to see her weep. I wouldn't go easy then. But with you, Joe, it's different. You're the only one I've ever been able to talk to, properly that is, to say what I think. I'm going to close my eyes now, Joe, and when the nurse comes back you can tell her that I've fallen asleep. In a short while she'll sit in her chair over there and she'll drop off. She does it every night.'

'But . . . but I thought you've just taken your pills?'

'I've become very clever at that, Joe. You know, you can hold things under your tongue for a long time.'

'Oh, Don, Don.'

'You know I want to laugh when I hear you say my name like that. You sound just like Father Ramshaw. There's a man for you. He knew, too, that I don't often take my pills at night, the sleeping ones. The other one and . . . and the brown stuff ... oh yes, yes; I've had to take them sometimes. But, as I said, for the last three or four days I haven't needed them. You know, Joe, when I was first put into this bed I was bitter. Oh dear God, I was bitter, and when they let me up out of the drugged sleep, I wanted to scream. And I can't look back and tell you when that time changed. You know, Joe, I've lived a longer life these past